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Childhood, the essence of assimilation

Rebeca Tezaguic

Remembering

La belleza de mi niñez[1]

one reflection in a two-way mirror.

I can see me.

Age 5, ashamed: Head down low, I focus on my pink skirt, first day of kindergarten,

hair like un nido de pájaros[2].

No me dejes…[3]

Words were knives,

sharp, pressing

hard on new places

where mami and papi, carro, amor[4]

never clanked and scraped upon release.

What is your name?

Me llamo…[5]

Class, sit by your name tag.

Where do I sit?

I don’t know my

Name--written on a blue pencil

where I sit in (forever, lips sealed in ruby) silence.

My name

angular points that cross my tongue

tapping on teeth as they clamor outside

no longer rolling hills, but a mountain

greater than my mouth can hold.

Later, I can only sit in the bathtub,

bathtub dark red like a boxing glove

 that sits in the carajo land of the classroom,

and pretend to read.

I look down at my hands in shame

waiting for the end.

But there is more.

One by one

she lines up

 brown paper bags with our addresses written on them on the shelf against the wall.

If you ever get lost you will need to know your address.

It’s too late. When I walked into your room,

 you bent down and looked me in the eyes.

I have been lost in your pupil—green as a vengeful

 sea. It is what my parents called giving ojo.[6]

I don’t even know my

Address--sitting on the shelf in a puffed up bag, last one left.

The five year old me believes they are filled with candy.

Mine was leaning on the wall through countless

show-and-tells,

nap times,

all the way through learning at least the letter P

until weeks after

when the edges of my blue pencil name tag begins to curl

she just gives me the bag—

filled with newspaper.