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Excerpts from "Growing Up Girl: An Anthology of Voices from Marganilized Spaces"

The Back Door	Blue Skies	Bootyshaker
The Hymen Maneuver	Between Cooking & Dancing	In a Maxi Taxi on the Way Home from School
Cornrows

 

 

The Back Door
By Elisabeth Robinson

My life
takes place
inside
a house
where things
with no purpose
happen
like the girl
who’s there
just because
she knows
she should be

I try to find my way
out
of this place
that makes me hurt

the back door
lies
open
wide open

I venture
to leave
but
something
like an
apparition
wont let
me leave
so I
stay
in my pain

I stay

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BLUE SKIES
By Siobhan Leftwich

It’s the bluest sky I’ve ever seen. It stretches from north to south and east to west. I stick my head out the window and count the cactus growing alongside the highway. They seem to dance for miles. The land is brown and flat and hungry looking. Me and Ethel lean out so far that we have to hold onto the rusting handles so we won’t fall out the car. We mimic Mitch’s tobacco spitting technique, and laugh when the gobs return like boomerangs. Spit happens.

“What are you girls doing back there?” The voice is thin and spacey, because Elinor’s been smoking joints all day. We’re all in a daze, but me and Ethel have the windows open so the air’s not so thick back here. Baby Jed is sleeping in Elinor’s arms. I’m reading a book, I think it’s John Bellairs. And Ethel is reading Beverly Cleary. We’re real small, but we’re all scrunched up because we’re sitting on top of boxes and boxes of clothes and books and pots and pans from the Goodwill. Everything our parents could pack in the car. If I read and read and read, I won’t have to think about it. And the sky is real big here. It seems to sop up the pain. It’s the West, where new things can happen. It’s the final frontier. But it may not be big enough for the Wesleys.

Two weeks ago, we all piled into the car and hit the road. The cops evicted us because Mitch hadn’t paid the rent in years. As Elinor says, we lost everything. Everything. We lived on Keystone Farm, in the Keystone State. Me and Ethel roamed those woods and swam in the lake and played fairies in a clearing. We took our Big-N bikes out in the morning and rode for miles and miles. Up the mountain and down into the valley, jumping into the Delaware for a nice, cool swim. I carried lots of pennies, because we always stopped at Mr. Riley’s store for treats. Mitch and Elinor never missed us. Just one time. I got us up and out too early, on the road before they were awake. When we got home, they weren’t there. I knew we were in trouble. But the whole day had been great. Swimming and candy and biking. Past the abandoned stone houses, whizzing on the flat highway after pumping up the dusty dirt roads, stopping to speak to Mr. Joe and Miss Maggie, who owned the cows we bought our onion-tasting milk from. A great day. But all spoiled when Mitch and Elinor pulled into the driveway. Elinor had the door open, even before the car stopped, and ran toward me, her hand raised. “Troublemaker, troublemaker, troublemaker,” she shrilled.

She’s quiet today. She’s stoned. I turn to Chapter 10.

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Bootyshaker
By Patricia Corbett

hey little girl in the those
come fuck me boots
weave so long
tracks showing from the roots

does your mother know
that you
shake that ass fast
or is she clubbing beside you
red Alize in her glass

bootyshaker

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THE HYMEN MANEUVER
By darlene anita scott

first the blood then the boys.
the curse closes her knees so tight
they go numb.
when she doesn’t
he says her name
and makes her aware of herself.

remembering is always the same:
begins with pain
ends with a smirk.
ahh, they sigh, umphh
they emphasize with
antics; sheaths for wordless words
hold the fragile seal in place
long after others come and go
pass through staying for hours, months, years
never forever.

the first piss made them wince;
thighs tight, making all movement
a deliberate act,
a decision more certain than
the yes-no-maybe creasing the brow
from frown to concentration;
from the near swallowing of her neck;
the prickly heat along the edge of her belly;
the smell of him in her hair

are secrets of the sisterhood.

the script warns they can talk you out of your socks
when you never planned to take off your shoes
implores you to move, get up, walk away,
not that these things make you stay
the same ones that make you come back.

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Between Cooking and Dancing
By Zoraida Cordova

Mami-Leja said
learning to cook came second
on the list of things a nice girl like me
needed to accomplish.
Finding a nice Hispanic husband
was first
because who would eat all the food
made during the day?

I told her I wanted to be a painter,
write novels and plays,
run naked through the Amazon,
have an affair with a beautiful
Irish man
and order take-out.

No! You learn real Ecuadorian food!

I did cook a Seco once—
chicken served with yellow rice—
when Mami-Leja was too tired to move around
and sat on a stool in the kitchen
to criticize while I made the refrito.

Cut tomatoes
—No, too fine!
Chop cilantro
—Your fingers swollen, girl? Faster!
Slice peppers
—The green, not red!
She looked to the ceiling asking Saints Gregory
and Bernard, and Mary herself
Why, why my granddaughter no cook!
I let the chicken cook in the refrito,
had to ask the neighbor for a Corona
and explain it was for the chicken, not me.

Mami-Leja left to the living room
to watch the soccer match on Telemundo:
Ecuador vs. Argentina
and I wrote in my notebook on the kitchen counter,
the new Salsa and Merengue radio station just loud
enough for me to still hear the score.

Then I saw smoke,
and Mami-Leja smelled burning rice,
rushing to the stove—
bad leg and all— to see my disaster.

Ready for the lecture:

I learned to cook when I was nine
and your Ma was 10
and your cousin’s only 12 and she never burns the rice!

But she remained quiet,
reaching for the radio and
turning the volume up.
It was our song, the one about the gypsy woman.
She moved her shoulders
because her legs weren’t as fast.
I took a step to the side
and spun on my heel.

Mihijita,
At least you can dance.

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In A Maxi Taxi On The Way Home From School
By Lauren K. Alleyne

The man who sits next to me is angry
I refuse to respond to his queries:
Psst. Aye gyul. Sexy, Yuh have a boyfriend?

I smirk, a study in girlish disdain
so he slides closer, his face a mere inch
away: I don’t flinch; he says listen, bitch.

My heart pounds beneath my scornful protests
‘cause no one seems to notice my distress,
my ineffective rebukes; I call out,

no one turns. For half the ride home he taunts
now what? And I don’t know the right answer
so he keeps on; I keep learning. Later,

the driver swears, Looked like a lover’s tiff,
contrite; promises he’ll get me home, safe.

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Cornrows
By Kesi Augustine

He'd asked why I wore cornrows to school.
So I began to wish that the Creme of Nature bottle
would transform my Afro into a flawless, vibrant canopy.
Long hair would make me pretty, I was sure of it.
The chemicals weren't good enough.
And when a short, skinny, light skinned local train would flutter by
his eyes would follow her into ether,
and I thought that my own weren't light enough.
He turned me off
going to school with a drawstring bag that cradled only
an unsharpened pencil.
he forgot things that took so much courage
for me to tell,
and he had the ability to make me question myself
when he barely had the ability to read.
But he turned me on
when I hugged him, I danced on cloud 546, 999
feeling like I'd digested butterflies
and I was glad that there was something in me
somebody else liked.
My affection has withered away and died
like the smoke rings between his parched lips.
On tomorrow’s tomorrow I will wake up for school
tired and groggy with stress.
There will be rows and rows of braids in my hair,
and I will deflate under the weight of my book bag
ripping at the stitches because of my books.
I'll embrace the sun, as my skin gets darker—
I won't hold on to my Colorblends as tight—
And I will let me hopes of being stereotypically attractive fade.
Because I'm finally over him.

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