Sandra Cisneros-inspired

"Salvador Late or Early"  by Sandra Cisneros

Salvador with eyes the color of caterpillar, Salvador of the crooked hair and crooked teeth, Salvador whose name the teacher cannot remember, is a boy who is no one’s friend, runs along somewhere in that vague direction where homes are the color of bad weather, lives behind a raw wood doorway, shakes the sleepy brothers awake, ties their shoes, combs their hair with water, feeds them milk and cornflakes from a tin cup in the dim dark of the morning. 

Salvador, late or early, sooner or later arrives with the string of younger brothers ready. Helps his mama, who is busy with the business of the baby. Tugs the arms of Cecilio, Arturito, makes them hurry, because today, like yesterday, Arturito has dropped the cigar box of crayons, has let go the hundred little fingers of red, green, yellow, blue, and nub of black sticks that tumble and spill over and beyond the asphalt puddles until the crossing-guard lady holds back the blur of traffic for Salvador to collect them again. 

Salvador inside that wrinkled shirt, inside the throat that must clear itself and apologize each time it speaks, inside that forty-pound body of boy with its geography of scars, its history of hurt, limbs stuffed with feathers and rags, in what part of the eyes, in what part of the heart, in that cage of the chest where something throbs with both fists and knows only what Salvador knows, inside that body too small to contain the hundred balloons of happiness, the single guitar of grief, is a boy like any other disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where he has told his brothers they must wait. Collects the hands of Cecilio and Arturito, scuttles off dodging the many schoolyard colors, the elbows and wrists crisscrossing, the several shoes running. Grows small and smaller to the eye, dissolves into the bright horizon, flutters in the air before disappearing like a memory of kites.

I read this today during an in-service training session.  There is so much to be said about it on a literary level -- such ambiguous imagery, for example.  Why is Salvador so sad? Where is the father figure?  And, on another level, Salvador means savior in Spanish.  Whose savior is he, and where is his savior?  I don't want to talk about it on a literary level, though.  I'd like to say, for one, that it reminded me so much of my favorite Cisneros poem, "Abuelito Who" in content and style, and got me to thinking...

What a neat writing opportunity either of these pieces would be as a culminating poetry project.  Have your students mimic the vignette or the poem by replacing "Salvador" with images of themselves, or "Abuelito" with fragments of someone they know.  So, after talking about this with a fellow-teacher today, I thought I'd give it a try.

"Kelsie Always on Time "  by Kelsie Baab

Kelsie with eyes like burnt caramel, Kelsie of the short hair and immaculate teeth, Kelsie who always raises her hand in class, is a girl who is everyone’s friend, jumps off the bus and begins the long trek home, lives behind not one but two iron fences, throws her bookbag down, eats the snack Mother has prepared, pets the dog, watches TV, and starts her homework.  

Kelsie, always on time, arrives to school well-fed with a bagged lunch in her hand. Driven by Mother, who has nothing to do but dote over her beloved children. Runs up to Amanda, Emily, Kathryn, races them to class, because today, like yesterday, the girls have finished their homework, drawn diligent portraits of their families: Dad, Mom, Sister, self, and dog, and are eager to show one another the collage of crayon, ink, and stickers they've adhered to the worksheet, to see whose is the best, to peek behind them to see if Ann, yet again, forgot her assignment and, if not, what kind of poor materials she scrounged up to finish her collage, her self, her mom.

Kelsie stifled in Oxford-tee with matching vest, behind the dark, doe eyes that beg for validation, inside that sixty-pound body of girl with peach-cream skin, its history of love, limbs covered in kisses and powder, in some part of her eyes, in some part of her heart, in that package of her chest where hope throbs with two heads and knows only what Kelsie knows, inside that body too cavernous to locate the tiny balloon of happiness, the hundred guitar strums of grief, is a girl like many other girls disappearing out the door, beside the schoolyard gate, where Mother waits to collect her. She will climb into her car, away from the eyes of friends and teachers, cross her saddled-shoes with pink-lace socks.  The schoolyard will disappear behind her. Grow small and smaller to her eye, as she rides into the bright horizon, ready to face the world like a matador staring his bull in the eyes. 

Well.  That was interesting.  Sure takes on a different tone - almost sickeningly so as I deleted all the phrases which suggested Salvador's poverty and, thus highlighted my privileged existence, and it was hard to create a juxtaposing image in the line 15-16 about the balloon and the guitar, where Cisneros' poem so delicately suggests Salvadore's happiness despite his circumstances.  It was hard to turn the tables around, to depict dissatisfaction amidst great wealth.  

Is it beneficial to do so?

I can think of a few authors who have done so successfully: F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Berryman, Robert Lowell and other confessional poets, but is the message lost when the point is not to emphasize the underprivileged and the marginalized?  It just seems so... grossly like the musings of a whining schoolgirl.  I guess I'm asking the age-old question: Does art always have to be political?  (to which I resoundingly cry, "No!" but, then, why does my recreation of "Salvador Sooner or Later" seem so insignificant?  Is it my writing that belittles it?  My life?)

How depressing. Maybe "Abuelito Who" will yield better results.