From Palomas to Columbus
we take a yellow schoolbus.
Every morning on the border, María-José’s grandpa
stands around, chatting with his American cousin.
Good morning, don Genaro!
Good morning, don Alejandro!
The two old men wave back, their faces full of smile.
Our teacher is Miss Judy
farmer’s daughter from Split Arrow, Oklahoma.
In the classroom we are asked to speak English.
Even if we can’t, we read, write, and speak English.
Our play at school is double-dutch, day in, day out
(Alicia in, Alicia out, Ma-Jo in, Ma-jo out);
my younger brother is only interested in baseball,
he dreams of one day becoming a Cuban.
When classes are over, we (I and Juanita) teach
Miss Judy to sing and talk in Spanish.
We sing of México.
At three, we ride the yellow bus again.
¡Buena tarde, maestra!
¡Buena tarde, niñas!
On the way home south to Palomas
everybody’s in a dream.
With his forehead resting against the window
mi hermanito is now a joyful Cubano
standing high on Wrigley Field.
