Clap When You Land

by Elizabeth Acevedo

“Don’t let it stain you,” Tía’s always said. But can’t she see? This place we’re from already has its prints on me.

To be from this barrio is to be made of this earth & clay:

I love my home. But it might be a sinkhole

But I learned young, you do not speak of the dying as if they are already dead. You do not call bad spirits into the room, & you do not smudge a person’s dignity by pretending they are not still alive, & right in front of you, & perhaps about to receive a miracle. You do not let your words stunt unknown possibilities.

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:

(Tía has a theory, that when bad news is coming the Saints will try to warn you:

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.

making a sad confetti of my hopes.

I am so accustomed to his absence that this feels more like delay than death.

I am a rule follower. A person whose report card always says Meets Expectations. I do not exceed them. I do not do poorly. I arrive & mind my business.

But the best thing about our house is that it’s a three-minute walk from the beach. Which isn’t always lucky when the water rises, but it has saved my life on the many days when I need a reminder the world is bigger than the one I know, & its currents are always moving; when I need a reminder there is a life for me beyond the water & that one day I will not be left behind.

I am theirs. You can see them on me. But I am also all mine, mostly.

There is an artist my mother loved, Juan Gabriel, who was once asked in an interview if he was gay. His reply: What’s understood need not be said.

I don’t think I understood the word W O N D E R until the day our tongues touched & we both wanted

Fight until you can’t breathe, & if you have to forfeit, you forfeit smiling, make them think you let them win.”

(In my defense, why would a three-year-old pick a dry-ass-looking king over a pony?)

Mami wanted me to be a lady: sit up straight, cross my ankles, let men protect me. Papi wanted me to be a leader. To think quick & strike hard, to speak rarely, but when I did, to always be heard. Me? Playing chess taught me a queen is both: deadly & graceful, poised & ruthless. Quiet & cunning. A queen offers her hand to be kissed, & can form it into a fist while smiling the whole damn time. But what happens when those principles only apply in a game? & in the real world, I am not treated as a lady or a queen, as a defender or opponent but as a girl so many want to strike off the board.

Can you be from a place you have never been?

Can you claim a home that does not know you, much less claim you as its own?

Dreams are like the pieces of fluff that get caught in your hair; they stand out for a moment, but eventually you wash them away, or long fingers reach in & pluck them out

Who knew death must be so damn polite?

I can’t be in a place that’s gone on as if my father never existed.

The patron saint of the ocean is known for containing many parts of herself: she is a nurturer, but she is also a ferocious defender. & so I remember that to walk this world you must be kind but also fierce.

I am not the kind of girl who looks for approval. But a weight lifts off my chest. I did what must be done.

I think I hate this sister. She messages me that she has acquired a plane ticket. & how easy she says it. Because it wasn’t endless paperwork, because no one wondered if she would want to overstay her visa. The years my father tried to get me to the States, & that girl over there fills out a short form, is granted permission, given a blue book— shit, an entire welcome mat to the world.

She tells me Nelson is working himself to the bone trying to save enough to move them out & is also considering dropping out of school. I want to offer her platitudes & murmurs that it will all be all right. But thing is, this isn’t an uncommon story. A lot of people don’t finish school or follow their dreams. That fairy-tale plotline is for telenovelas. Instead of saying soft, nice words, I fold clean towels & stack dirty dishes. I sweep & make myself useful. It is the best kind of gift I can offer Carline.

My father having two families is also not an uncommon story. When Yahaira messaged me she seemed unutterably betrayed. As if she couldn’t believe this of Papi. But me, I know a man can have many faces & speak out of both sides of his mouth; I know a man can make decisions based on the flip of a coin; a man can be real good at long division, give away piece after piece after piece of himself.

Life is an exchange; you’d think a chess player would know that.

His every feeling flashed across his face like the digital ads at the bus stops. For the rest of my life I will sit & imagine what my father would say in any given moment. & I will make him up: his words, his advice, our memories.

They are beautiful. I love them. I love you. You are the only thing that does not hurt. I try to say with my eyes since I can’t get my mouth to make a single sound.

Everyone spends years, my entire lifetime, lying to me about my family, but I’m the one who supposedly owes people the truth?

I feel like I am trying to reconcile two very different pictures. My heart wants to make them whole, but my brain knows my father will not walk through those doors; my brain does not know if my sister will.

Maybe she realizes there are other shades besides black & white.

So, you think Papi’s ghost will live in DR? I think his ghost will live wherever we carry him. Can a ghost be in two places at once? Definitely: if it’s Papi’s ghost. Papi’s ghost would have had a lot of practice.

She has no idea what it means to completely abandon your dreams. She cannot.

& that might be the whole of my life. & that will have to be enough. Isn’t that what makes a dream a dream? You wake up eventually. But that girl, that girl gets to keep living in the clouds.

It was like he was two completely different men. It’s like he split himself in half. It’s like he bridged himself across the Atlantic. Never fully here nor there. One toe in each country. Ni aquí ni allá.

My father hid this part of himself tight inside his pockets, but it still slipped through the stitching I just never paid attention.

I fell & scraped them. Here, despite the bad & ugly, is my home. & now I wish that I could stay. Does anyone ever want to leave the place they love?