The Poet X(14)

But he wouldn’t be hanging out with me so much if he wasn’t feeling me, right?

And although I still want to stay seated during Communion, I get up every time, put the wafer in my mouth then slip it beneath the pew.

My hands shaking less and less every time I do.

The hardest thing has been Tuesdays.

I sit in confirmation class

knowing I could be in poetry club instead, or writing, or doing anything other than trying to unhear everything Father Sean says.

And I do a good job of pretending.

At least until the day

I open my usually silent mouth and decide to ask Father Sean about Eve.





Eve,


Father Sean explains,

could have made a better choice.

Her story is a parable to teach us how to deal with temptation.

Resist the apple.

And for some reason,

either because of what I’m learning in school and in real life, I think it all just seems like bullshit.

So I say so. Out loud. To Father Sean.

Next to me Caridad goes completely still.





“I Think the Story of Genesis Is Mad Stupid”


“God made the Earth in seven days?

Including humans, right?

But in biology we learned

dinosaurs existed on Earth for millions of years

before other species . . .

unless the seven days is a metaphor?

But what about humans evolving from apes? Unless Adam’s creation was a metaphor, too?

And about this apple,

how come God didn’t explain why they couldn’t eat it?

He gave Eve curiosity

but didn’t expect her to use it?

Unless the apple is a metaphor?

Is the whole Bible a poem?

What’s not a metaphor?

Did any of it actually happen?”

I catch my breath. Look around the room.

Caridad is bright red.

The younger kids are silent, watching like it’s a WWE match.

And Father Sean’s face has turned hard as the marble altar.

“Why don’t you and I talk after class, Xiomara?”





As We Are Packing to Leave


C: Xiomara, if Father Sean says something to your moms

it’s going to be a hot mess— X: So what? Aren’t we supposed to be curious

about the things that we’re told?

C: Listen. Don’t come at me like that, Xiomara.

I’m just trying to help you.

X: I know, I know. But . . . they were just questions.

Aren’t priests obligated to confidentiality?

C: That wasn’t a confession, Xiomara.

X doesn’t say: Wasn’t it?





Father Sean


Tells me

I seem distracted in confirmation class.

Tells me

perhaps there is something I’d like to discuss besides Eve.

Tells me

it’s normal to be curious about the world.

Tells me

Catholicism invites curiosity.

Tells me

I should find solace in a forgiving religion.

Tells me

the church is here for me if I need it.

Tells me

maybe I should have a conversation with my mother.

Tells me

open and honest dialogue is good for growth.

Tells me a lot of things but none of them an answer to anything I asked.





Answers


After Father Sean’s lecture, he seems to expect answers from me.

I stare at the picture behind his desk.

It’s him in a boxing ring holding a pair of gold gloves.

“You still fight, Father Sean?”

He cocks his head at me, and his lips quirk up a bit.

“Every now and then I get into a ring to stay in shape.

I definitely don’t fight as much as I used to.

Not every fight can be fought with gloves, Xiomara.”

I stand. I tell Father Sean I won’t ask about Eve again.

I leave church before he asks me something I can’t answer.





Rough Draft Assignment 2—Last paragraphs of My Biography


And that’s how Xiomara,

bare-knuckled, fought the world into calling her correctly by her name, into not expecting her to be a saint, into respecting her as a whole grown-ass woman.

She knew since she was little, the world would not sing her triumphs, but she took all of the stereotypes and put them in a chokehold until they breathed out the truth.

Xiomara may be remembered as a lot of things: a student, a miracle, a protective sister, a misunderstood daughter,

but most importantly,

she should be remembered

as always working to become the warrior she wanted to be.





Final Draft of Assignment 2 (What I Actually Turn In)


Xiomara Batista Monday, October 15

Ms. Galiano

Last Paragraphs of My Biography, Final Draft Xiomara’s accomplishments amounted to several key achievements. She was a writer who went on to create a nonprofit organization for first-generation teenage girls. Her center helped young women explain to their parents why they should be allowed to date, and go away for college, and move out when they turned eighteen . . . also, how to discover what they wanted to do in life. It was an organization that helped thousands of young women, and although they never built a statue outside the center (she would have hated that) they did hang a super-blown-up selfie of her in the main office.