Clap When You Land by Elizabeth Acevedo Page 0,1

her forehead.

So, when I say I want to be a doctor,

I know exactly what that means.

This curing is in my blood.

& everyone here knows

the most respected medical schools

are in the United States.

I want to take what I’ve learned

from Tía’s life dedicated to aid & build a life

where I can help others.

There have been many days

when Papi’s check comes late,

& we have to count

how many eggs we have left,

or how long the meat will stretch.

I don’t want Tía & me to always live this way.

I will make it.

I will make it.

I will make it easier for us both.

The Day

I am beginning to learn

that life-altering news

is often like a premature birth:

ill-timed, catching someone unaware,

emotionally unprepared

& often where they shouldn’t be:

I am missing a math test.

Even though Papi will get in a taxi upon arriving,

I skipped my last two periods so I could wait at the airport.

I’ll make up the exam tomorrow, I convince myself.

Papi’s homecoming, for me, is a national holiday,

& I don’t rightly care that he’s going to be livid.

(He reminds me once a week he pays too much money

for my fancy schooling for me to miss or fail classes.

But he shouldn’t fuss since I’m always on honor roll.)

I also know Papi will be secretly elated.

He loves to be loved. & his favorite girl waiting at the airport

with a sign & a smile—what better homecoming?

It’s been nine months since last he was here,

but as is tradition he is on a flight the first weekend in June,

& it feels like Tía & I have been cooking for days!

Seasoning & stewing goat, stirring a big pot of sancocho.

All of Papi’s favorites on the dinner table tonight.

This is what I think as I beg Don Mateo for a bola to the airport.

He works in the town right near the airfields,

so I know he’s grumbling only because like his rooster

he’s ornery & routinized down to every loud crow.

He even grumbles when I kiss his cheek thanks,

although I see him drive off with a smile.

I wait in the terminal, tugging the hem of my uniform skirt,

knowing Papi will be red-faced & sputtering at how short it is.

I search the monitor, but his flight number is blank.

A big crowd of people circle around a giant TV screen.

(Tía has a theory,

that when bad news is coming

the Saints will try to warn you:

will raise the hair

on the back of your neck,

will slip icicles

down your spine,

will tell you brace brace

brace yourself, muchacha.

She says, perhaps,

if you hold still enough,

pray hard enough,

the Saints will change fate

in your favor.

Don Mateo’s AC was broken

& the hot air left me sweaty,

pulling on my shirt to ventilate my chest.

Without warning a stillness.

A cold chill saunters through a doorway in my body,

a tremble begins in my hands.

My feet do not move.)

An airline employee

& two security guards

approach the crowd

like gutter cats

used to being kicked.

& as soon as the employee

utters the word accident

the linoleum opens

a gnashing jaw,

a bottomless belly,

I am swallowed

by this shark-toothed truth.

Papi was not here in Sosúa the day that I was born.

Instead, Mamá held her sister Tía Solana’s hand

when she was dando a luz.

I’ve always loved that phrase for birthing:

dando a luz giving to light.

I was my mother’s gift to the sun of her life.

She revolved around my father,

the classic distant satellite

that came close enough to eclipse her once a year.

But that year, the one I was born, he was busy

in New York City. Wired us money & a name in his stead.

Told Mamá to call me Camino.

Sixteen years ago, the day I was born, was light-filled.

Tía has told me so. It is the only birthday Papi ever missed.

A bright July day. But it seems this year he’ll miss it too.

Because the people at the airport are wailing, crying,

hands cast up: it fell, they say. It fell.

They say the plane fell right out the sky.

It’s always been safer to listen to Papi’s affection

than it is to bear his excuses. Easier to shine

in his being here than bring up the shadow of his absence.

Every year for my birthday he asks me what I want.

Since the year my mother died, I’ve always answered:

“To live with you. In the States.”

I’ve heard him tell of New York so often you’d think

I was born to that skyline. Sometimes it feels like I have

memories of his billiards, Tío’s colmado, Yankee Stadium,

as if they are places I grew up at,

& not just the tall tales he’s been sharing

since I was a chamaquita on his knee.

In the fall, I start senior year at the International School.

My plan has always been to apply to

& attend