Open Mic (11 page)

“You do.”

“And who else?”

“Only when I’m in the bathroom.”

“Ewwww! No wonder you spend hours in there. Have you ever seen him even open that magazine?”

“Who?”

“Bernie. Who else are we talking about?”

She was annoyingly right yet again. I had never seen Bernie read
Vogue.
“Why does he buy it, then?” I asked, confused.

“He buys it for us, for you and me. Mostly he buys it for you. I told him once I preferred
Cosmo,
but he said, and I quote, ‘Luis likes the fashions in
Vogue.
’ Are you getting all this?”

I was stunned. I was a pretty smart guy. I never got a B in my life. I was also very perceptive. I could tell if Rosalinda was wearing a blouse from Abercrombie and Fitch or Anthropologie. But it never occurred to me, never, not for one microsecond, that Bernie bought
Vogue
for me to read, which I did every month, religiously, from cover to cover, and not just when I was in the bathroom.

I stopped. I blinked. Then I rubbed my right eye with my index finger. Rosalinda never cleaned her room, and dust was always flying everywhere. “Remember when Papá found the computer open to the website on baking recipes? He was so mad at Bernie. God hates a
maricón,
he said. Especially a Mexican one.” My voice was low. I could hardly say the word. It had sounded nasty when Papá said it, but it sounded ten times worse hearing myself say it.

Rosalinda folded her legs and then crawled on her knees to where I was. Before I could do anything, she grabbed me by the shoulder and planted a big wet kiss on my cheek.

“Okay, okay,” I said softly, pretending to pull away, “don’t get a cow.”

She sat on her haunches on top of the bed, not letting go of me. “And what did Bernie do when Papá said that?”

I couldn’t speak. There was a lump in my throat the size and texture of one of those Mexican limes that Bernie liked to squeeze on his chicken soup. “He told him not to say that kind of stuff ever again. That it was not something Jesus Christ would ever say. That it was a bunch of
mierda,
and that God — that God made all kinds of Mexican guys.”

She moved closer to me and sat on the edge of the bed. “Have you ever, before that day, heard Bernie use that word?”

I shook my head.

“You know why he did that?”

I shook my head again.

“It was like he was defending someone, wasn’t it?” She was almost whispering in my ear.

I nodded.

“He did it for you. He was defending you. You! Luis. Our geeky little Mexican guy, made just right by God.”

The green lime that had been stuck in my throat exploded, and I was suddenly crying. I buried my head in Rosalinda’s chest. I don’t know how long we sat there next to each other. Finally, I wiped my eyes on my arm. Rosalinda lifted a corner of her chartreuse T-shirt to dry my cheeks. “Bright colors make you look fat,” I said.

She smiled and rubbed the back of my head. “Told you I needed a guy’s advice, didn’t I? Now, get out of here. Go to the bathroom and read your magazine.”

I stood up.

“But don’t take forever,” she warned.

I looked at her one more time and smiled. Then I slowly walked out.

I noticed, as I was walking to my room, that my steps were lighter, so much lighter.

Hearts, like doors, will (open) with ease

to very, very little keys,

and don’t forget that two of these

are “Thank you, sir,” and “If you please.”

— Traditional

1.

Certain words

got lost on their way —

why should they pull us

down their twisted paths?

Using them feeds them.

War
is
raw,
backward and forward.

Terror
contains
rot
and
tore.

Well, of course.

It would not be filled

with
toast
or
lamp.

Because my Arab father said,

I love you, habibi,

darling
was everywhere.

Sweetness emanating from trees.

Mint in your tea?

Ahlan wa sahlan — you are all welcome.

Friends, strangers, came right in.

Sat in a circle, poured, and stirred.

Teacups steaming on an oval tray.

Being a good example —

why not?

(I was half-baked, mix of East and West,

balancing flavors.)

When they said,
May we tell you about Jesus?

my father said,
He was my next-door neighbor!

Because my father said,
Eye of my eye,

heart of my heart,
I felt surrounded —

soft love cocoon. He went outside to

smell the air. It spoke to him.

He crossed the creek,

took a turn.

How much you could own without owning.

Soft hope tucked into branches.

Down the block and up the hill.

My friend’s dad said,

Let’s get rolling, girls.

He was brusque, tough.

He drank beer and spat.

You’re not leaving this house

till you finish your work.

My father’s tongue had no
bitch

hiding under it.

Mine said
friend
to everyone.

You don’t even know her, Dad.

I’ll know her sooner if I call her friend.

He was Facebook before it existed.

Only Arab on the block,

on the street, in the town,

he ran for president of the PTA.

Maybe not,
said my mom.

But he won.

All his friends voted for him.

The Italians, the French Canadians.

If someone said,
I never met an Arab before!

he would beam.

If someone spoke rudely,

he softened instead of hardening.

Oh, my,
he’d say.
Let’s start this

conversation again.

Where have you gone, Daddy?

I need my personal Arab in a world of headlines.

I need your calm, loving voice like a rug on all the floors.

He hated chaos,

fighting,

wars.

He said,
Let’s get more information.

Man of gentle words,

could we bury nasty ones

in a graveyard now?

Then the earth would be polluted.

Tie them into sacks,

pitch them into lakes?

Then the lakes would be strange.

Words that never helped us?

Holding someone above.

Words aimed in anger.

Words that made walls.

Maybe we need a giant campfire,

all the dry twigs of sad words piled on top.

Light them carefully, say good-bye.

Fold your hands as they sizzle and fly, ash into air.

This will not be a fire to cook anything on.

2.

We need more words like

Comfortable

Bedrock

Pillow

Cake

Words that make us part of a whole.

Compass

Time

Chickadee

Shadow

Errand

Dreamboat

Canvas words.

Words with hems and pockets.

Umbrella, flashlight,
milk.

Pencil, blizzard, song.

Words like parks to sit in.

Bench words. Did you ever notice how

pleasant
and
pleasure
have
please
in them?

Except for that final
e,
which is waiting for

everybody
to wrap their tongues around it.

In Geneva, Switzerland, I saw the longest bench

in the world. It stretched the length

of a block or two —

green with little snowdrifts

piled against the back —

no one sitting on it just then.

I wondered if my father ever sat on it.

Dreaming of words,

merci,

sesame,

I wanted to stay, sitting quietly,

soaking in memory,

till spring washed over

everyone, visible, invisible,

watching everyone pass,

in the neutral country,

the second United Nations city,

holding the thoughts.

Remembering my father’s daily sweetness,

the way some people make you feel better

just by stepping into a room.

He loved the freshness of anything —

crisp cucumbers, the swell of a new day.

The way skin feels after being washed.

I’m happy to see you!

The day just got happier.

But dying, this lover of life said sadly,

My dilemma is large.

Nothing had become the world he dreamed of.

He wanted

simple times, people making room

for fun, for words.

Saying
darling
to fresh minutes lined up.

Shookrun
— thank you — to legs strong enough to walk.

Shookrun
to light coming over the fields.

Shookrun
to light touching the houses.

Shookrun
to everyone we haven’t met yet.

Especially the nice ones.

Yes
to all forgotten ones.

And then there would be language worth trading.

Words deserved by human beings, all deserving respect.

Coins and plums and an endless kiss

no one saw you get or give.

CHERRY CHEVA
(full name: Cherry Chevapravatdumrong) is originally from Ann Arbor, Michigan. She is the author of two novels,
She’s So Money
and
DupliKate,
and the co-author, with Alex Borstein, of
It Takes a Village Idiot, and I Married One.
She is a writer and producer for
Family Guy
and lives in Los Angeles. “A lot of people watching the
Family Guy
credits think my name is fake,” says Cherry. “It’s not. It’s just Thai.”

VARIAN JOHNSON
is the author of
Saving Maddie,
My Life as a Rhombus,
and
A Red Polka Dot in a World Full of Plaid.
He was born and raised in Florence, South Carolina, and attended the University of Oklahoma, where he received a BS in civil engineering. He also received an MFA in writing for children and young adults from the Vermont College of Fine Arts and lives in Austin, Texas. “I was the typical high-school geek,” he says. “I played the baritone in the marching band, was a member of the Academic Challenge Team, and counted my Hewlett-Packard 48G calculator as one of my most prized possessions.”

G. NERI,
author of
Ghetto Cowboy,
Chess Rumble,
Yummy: The Last Days of a Southside Shorty,
and
Surf Mules,
is a storyteller, filmmaker, artist, and digital-media producer. He taught animation and storytelling to inner-city teens in Los Angeles with the groundbreaking group AnimAction, producing more than three hundred films. “I’m Creole, Filipino, and Mexican — or as I like to call it, Crefilican. On top of that, my daughter is also German. If America’s the melting pot of the world, then we’re perfect examples of how diverse this country really is.” Although he lives on the Gulf Coast of Florida, he and his family spent a year in Berlin, where he was often able to corral extra subway seats.

NAOMI SHIHAB NYE
was born in St. Louis, Missouri. Her father was a Palestinian refugee, her mother an American of German and Swiss descent. Naomi grew up in Jerusalem and San Antonio, Texas. She is considered one of the leading female poets of the American Southwest and is the author of
Habibi,
an award-winning novel for children. She received her BA from Trinity University in San Antonio and continues to live and work there. “Writing is the great friend that never moves away,” says Naomi.

MITALI PERKINS,
author of
Bamboo People,
Secret Keeper,
Monsoon Summer,
and other novels for young readers, was born in India and immigrated to the States with her parents and two sisters when she was seven. Bengali-style, the three sisters’ names rhyme:
Sonali
means “gold,”
Rupali
means “silver,” and
Mitali
means “friendly.” “I had to live up to my name because we moved so much,” Mitali says. “I’ve lived in India, Ghana, Cameroon, England, New York, Mexico, California, Bangladesh, Thailand, and now, in Newton, Massachusetts.”