“Harlem is opening its eyes to September,” observes Xiormara Batista, the heroine in The Poet X. It’s not quite September when she sits on her stoop on a late afternoon and takes in her world before her mom comes home from work.
Xiormara’s mom wants to protect her daughter from the world. Her mother’s experience has taught her that the world is a stifling, unfair, and dangerous place (especially for a woman), so Xiormara must be kept safe from it. No stoop sitting allowed.
Because the world is the apple — crispy, tangy, tart, and ready to taste — that Xiormara is not allowed to eat in Elizabeth Acevedo’s YA novel, which is told entirely in poetry.
We might think that Xiormara is disobeying her mom by sitting on the her stoop, watching Harlem open its eyes for autumn. After all, in the last line of this first poem, Xiormara tells us she must “sneak upstairs” so her mom doesn’t know she’s been outside listening to “the old church ladies” gossiping in Spanish, or watching Peep Papote opening the fire hydrant for the kids to run through, or hearing the thunk of basketballs or the click of the viejos playing dominoes, or noticing the smiles of the drug dealers as the girls pass by in summer dresses. She’s not supposed to be out here.
Xiormara watches for the “long shadows” to let her know it’s time to sneak inside so her mom doesn’t know what she’s done. This is the beginning of her story, the first poem in the book. And in the beginning, Xiromara calls this place home. How can she begin if she doesn’t know where she is? How can any of us?
These days the world is opening its eyes. Since March it seems something great and important has emerged that desperately needs everything we have. Whether Xiromara’s mom is right or wrong (or a bit of both), I think it behooves us all to do some stoop sitting, to observe our world and claim it as our home so that we can begin.
Again.
Try It
On a late afternoon’s summer day, perhaps when you are supposed to be doing something else, step outside and do some stoop sitting of your own. Give yourself five to ten minutes. What do you notice? What do you wonder? Write a poem about your observations.
Featured Poem
Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s one from Richard Maxson we enjoyed:
Do Not Despair
The trace of pearl that remains
in the bulk of you will fail, in the curl
it will shatter, the curl can drown you,
or you will lose your footprints
in the moist sand of nostalgia.
Your tears have made an ocean
where pirates have stolen everything
from you, and steal it now.
So walk.
There is only salty water behind you;
love may not come from what you love;
you cannot always choose
the doorway that opens your life
Photo by zolakoma Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Callie Feyen.
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Twirl is writing magic.
“This book is writing gold. This book, like all of Callie’s writing, makes me sit up and pay attention to my life. She reminds me why I write my own stories—fiction and non-fiction—to make sense of the world, my thoughts, my dreams, my reflection, etc. She reminds us that real life, our every day ordinary lives, are beautiful and worth taking a closer look. There’s always more to learn about ourselves and not everything has to have a bow tied on top. We don’t always have to arrive when we think we’ve reached the end, and TWIRL is such a beautiful reminder of that. There’s magic in this book.”
– Tracy Erler
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Richard Maxson says
Thanks for featuring my poem, Callie.
I really liked this post, the way it ties together stoop sitting with awareness. A person can learn a lot stoop sitting or porch sitting. Stoops in the city teach that world at a faster pace than porches in the country, where everything seems to move slower.
I like the ending thoughts you have, particularly the phrase begin again. Eddie Glaude Jr. has a book out now with that title on the social messages gleaned from James Baldwin’s writings, so pertinent to where we find ourselves at this time in our nation.
Michelle Ortega says
I just read this book Sunday night and loved it (when I saw the title of your post, I was thinking, “where did I just read about stoop sitting?”). I’ll return here with a response to the prompt. 🙂
Michelle Ortega says
I live in a condo and if I sit on the stoop, I won’t really see anything, so I sat on a bench in the courtyard at my office. It’s something I don’t do frequently, but am always glad when I do.
It’s quiet in the courtyard this afternoon,
the day after Isaias. You’d never imagine
how yesterday the rain whipped, branches
flew low through green-leaf confetti, except
the heat and humidity broke– outside,
I can finally breathe. Overnight the sun
has shifted, still warm, but the breeze
is cooler, shadows sharper, birds already
making plans that we can’t, flying south,
while the tops of the trees buzz with
cicadas in the afternoon. It’s quiet here
without the daycare kids, the developmentally
disabled adults who walk the square
for exercise after lunch, even the others
who come to the pain clinic on Tuesday
evenings. Everyone home, waiting for power
to be restored or still hiding from The Virus.
Even the people who want to move are stuck
behind tree limbs that block roads.