The Poet X

by Elizabeth Acevedo

Pero, tú no eres fácil is a phrase I’ve heard my whole life. When I come home with my knuckles scraped up: Pero, tú no eres fácil. When I don’t wash the dishes quickly enough, or when I forget to scrub the tub: Pero, tú no eres fácil. Sometimes it’s a good thing, when I do well on an exam or the rare time I get an award: Pero, tú no eres fácil. When my mother’s pregnancy was difficult, and it was all because of me, because I was turned around and they thought that I would die or worse, that I would kill her, so they held a prayer circle at church and even Father Sean showed up at the emergency room, Father Sean, who held my mother’s hand as she labored me into the world, and Papi paced behind the doctor, who said this was the most difficult birth she’d been a part of but instead of dying I came out wailing, waving my tiny fists, and the first thing Papi said, the first words I ever heard, “Pero, tú no eres fácil.” You sure ain’t an easy one.

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