Table of Contents
Title Page
Table of Contents
Frontispiece
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
The Panama Craze 1906
THE FOREST 1906
The Serpent Cut 1906
THE FOREST 1906
The Cockroach Slide 1906
THE FOREST 1906
Curiosity 1906
THE FOREST 1906
The Silver Ward 1907
THE FOREST 1907
Open Hours 1908
THE FOREST 1908
The Crocodile Bridge 1910
THE FOREST 1910
Sky Castles 1914
THE FOREST 1914
Epilogue
Historical Note
Selected References
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2014 by Margarita Engle
All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.
www.hmhco.com
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Engle, Margarita.
Silver people : voices from the Panama Canal / Margarita Engle.
pages cm
Summary: Fourteen-year-old Mateo and other young Caribbean islanders face discrimination, segregation, and harsh working conditions when American recruiters lure them to the Panamanian rain forest in 1906 to build the great canal.
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-544-10941-4 (hardback)
1. Panama Canal (Panama)—History—Juvenile fiction. [1. Novels in verse. 2. Panama Canal (Panama)—History—Fiction. 3. Racism—Fiction. 4. Segregation—Fiction. 5. Rain forests—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.5.E54Si 2014 [Fic]—dc23 2013037485
eISBN 978-0-544-10922-3
v2.0314
In honor of the islanders
who did the digging
and with love for Curtis,
who helped me explore
the butterfly forest
MATEO
from the island of Cuba
JOB HUNT
Fear is a fierce wind
that sends me reeling
down to the seashore,
where I beg for work,
any work at all,
any escape
to carry me far
from my father’s
furious fists.
Sailor.
Fisherman.
Lobster trapper.
I’m willing to take any job
that floats me away
from home.
I am not an ordinary war orphan.
Papi is alive, but the family part
of his mind
is deeply wounded.
He drinks so much rum
that he believes I am
his enemy—a Spaniard
from the country
that lost the war
and left so many
of its soldiers
behind.
Spanish veterans
flock the seashore, begging
for the same jobs that lure me.
I’m only fourteen, but I’m strong
for a starving boy.
So I shove and curse
along with the crowd
of muscular men, all of us
equally eager to reach
a fast-talking americano
Panamá Canal recruiter
who promises food, houses,
and money,
so much money . . .
The recruiter shouts and pounds
his fists in the air.
His foreign accent
makes the words sound powerful
as he describes a wild jungle
where men who are hired
will dig the Eighth Wonder
of the World.
He says the canal is a challenge
worthy of Hercules,
a task for giants,
not ordinary men,
but when he unrolls a map,
Panamá is barely
a sliver.
How can such a narrow
bridge of land
be so important?
After the confusing map,
there are pamphlets with pictures
of tidy houses, the orderly dining rooms
that catch my eye.
Lacy curtains and tablecloths,
flowers in vases,
plates heaped with food . . .
So much food.
Barriga llena, corazón contento.
Full belly, happy heart.
That’s what Mami used to say,
before cholera claimed
her happiness
and mine.
With the flair of a magician,
the recruiter tosses two sun-shiny coins
up and down in his hand,
until the gold
American dollars
ring out like church bells
or kettledrums in a parade.
Those musical coins lure me
deeper into the crowd of pushing,
rushing, desperate, job-hungry strangers,
but as soon as I reach for the recruiter’s
paper and pen, ready to sign my name
on a contract, the blond man glares
at my green eyes, brown face,
and curly hair, as if struggling
to figure out who I am.
No cubanos, he shouts. No islanders,
just pure Spanish,
semi-blanco, semi-white—
European. Civilized.
His words make no sense.
Isn’t semi-white the same
as semi-dark?
So I start telling lies.
I let my skin fib.
I point out that my father
is blondish and my mother
was the tan of toasted wheat,
her hair long and silky,
her eyes as blue-green
as the sea,
just like mine.
Then I invent an imaginary village
in Spain, for my birthplace,
and I give my age
as twenty,
and I show off
my muscles,
pretending to feel
brave . . .
By the time I board
a dragon-smoky
Panamá Craze steamship,
I’ve already told so many lies
that my conscience feels
as hollow
as my belly.
MATEO
THE VOYAGE FROM CUBA
Hunger at sea for three days
feels like a knife in the flesh—
twisted blade, rusty metal,
the piercing tip of a long
sharp-edged
dagger
called regret.
But there’s no turning back,
and with no food on board,
hunger haunts me
until we finally reach
the slick, wet Panamá docks,
where dozens of other ships
are all unloading their fuming,
angry,
hungry
human cargo
in thunderous rain.
MATEO
ARRIVAL IN A STRANGE LAND
As soon as my feet touch the docks,
I rush toward a pile of burlap sacks . . .
The bags are filled with island sugar,
soggy from rain, but it’s food, so I rip
the cloth and plunge my sweaty hand
into the sweetness
of my homeland,
wondering
if I will ever
see the island
again.
MATEO
COLOR-CODED
A foreman commands us to line up
by country:
Americans, Frenchmen, Dutch.
Spaniards, Greeks, Italians.
Jamaicans, Barbadians, Haitians.
Each work crew is a different shade
of light or dark,
but when the foreman orders us
to stand still while we’re measured
for our coffins,
dark and light faces
all look equally
shocked.
MATEO
THE LABOR TRAIN
Jungle heat sends foggy steam rising
from my hair, like a thick mist
on the towering forest
as we crowd onto a flatcar
with open sides.
In order to keep from falling out,
I cling to any surface I can find,
even when
it means leaning
toward the jungle,
grasping at branches.
Behind us, a cattle car enclosed
by a wooden framework
is filled with Jamaicans
and Barbadians, dark islanders
who have to ride behind bars,
as if trapped in a cage.
Jamaica is one of Cuba’s
closest neighbors,
but this is the first time
I have ever seen anyone
from another Caribbean island.
Until now, we have always
been separated
by the sea.
How will we work together,
when Jamaicans speak English
and we know only
español?
MATEO
HOWLERS
Ferocious jungle heat
closes in around us, like the blaze
of a glowing oven.
The train steams through deep
forest shade, beneath spidery,
brilliant red flowers
that dangle
from sky-high branches,
like flames.
Some of the rain-shiny leaves
are shaped like green hands,
others like hearts, livers, or kidneys,
making the whole forest seem
like one enormous,
magical creature
with an endless body
and a fiery mind.
Through the chug
and churn
of the train,
I hear clacking cries
from black toucans
with huge rainbow beaks
and eerie howls
from big, hairy monkeys
with shaggy faces that almost look
human . . .
faces with voices
so challenging
that every man on the train
starts howling too.
MATEO
BOXCAR BARRACKS
Exhausted and excited, I jump off
before the train even stops.
There’s nothing but mud and jungle
in every direction.
Each step feels as if the hungry earth
is trying to suck my bare feet into
its wet belly.
A sunburned americano foreman
separates us into groups of twelve men.
Each group is led to another train car,
this one completely motionless.
Inside, we find twelve cots
draped with lacy mosquito nets,
and twelve blue shirts,
twelve khaki trousers,
twelve pairs of work boots . . .
Some of the men grumble
and curse, but others laugh,
impressed by our own foolishness.
Did we really believe that we would live
in nice houses like the ones we saw
in that tricky recruiter’s
pretty pictures
of dining rooms
with tablecloths
and tables?
Our first meal is served outdoors.
Mushy potatoes, stringy meat, soft bread.
But it’s food, and it’s filling.
None of the Spanish men seem to mind
my rapid Cuban accent as I echo Mami’s
old saying about full bellies
and happy hearts.
MATEO
A DIFFERENT HUNGER
Homesickness?
How can I miss the place
I was so desperate to leave?
All night, I lie awake, frightened
by jungle noises. By dawn,
all I want to do
is keep listening
to screeching birds
and howling monkeys—
any wild animal music
to help me escape
from my own scary
human story
of loss.
MATEO
LA YERBERA
While we sit on the train tracks
eating our breakfast of soggy bread
and weak coffee,
a local yerbera—an herb girl—
walks toward us with a basket
of leaves, flowers, roots, and twigs
gracefully balanced
on her head.
Some of the men call out to her
with rude kissing noises, so she clasps
the handle of her machete in one hand
and spins the big cane-chopping knife
like a warning as she sings her wares,
chanting about the sharp teeth
of strong garlic to ward away
bloodsucking
vampire bats.
She sings about fragrant
orange blossoms to heal
the wounds of homesickness.
If I had any money, I would buy
her whole mysterious basket
of scented
cures.
ANITA
from the Land of Many Butterflies
VOICES
I listen to the lonely boy’s tale of a mother lost
and a father damaged, and then I tell him
how I was abandoned in the forest as a baby
and how I was cared for
by an old Cuban healer
who adopted me as her own
granddaughter.
Now, when monkeys howl, frogs sing,
and wings flap, I think of my forest’s
natural music
as a serenade
by my own
animal sisters
and animal brothers.
I belong to the trees, and the mud,
and the whispering wind . . .
THE HOWLER MONKEYS
PEERING DOWN FROM TREES
PIERCING TRAIN SCREAMS
NOISY STRANGERS
CLOSE
CLOSER
TOO CLOSE
STAY AWAY
AWAY FROM OUR TREES
OURS
OURS
OURS
GO
GO
GO
GO
GO
GO
THE GLASS FROGS
PEERING UP FROM MUD
you can’t see us
not like those golden frogs
flashing their beauty
because we’re not here
pretend we’re not here
you can’t eat us
we’d taste like clear air
we’re transparent
invisible
until night when stars pass through us
moonlight flows into us
we start to sing
we need to sing
we love to sing
sing
sing
sing
A BLUE MORPHO BUTTERFLY
FLOATING OVER THE WORLD
High enough
just high enough
above
all danger
except the sharp beaks
of birds
but high enough
just high enough
to fool the eyes of hungry beings
with our blue wings
just a passing
shimmer
of sky.
THE TREES
ROOTED
Only our branches
Can move
So we dance
With our green
While our roots
Are unseen
And all the legs
And wings
And eyes
Of the world
Forget that we
Are here