BIO
Born in Manatí, PR & raised in Springfield, MA, María Luisa Arroyo Cruzado, 54, earned her undergraduate & graduate degrees in German, her third language. She also earned an MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from the Solstice MFA Program. Part of María Luisa's lifelong learning as a multilingual Boricua poet & intersectional feminist educator is to reclaim her Puerto Rican español by excavating living & buried family stories & oral histories on the island & in the diaspora. Her published collections include Gathering Words: recogiendo palabras (2008); & two chapbooks, Flight (2016), & Destierro Means More than Exile (2018).
borrar: to erase
every time a teacher reprimanded us
for speaking spanish
i saw the clapping white dust
of board erasers rise
we 30 crammed behind wooden desks
in classrooms meant for 20
breathed this in
we learned to swallow our spanish words
& spit out english
like marbles one at a time
we learned how to shape our mouths
around english words
like we were chewing & rolling
the tasteless mashed potatoes
they plopped on our cafeteria trays
with each book with english words
that spelled the lives of little boys & little girls
white & blond & happy – not like us -
i learned how to erase myself
i learned how to erase my spanish
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gemir: to wail
like in puerto rico I hang the hammock
between two trees lay la nena down to sleep assured
that the gravel in the patio behind the apartments
would echo crunching steps assured
that she, three would stay still
one look outside between sips of café con mi coma’i
I see the hammock sway too lightly in the breeze
coma’i’s slap burns my face, reminds me to breathe
my screaming, gravel in my throat
¡policía! 470 de la calle chestnut llevaba no está aquí ¿dónde está? estaba dormida estaba
police! 470 chestnut street she wore she’s not here where is she? she was sleeping she was
*
they say a father driving a mini-bus filled with 13 daughters
sees a chubby little girl walking
up the highway ramp happy
her knees bleeding
from constantly falling
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malcriar: to poorly raise a child
our american teachers did not see
our clean second-hand clothes
our itchy bleached socks
our shoes, our sneakers, our backpacks, all new
our hair combed neatly
boys’ cowlicks set with mamis’ spit
girls’ hair tamed into braids
our american teachers saw & heard those kids
speaking spanish
speaking with their hands
squirming in their chairs
asking too many broken questions
doing the pee-pee dance
¿pero, missy, cómo se dice tengo que ir al baño en inglés?
bringing smelly lunches
greeting each other too loudly en español
our american teachers stomp their feet
you’re in america now
speak english