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Authors: Margarita Engle
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remembering
the freedom
to read.
Tula
Shortly before my birth, Papá saw
the head of a rebellious slave
paraded on a stake. The poor manâs
hands were nailed to trees; his limbs
tumbled outside
churchyard gates . . .
Â
The sight made Papá furious.
He was a soldier, but heâd learned
to detest violence,
growing ill with sorrow
each time he heard rumors
of warfare.
Â
Without slavery, he concluded,
there would be no more fighting,
no anger or dread.
He dreamed of returning
to his birthplace in Spain,
and in preparation,
he freed our old cook,
paying her a fair wage
instead of keeping her in chains.
Caridad
Iâve been the only cook, maid,
seamstress, gardener, and nanny
in this family
for at least a thousand years.
Â
Vaya
âoh well, it certainly feels
like a thousand, even if itâs only
thirty or forty. Some years feel
so much longer than othersâslower,
deeper, more powerful.
The year when Tula first began
telling me her far-fetched stories
was one of those times.
She was only nine.
Â
Now we sit together often,
dreaming of heroic giants
who can defeat bloodsucking
vampires.
Tula
When Caridad and I peer
through the bars of a window,
we see weary slave girls trudging
along the rough cobblestone street,
with enormous baskets
of pineapples and coconuts
balanced on their heads.
Â
Sometimes I feel as if
I can trade my thoughts
for theirs. Are we really
so different, with our heavy
array of visible
and invisible
burdens?
Tula
When fever
took Papá,
I folded
my sorrow
into words,
one tiny
leaf
of paper,
my first
raging poem
of loss.
Â
Now each glimpse
of a slave girlâs suffering
turns into one more
hidden
verse.
Tula
Mamá does not permit me
to attend school like Manuel,
so a tutor comes to the house,
instructing me in music and art.
For lessons in embroidery
and saintsâ lives, I go to the convent,
where veiled nuns permit me
to read mysterious tales
of hermits, martyrs, and beasts,
like the story about Santa Margarita,
who was swallowed by a dragon.
Â
Each day, after my lessons, the nuns
let me visit their marvelous library,
where I feel as if I have entered
heaven on earth.
Caridad
The poems Tula recites
fall onto my ears
like shooting stars
or flowers
in a storm wind,
plummeting toward earth
instead of drifting.
Â
Each verse is an arrow
piercing my pastâthe years
of bondage that prevented me
from learning to read
while I was young.
Â
Tula says itâs never too late,
but Iâm old, and Iâm so very tired,
and I have too much work . . .
The Nuns
We read all manner of verse and prose
forbidden to other females.
Â
For Tula to gain the freedom to enjoy
unlimited reading later in life,
she will have to take vows and join us.
Beyond these convent gates, books
are locked away
and men
hold
the keys.
Â
For now, Tula seems content
to roam our peaceful library,
growing breathless
with the excitement
of a youthful mindâs
natural curiosity.
Tula
In a dusty corner
of the convent library,
I discover the banned books
of José MarÃa Heredia, a rebel-poetâ
an abolitionist and
independista
who was forced into exile.
Â
His verses show that he believes
in Cubaâs freedom from Spain,
as well as liberty for slaves.
When I take the verses home
to Caridad, she weeps.
Â
I cannot tell if her tears pour
from a fountain of hope
for the unknowable future
or sorrows left over
from an unchangeable past.
Caridad
Certain poems
help me feel young
instead of old.
Â
Powerful
instead of weak.
Â
Brave
instead of fearful.
Â
Their words are like wings,
helping me fly away
from this kitchen,
this mop,
these filthy pots and pans,
my endless chores . . .
The Nuns
Herediaâs verses are banned
by the Crown, not the Church,
so we feel free to read them.
We knew him well.
Â
He was already a poet while he
was just a young boy. Some people
are born with words flowing
in their veins.
Â
At fifteen, Heredia wrote a play.
At
the freedom
to read.
Tula
Shortly before my birth, Papá saw
the head of a rebellious slave
paraded on a stake. The poor manâs
hands were nailed to trees; his limbs
tumbled outside
churchyard gates . . .
Â
The sight made Papá furious.
He was a soldier, but heâd learned
to detest violence,
growing ill with sorrow
each time he heard rumors
of warfare.
Â
Without slavery, he concluded,
there would be no more fighting,
no anger or dread.
He dreamed of returning
to his birthplace in Spain,
and in preparation,
he freed our old cook,
paying her a fair wage
instead of keeping her in chains.
Caridad
Iâve been the only cook, maid,
seamstress, gardener, and nanny
in this family
for at least a thousand years.
Â
Vaya
âoh well, it certainly feels
like a thousand, even if itâs only
thirty or forty. Some years feel
so much longer than othersâslower,
deeper, more powerful.
The year when Tula first began
telling me her far-fetched stories
was one of those times.
She was only nine.
Â
Now we sit together often,
dreaming of heroic giants
who can defeat bloodsucking
vampires.
Tula
When Caridad and I peer
through the bars of a window,
we see weary slave girls trudging
along the rough cobblestone street,
with enormous baskets
of pineapples and coconuts
balanced on their heads.
Â
Sometimes I feel as if
I can trade my thoughts
for theirs. Are we really
so different, with our heavy
array of visible
and invisible
burdens?
Tula
When fever
took Papá,
I folded
my sorrow
into words,
one tiny
leaf
of paper,
my first
raging poem
of loss.
Â
Now each glimpse
of a slave girlâs suffering
turns into one more
hidden
verse.
Tula
Mamá does not permit me
to attend school like Manuel,
so a tutor comes to the house,
instructing me in music and art.
For lessons in embroidery
and saintsâ lives, I go to the convent,
where veiled nuns permit me
to read mysterious tales
of hermits, martyrs, and beasts,
like the story about Santa Margarita,
who was swallowed by a dragon.
Â
Each day, after my lessons, the nuns
let me visit their marvelous library,
where I feel as if I have entered
heaven on earth.
Caridad
The poems Tula recites
fall onto my ears
like shooting stars
or flowers
in a storm wind,
plummeting toward earth
instead of drifting.
Â
Each verse is an arrow
piercing my pastâthe years
of bondage that prevented me
from learning to read
while I was young.
Â
Tula says itâs never too late,
but Iâm old, and Iâm so very tired,
and I have too much work . . .
The Nuns
We read all manner of verse and prose
forbidden to other females.
Â
For Tula to gain the freedom to enjoy
unlimited reading later in life,
she will have to take vows and join us.
Beyond these convent gates, books
are locked away
and men
hold
the keys.
Â
For now, Tula seems content
to roam our peaceful library,
growing breathless
with the excitement
of a youthful mindâs
natural curiosity.
Tula
In a dusty corner
of the convent library,
I discover the banned books
of José MarÃa Heredia, a rebel-poetâ
an abolitionist and
independista
who was forced into exile.
Â
His verses show that he believes
in Cubaâs freedom from Spain,
as well as liberty for slaves.
When I take the verses home
to Caridad, she weeps.
Â
I cannot tell if her tears pour
from a fountain of hope
for the unknowable future
or sorrows left over
from an unchangeable past.
Caridad
Certain poems
help me feel young
instead of old.
Â
Powerful
instead of weak.
Â
Brave
instead of fearful.
Â
Their words are like wings,
helping me fly away
from this kitchen,
this mop,
these filthy pots and pans,
my endless chores . . .
The Nuns
Herediaâs verses are banned
by the Crown, not the Church,
so we feel free to read them.
We knew him well.
Â
He was already a poet while he
was just a young boy. Some people
are born with words flowing
in their veins.
Â
At fifteen, Heredia wrote a play.
At
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