Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Historical Background

Part One: Suns and Rays 1827

Part Two: The Orphan Theater 1827

Part Three: The Marriage Market 1828

Part Four: See Me as I Am 1829

Part Five: The Hotel of Peace 1836

Historical Note

The Writing of Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda

References

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Footnotes

Copyright © 2013 by Margarita Engle

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

Harcourt is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

www.hmhco.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.

eISBN 978-0-547-80747-8

v2.0314

For young writers in search of words

El esclavo ha dejado volar libre su pensamiento, y su pensamiento subía más allá de las nubes en que se forma el rayo.

The slave let his mind fly free, and his thoughts soared higher than the clouds where lightning forms.

—Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda

Historical Background

In the United States, Northern abolitionists were able to speak out against slavery in public. The Spanish colony of Cuba was different. With no part of the island free of slavery, censorship was harsh and penalties severe. The most daring abolitionists were poets who could veil their work with metaphors. Of these, the boldest was a young woman named Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda. Her childhood nickname was Tula.

Tula

Books are door-shaped

portals

carrying me

across oceans

and centuries,

helping me feel

less alone.

But my mother believes

that girls who read too much

are unladylike

and ugly,

so my father’s books are locked

in a clear glass cabinet. I gaze

at enticing covers

and mysterious titles,

but I am rarely permitted

to touch

the enchantment

of words.

Poems.

Stories.

Plays.

All are forbidden.

Girls are not supposed to think,

but as soon as my eager mind

begins to race, free thoughts

rush in

to replace

the trapped ones.

I imagine distant times

and faraway places.

Ghosts.

Vampires.

Ancient warriors.

Fantasy moves into

the tangled maze

of lonely confusion.

Secretly, I open

an invisible book in my mind,

and I step

through its magical door-shape

into a universe

of dangerous villains

and breathtaking heroes.

Many of the heroes are men

and boys, but some are girls

so tall

strong

and clever

that they rescue other children

from monsters.

Manuel

My big sister tells

bizarre fantasy tales,

acting them out in whispers

beneath a jungle of leaves

in the shady garden.

Her stories of powerful giants

and terrifying beasts

turn the evening

into a forest

of secrets.

I leave the garden feeling

as if I have traveled

to a distant land.

If only our real lives

could be as heroic as her tales

of courageous giants

one hundred heads high.

Tula

I’ve trained my little brother

to be a brave smuggler of words.

He hides his schoolbooks

under my embroidery hoop

one

forbidden

volume

at a time

so that our frowning mother

and scolding stepfather

hardly ever grow

suspicious.

When no one is looking,

I seize one of Manuel’s books

and flee to the garden,

where words

glitter

and glow

in starlight.

Tula

I am thirteen now, so close

to the age of forced marriage

that invented worlds

made of words

are my only

comfort.

I try to explain my fear

of a loveless wedding

to Mamá, but her mind

is busy with greedy

visions . . .

If only she could dream

of her own future

instead of mine.

Mamá

Thirteen! It is the age for dreams

of sparkling jewels and silken gowns

in elegant ballrooms . . .

not hideous fantasies

about ferocious beasts.

Everyone knows that girls

who read and write too much

are unattractive. Men want

quiet females who listen,

not loud ones who offer

opinions.

Tula

Thirteen is the age for dreams

of changing the world

by freeing my own heart.

Thirteen is a barefoot rider

on a naturally graceful horse,

with no fierce spurs, heavy saddle,

iron bit, or vicious reins

to control the mouth

and the mind.

People assume that men

make all the rules, but sometimes

mothers are the ones who command

girls to be quiet

while they arrange

for us to be sold

like oxen

or mules.

Tula

I feel like a new person

when I play make-believe games

in the garden, inventing tales

of monsters and heroes.

Mamá commands me to hush,

and my stepfather grumbles,

so I try to be quiet,

but silence feels

like an endless

echoing

hallway

of smooth

shiny mirrors

that reflect

my ragged

impatience.

I end up growling and roaring

like a beast.

Mamá

Why does my stubborn daughter

bellow and howl each time I tell her

to stop being so loud

and so rude?

I’m just doing my motherly

duty—why can’t she listen to a voice

of sensible reason?

Doesn’t she see that her future

is my future, and little Manuel’s?

Without Tula’s help in achieving

a successful marriage for herself,

no one in this family will ever

possess the sheer power

of great wealth.

Tula

On lonely nights, I remember

my father, who allowed me to read

as much as I wanted.

While he was alive, I felt

like my brother’s equal. I felt human.

I never had to challenge absurd rules

by smashing a glass bookcase,

just to steal a glance

at hidden pages.

Now, when Mamá catches me

with a book in my hands and shards

of glass on my shoes, she sends me

to my silent room, where I spend

quiet hours remembering

the freedom

to read.

Tula

Shortly before my birth, Papá saw

the head of a rebellious slave

paraded on a stake. The poor man’s

hands were nailed to trees; his limbs

tumbled outside

churchyard gates . . .

The sight made Papá furious.

He was a soldier, but he’d learned

to detest violence,

growing ill with sorrow

each time he heard rumors

of warfare.

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

I’ve been the only cook, maid,

seamstress, gardener, and nanny

in this family

for at least a thousand years.

Vaya—oh well, it certainly feels

like a thousand, even if it’s only

thirty or forty. Some years feel

so much longer than others—slower,

deeper, more powerful.

The year when Tula first began

telling me her far-fetched stories

was one of those times.

She was only nine.

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.

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.

Now each glimpse

of a slave girl’s 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 saints’ 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.

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.

Each verse is an arrow

piercing my past—the years

of bondage that prevented me

from learning to read

while I was young.

Tula says it’s never too late,

but I’m old, and I’m so very tired,

and I have too much work . . .

The Nuns

We read all manner of verse and prose

forbidden to other females.

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.

For now, Tula seems content

to roam our peaceful library,

growing breathless

with the excitement

of a youthful mind’s

natural curiosity.

Tula

In a dusty corner

of the convent library,

I discover the banned books

of José María Heredia, a rebel-poet—

an abolitionist and independista

who was forced into exile.

His verses show that he believes

in Cuba’s freedom from Spain,

as well as liberty for slaves.

When I take the verses home

to Caridad, she weeps.

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.

Powerful

instead of weak.

Brave

instead of fearful.

Their words are like wings,

helping me fly away

from this kitchen,

this mop,

these filthy pots and pans,

my endless chores . . .

The Nuns

Heredia’s verses are banned

by the Crown, not the Church,

so we feel free to read them.

We knew him well.

He was already a poet while he

was just a young boy. Some people

are born with words flowing

in their veins.

At fifteen, Heredia wrote a play.

At nineteen, he became a founder

of los Soles y Rayos—the Suns and Rays

of Bolívar, a secret society of poets

and artists who hoped to establish

a democratic nation of equals,

with no masters or slaves,

and one vote per man,

dark or light.

Tula

I will never grow tired

of exploring Heredia’s poetry.

Here is a verse

about being at sea

alone

in a storm.

And here is one about hiking

beside an immense waterfall

called Niágara.

And listen to this poem

about refusing to accept

the existence of slavery

and refusing to see all of nature

as good and beautiful,

with the sole

exception

of human nature.

Caridad

Heredia is pale

and has always been free,

just like Tula.

Somehow, with words

from wild poems

floating

all around me,

I feel certain that words

can be as human

as people,

alive

with the breath

of compassion.

Tula

Whispered words

about the Suns and Rays

continue to fascinate me.

The nuns tell me that Heredia’s

secret society had even designed

a flag—deep blue, with a gold sun

at the center, and a human face

on the sun, to remind us that people

can glow.

Each ray of the round sun

is just a narrow sliver,

but together

all the tiny rays

join to release

a single

enormous

horizon of light.

Tula

Heredia’s poems haunt me.

From my room, I watch the march

of chained slave children

as they pass beyond

the carved

wooden bars

of my window.

In the kitchen, I listen

to the knife-beat

spoon-beat

pounding

songs

of Caridad.

Then I eat my guilty dinner,

wondering how many slaves

Mamá will buy with the money

she gains by marrying me to

the highest bidder.

Tula

At night, the view

from my window changes.

Horses gallop

along the cobblestones.

There are gunshots

and screams.

Will there be another

rebellion

with heads

paraded on stakes

and hands

nailed to trees?

Tula

When no one is watching,

I carry a basket of fruit

on my head, just to find out

how it feels to need

balance.

I chop an onion.

Stir a soup.

Sweep a floor.

Frown.

Then I fill the air of the garden

with Heredia’s floating rhymes,

and soon I’m reciting a few poems

of my own, while Caridad

listens

beneath the silent

moon and stars.

Tula

Visions! The night is filled

with fierce spirits and gentle ones.

Invisible beings spin and moan.

Floor, ceiling, and walls

whisper, wail, and shout . . .

Phantoms beg me to transform

my strange dreams

into stories.

Words burst

and fly

past trees

in the garden.

I rise up out of a nightmare

and grasp a feather pen,

feeling winged.

Manuel

Feather pens, flowing ink,

and weightless paper

all mean

nothing at all to me.

So I give them away

to my sister, who claims

she feels trapped

and can free herself only

with words.

Tula

When we visit my grandfather

on his sugar plantation,

I see how luxurious

my mother’s childhood

must have been,

surrounded by beautiful

emerald green sugar fields

harvested

by row after row

of sweating slaves.

How can one place

be so lovely

and so sorrowful

all at the same time?

Tula

My grandfather speaks

of the various noblemen

he might select for me

next year, when I reach

the dreaded age

of fourteen.

Twice, my mother defied her father

in order to marry for love, but now

she expects me to regain her place

in my grandfather’s will

by marrying a stranger

in exchange

for gold.

Tula

On our last day in the countryside,

my grandfather gives me a cruel gift:

a yellow songbird

flapping helplessly

inside a delicate

bamboo cage.

The captive bird’s

graceful wings

are useless.

All it can do is flutter

and sing.

Tula

My pen is empty.

I cannot write.

All I do is watch

my caged goldfinch

and listen to his brave

little song.

I have discovered injustice,

but what good is a witness

who cannot testify?

I am silent.

Useless.

My voice

has vanished.

Will I ever learn how to sing

on paper?

Tula

My indoor world of walls

grows so quiet that I have to create

my own noise.

I recite Heredia’s poems of justice

out loud.

Mamá calls me a land of extremes.

My stepfather covers his ears.

Do they imagine that I enjoy

swaying back and forth

between moods of flame

and ice?

If only I could be calm, like my bird,

who waits all night for morning sun.

If only I could be

someone else.

Tula

Opinions.

Ideas.

Possibilities.

So many!

How can I choose?

Between bursts

of lightning-swift energy,

I enjoy peaceful moments

when the whole world

seems to be a flowing river

of verse

and all I have to do is learn

how to swim.

During those times,

I find it so easy to forget

that I’m just a girl who is expected

to live

without thoughts.

Tula

I speak my mind, and then

I have to apologize to Mamá

over and over, always the same

sincere apology. I really am sorry,

so sorry that I am not

the sort of daughter

my mother can love.

When she catches me writing,

she calls me sinful, loca—crazy—

a manly girl, a madwoman,

monstrous . . .

She warns me that no rich man

will ever fall in love with a girl

who loves books, but I don’t care.

I will never marry a man

who thinks girls

should be

stupid.

The Nuns

Tula comes to us

with her dilemma.

Her choices

are narrow.

In a mother’s eyes,

she can be only

a monster of defiance

or an angel of obedience,

nothing

in between.

So we send her to the library,

a safe place to heal

and dream . . .

Tula

Each time I read the freedom verses

of Heredia, I become more and more

aware of poor old Caridad’s

horrifying youth.

She was a slave.

She belonged to my family.

There is nothing I can do

to give back those lost years,

but I do have a voice.

I can speak of her

sorrows

on paper.

Tula

I study verses with a drumbeat rhythm

like pounding music.

Other poems are sea waves, calm

and soothing.

Just as often, poetry is a free

dance

of birds in air

swooping

and dipping

in surprising

directions.

I discover a mystery

in each verse;

the stillness

between words.

Tula

Counted lines of sorrow for a sonnet.

Rapidly rhymed beats of fury.

My own verses soon flow,

shrieking and groaning

from my smuggled pen.

I walk with empty hands,

letting the rhythm of footsteps

turn into silence or bird song—

I never know which to expect.

Time and distance vanish.

I feel lopsided

like a tree that reaches

toward sunlight

rising from a rooted forest

of buried truths.

I feel the mysterious power

of growth.

Tula

When I ask Caridad

about her childhood,

she will not answer.

It is as if she owns

a hidden gift

that she refuses

to share.

I can’t really blame her.

I imagine that in her place,

I would keep my own outraged

treasury of secrets.

Just think how many

papery secrets

I already own.

Tula

Am I crazy, foolish, confused?

Do any of my poems make sense?

I burn my verses in the same oven

where Caridad bakes spicy cakes

before decorating them with sweet

coconut frosting.

My brother gives me more of his

enchanted paper, but I tell him

the magic has vanished.

The kitchen air grows thick

with soot and smoke, the remains

of my words inhaled as we breathe

the ashes of my poems.

I don’t know how to destroy

the invisible part

of a verse.

The Nuns

We seek a way to cheer Tula.

Caring for others would help her

forget her own troubles,

so we remind her

that treating other people

the way she hopes to be treated

is God’s golden rule.

Soon she is dreaming

of a thousand ways to help

beggars, lepers, the blind . . .

But her most original idea

is the one she finally chooses,

an entertaining and educational

theater

for orphans.

Tula

Silenced.

Censored.

Ignored.

Home is a place

of mute limitations,

but at the convent orphanage,

far from my mother,

I can shout

and sing!

Here, no one calls me “professor”

when I quote a wise poem, or “atheist”

if I question

traditional ways.

In the company of orphans,

I feel free of my family’s

impossible

expectations.

Tula

Manuel is my chaperone,

walking me back and forth

to the orphanage. Without a brother

to escort me, I would truly feel

imprisoned.

I’m glad that I’m not

a real orphan, and I do love my mother,

I do, but I wish she could understand

my despair.

Why can’t she see that no two people

are exactly alike? Our hearts and minds

are all different.

Only our dreams share

this same desperate need

to rise

and soar . . .

Tula

At the orphan theater, my plays

about evil vampires and heroic giants

are not considered suitable

by the nuns, who must endure

their own mute limitations.

So I learn to write quiet scenes

about ordinary places and real people.

Even without fantasy, my words

grow and change

into something

truly inventive

because here, all the actors

are lonely children

who know how to create

their own magic.

Tula

At home, I sing and hum,

preparing for the next day’s

rehearsal.

In the kitchen, Caridad’s cakes

bring memories of the way

I used to cook with her

when I was little.

Mamá expected a solemn kitchen,

but Caridad let me sing

while I stirred.

When the cakes were done,

we both ate our fill, but the cook

and I

had to sit at separate tables

in different rooms.

Caridad

When I was young,

I ran away

over and over

but slave hunters

always caught me

and brought me back

to this house.

Now, when Tula asks why

I stayed here after her father

finally freed me,

I have no answer,

just the memory

of fear.

Tula

Poetry is all I have to give.

I don’t know any other way

to help.

Even though Caridad

is busy in the kitchen,

I feel certain

that she listens

as she swirls

her copper spoon

through a bubbling stew.

Words find their own way

into the shared rhythms

of our separate lives.

Tula

I continue to dream up my own

set of rules—for life, for poetry,

for the orphan theater.

In my plays, all are equal.

Each orphan receives

a speaking role,

because every child

has a voice that must be heard,

even if adults only listen

while children are perched

on a stiff wooden stage,

chirping like new-hatched birds

that have not yet learned

how to sing.

The Orphans

Tula’s theater is merciful.

It helps us forget who we are.

We stitch costumes of scraps,

decorated with beads

of laughter.

We paint wooden sunsets

and the false fronts

of imaginary houses.

Each swoop of a paintbrush

turns into our own magical

dance

of celebration.

Tula

The orphans speak

in unique ways,

no two alike.

Some use silence,

the visible language

of brooding eyes.

Others dream up new words

born of boredom or humor.

The shy ones offer nothing

but shrugs and gestures,

a ballet

of graceful hands.

My own voice bursts like an ember,

releasing wild sparks

of surprise.

Manuel

At home in the shadowy garden,

my sister performs a secret play—

a dangerous one—El campesino

espantado (The frightened

country boy), written by Heredia

when he was only fifteen.

It’s a funny play, yet serious too,

the tale of a farm boy who visits

a crowded city. When a coachman

wants payment for a carriage ride,

the country boy is shocked,

because he is accustomed to

wagon rides that are freely given

by lonely farmers, who are eager

to chat on and on about cows,

chickens, weather, and the phases

of the mysterious moon.

In the city, the country boy

tries to help a runaway slave,

but his efforts fail, and both he

and the slave are hunted

and punished.

Later, the country boy is robbed

and falsely accused of murder.

In the end, he returns to his farm,

where all the snorting, clucking,

bleating animals

make so much more sense

than people.

The play is clearly a tale

of injustice. I fear for my sister

and for our whole family. If Tula

is caught reciting the rebel-poems

of Heredia, will we all

be arrested

and tortured?

Caridad

After the final meal of the day,

I sit on a bench in the garden,

where my thoughts

are my own

until Tula’s young voice

invades them.

While I listen to her play-acted

tales of injustice, I begin to feel

that maybe I should run free

just one more time

before this entire household

is punished.

Tula

I’m tired of being told

that my feelings are too wild.

I argue with Manuel when he says

I’m too bold. Why shouldn’t

hilarious scenes make me dizzy

with laughter, unfair ones hurl me

into a rage, and sad ones fill me

with grief for the imagined

suffering

of fictional characters?

I can’t help plunging

into the heart of each line

just as thoroughly

as if all the dreams

and disappointments

were my own.

The Orphans

We feel transformed.

Each word of each play

helps us imagine

distant lives.

Scenes that make the nuns cry

leave us smiling behind our

veiled curtain

of wishes.

We long to try new tales,

even the forbidden ones

about giants and vampires

with unnatural skills.

We are always eager to play

any role that contains

Tula’s magic.

Tula

I long to write like Heredia,

but what do I know of great cities

and the wide lives

of men?

I cannot write panoramas

of history—my narrow view

is framed by rigid window bars

and the songs of one tiny

caged bird.

I’m just a silenced girl.

My stories are simple tales

of emotion.

Will my words always be

glowing coals

instead of leaping

flames?

Tula

There is an opening

in the orphanage wall.

On a revolving wooden shelf,

gifts from the outside world

are received.

Each time the shelf spins,

I rush to see the surprises.

Townsfolk donate cakes, coins,

and clothing—small gifts that twirl

into this isolated orphanage

from beyond the high wall

of carved stone.

One day, the spinning shelf screams

and I’m the first to arrive. I discover

an infant, squirming

and squalling

on the polished circle

of time-smoothed wood.

The shrieking baby’s arrival

is eerie. It seems unnatural,

until I peer through the gap

in the wall and see a girl

around my own age.

She is elegantly dressed,

but she weeps like a beggar

as she rushes away.

When she glances back

over her silk-clad shoulder,

her face is as pale

as a cloud.

She lifts a finger to her lips,

and I understand that she

is asking me to keep a secret.

She has abandoned her own

newborn infant.

Why? How?

Tula

I seize the baby and hold him close.

He falls silent, breathing against me.

When I gaze down at his black eyes

and warm cinnamon-hued skin,

I can hear a story unfolding . . .

The mother looked Spanish.

The father must be African.

This child was abandoned

simply because

he is brown.

The Nuns

Now that Tula knows

why most of the orphans

are given to us, she is desolate.

How can it be?

She wants to know

if the baby’s parents are in love.

Is the father a freed man or a slave?

She asks the same questions

over and over,

and we give the same answer,

our true one—

we don’t know.

All we know

is that most of the orphans we care for

are not really orphans, but children

with living parents who reject them

out of ignorant fear.

So many people

have not yet learned

that souls have no color

and can never

be owned.

Tula

Where can I put this mountain

of grief

and rage?

Sadness needs a papery home,

but my borrowed feather pen

is not skillful enough

to tell such a horrible

true tale.

It is a story far more monstrous

than any gruesome legend

of vampires

or werewolves.

Tula

With the moon as my audience,

I whisper the tragedy

of abandoned babies

in every form I can imagine—

rhymed and free verse,

a story, an essay, a play . . .

But my words are never

strong enough

or public enough

to bring justice

for brown orphans.

If I ever find the courage

to reveal their secret openly,

will readers be brave enough

to listen

and care?

Tula

The only thing I can change

is myself. There is no way to alter

the orphans’ loss, or my own

sorrowful home.

Fourteen is such a cruel birthday.

My mother and grandfather

are already planning

to auction me away

to the highest-bidding

rich man.

Mamá

The older Tula grows,

the more outcast she feels,

complaining that I permit her only

to spend time with her little brother.

She insists that she needs friends,

so I invite her cousin Rosa

and an acquaintance named Lola,

so that all three girls can laugh, sing,

play the piano, and practice

flirtatious dance steps.

When I hear the girls whispering

and giggling, I feel a burst of relief,

knowing there is still a chance

that my strange daughter

might turn out to be

normal.

Tula

The human mind is a garden.

Stories are tiny seeds that grow,

yet each evening, we inhale the ash

from my charred forest of pages.

Burning the poems—and pretending

that I’ve lost all interest in books—

is the only way to keep peace

in my mother’s angry presence.

Now, when she calls me profesora,

I smile and claim that I am not smart

and plain, like a female professor.

If she calls me masculine, I wear

my best lace, flutter a flowery silk fan,

and keep myself silent, wishing

that I could openly state my truth:

I don’t want to be a man,

just a woman

with a voice.

Manuel

Some of Tula’s verses don’t rhyme,

and there are oddly paired images:

butterflies in cemeteries,

and swans that float

on lakes of sadness . . .

Tula writes about equality

for slaves

and equality

for women.

When she writes about love,

her words are knives that pierce

my future. If women gain the freedom

to choose their own husbands,

will any pretty girl ever

choose me?

Caridad

Freely.

Part of life.

Secret words.

Give.

Future.

Lively.

Love.

Equality.

The slivers of talk I overhear

in this smoky kitchen

are just as sour-sweet

as the peel of an orange

left behind, after everyone else

has eaten.

I stay where I am for a long time,

nibbling the harsh fruit,

tasting the ashes

of poems.

Mamá

I have not forgotten how it feels

to be fourteen

and lonely,

so I must speak to my father soon,

very soon.

Tula needs a wealthy husband

now,

right now,

before she tries to choose her own,

the way I did, without any regard

for her family’s

finances.

Tula

I feel at home, choosing to live

inside my own imagination,

savage

and natural,

yet I also long to be honest

about my desire

to love

and be loved.

Am I an unearthly creature,

part vampire, part werewolf?

Or perhaps, as Mamá accuses,

poetry is my beastly mind’s

only curse.

Mamá

Honest, kind, and courageous.

Those are the charming qualities

Tula begs her grandfather to choose

when he selects her husband.

But he has already decided.

He’s promised Tula’s hand

to the most powerful man in town,

a rich merchant who won’t refuse

such a beautiful young wife,

along with the generous dowry

my father offers in exchange

for the tidy arrangement.

My two love-marriages are proof

that romance alone cannot buy joy.

My first husband died too soon,

and the second spends all his time

far from home, as if to avoid Tula’s

unhappiness, and my own.

Tula

The sun is a ghost.

My feelings are phantoms.

Suddenly, I am engaged

to a stranger.

No natural words

are enormous enough

to describe the gigantic sky

where I would escape

if I could fly.

I strive to imagine

that my profitable marriage

will turn out to be romantic—

an adventure, not a business deal,

not this hard, metallic,

commercial transfer

of female

merchandise.

The Nuns

Tula comes to us with her sorrow,

but this time we cannot help her.

If everyone obeyed God’s golden rule,

then young girls would be the ones

to choose suitably greedy wives

for arrogant old men.

How swiftly the laws

about marriage

would change!

But this rough world prefers

laws soaked in dirt, not airy ones

drenched in clear light.

Tula

Today I released

my caged goldfinch.

Mamá scolded me bitterly,

but I do not care, because today

one small, winged creature

has finally learned

how to fly!

As I gaze up at glowing sun rays,

I wonder how long it will be

until I grow brave enough

to follow

the little bird’s

soaring

pathway . . .

Tula

Do free birds and beasts

ever lie awake, troubled

by questions of justice?

At bedtime, I struggle

to stop thinking

of bondage and liberty,

cruelty and kindness,

wrong and right . . .

but fierce cries

and clattering hoofbeats

from the cobblestone street

beyond my barred window

rattle into my mind

like drumbeats of wildly

pounding questions.

I am engaged to a slave owner.

How does he treat his slaves,

and how will he treat a newly

purchased wife?

Caridad

Tula joins me, and we sit

in the smoky kitchen,

murmuring questions

without answers.

Will the rebels ever win?

Is it possible that someday

slaves will be free,

and kings

will vanish,

and everyone will vote,

even women?

Tula

Secret conversations

with Caridad

leave me feeling hopeful.

But after the rebels have once again

been defeated, I slip back down

to my usual

gloomy thoughts,

followed by music and noise

with Rosa and Lola—parties, dances,

and strolls around the plaza . . .

but what use are the admiring gazes

of gallant young men when I’m already

promised

to a stranger?

Tula

Boys lose interest in me

once they hear my modern

opinions. I need to spend time

with people who agree with me

about freedom for all—books

can no longer be my only portals.

Manuel, always curious, helps me

venture along narrow alleyways

to secret tertulias—banned meetings

where rebel-poets recite their own

dangerous verses, along with

the smuggled poetry of Heredia,

brave, forbidden poems,

powerful ones, verses that burst

with possibilities.

Will I ever be bold enough

to read my own rhymes out loud,

in public?

Manuel

I risk my life for Tula’s love

of verse.

Heredia is not just an abolitionist,

but an independista, promoting

the independence of Cuba.

My sister and I could be charged

with treason—arrest, torture,

exile, even execution . . .

We risk everything,

all for the crime of listening

to poems.

But Heredia has influenced me

as much as Tula. Lacking her talent

for flowery words, I hope to work

in some other way as a champion

of the twin causes—freedom

for slaves, and freedom

from kings.

Tula has a third cause,

all her own. No one agrees,

not even the rebels.

If women could choose

their own husbands,

and vote, and be elected,

wouldn’t their sweet natures

grow just as rude and unruly

as men’s?

Tula

My life is a balancing act

as dangerous as any carnival

performance. I roam back and forth

between banned poetry readings,

elegant parties, Caridad’s kitchen,

the nuns’ library, and my own

exhilarating orphan theater.

With my thoughts forced into secrecy,

I have entered a phase of legends.

The orphans perform plays inspired

by folktales—such a wonderful

way to hide

my true meanings!

There is one tale about

an ugly vulture with a kind heart,

and another about a tiny rabbit

who dreams of growing up to be

as strong and brave

as a lion,

and there is the wistful tale

of an earthbound turtle

who believes he can learn

how to fly.

Perhaps I’m as foolish

as that clumsy old turtle,

but I do believe that someday

silenced words

will rise

and glide.

The Orphans

Tula’s legends about snakes

terrify us. A huge serpent chants

lullabies so sweet that birds in flight

fall asleep and tumble down

from the sky.

Yet somehow, at the same time,

that same legend also satisfies us,

because in the end, the snake

is transformed

into a skinny

palm tree

with no

voice

at all.

In Tula’s legends, gentle creatures

are always rewarded by speaking,

while cruel ones are punished

with silence.

Tula

I think of my feather pen

as something magical

that still belongs

to a wing.

All I need

is paper, ink,

and the courage

to let wild words soar.

Caridad

Tula performs her secret plays

in the garden, just for me.

The words are so quiet

that I have to listen

with all my heart—

not just my ears.

The tale of the turtle

is my favorite.

If such a slow, awkward creature

can hope to grow swift wings,

then I can at least try to move

my own two weary

human legs.

Tula

Caridad is gone! She quit her job

and fled without a farewell, leaving

nothing but a wordless

mist of hope.

Mamá falls into a rage, blaming me,

just as she blames me for so much—

her nerves, her headaches, her fear

that I will gain such a bold reputation

that the fiancé I’ve never seen

will reject me before

our first meeting.

None of that matters.

All I can think of is dear Caridad

in bright air,

soaring!

Mamá

My selfish daughter’s punishment

for talking nonsense to the old cook

will be cooking.

As soon as Tula marries, her husband

will have to buy me a new cook,

two maids, a gardener, a fine

team of horses, a coachman,

and a stable boy . . .

In the meantime, let Tula

stew beans and scrub pots.

Maybe the grit and filth of a kitchen

will remind her that food, firewood,

and a respectable place

in society

are not free.

Caridad

I do not know where I’ll go,

but I do know that words

helped me flee. My name

has always meant “charity,”

such a common name for slaves,

who receive

no charity at all.

But I did—first I received

freedom papers, and now,

so late in life, I’ve received

this winged-turtle liberty

of the mind,

a freedom so huge that it can never

be crowded onto anything as small

and fragile

as a page.

Tula

I seize the kitchen

as my own.

Chop, stir, scribble—

my punishment

is a blessing of privacy.

Mamá hardly ever steps into

the smoke, so I feel free

to keep my new pages,

instead of feeding them

to hungry flames.

When I ask my brother for help,

he agrees to hide my words in his room.

If Mamá finds the bundles of paper,

Manuel can pretend that my legends

are his. No one ever objects

to strange tales written

by a boy.

Tula

Caridad’s act of independence

inspires me, just as my turtle tale

influenced her.

When I finally meet the gentleman

I’m expected to marry, he speaks

of nothing but mansions and jewels,

promising that we will travel to Paris,

attend dances, wear furs . . .

I smile politely, but a secret verse

grows in my mind, telling me to run,

join the nuns, flee to the library,

open my own book-shaped portal

to an imaginary world

of freedom

and fairness.

Tula

My wedding day is still many

long months away, so I shove all fear

out of my mind, determined to enjoy

my new cooking duties, as well as

the library, orphanage, poetry,

and friendly visits

with Rosa and Lola.

Every day, I imagine the true love

that my two girlfriends discuss

with such joy, yet I have no idea

what the word amor really means.

When Rosa introduces me to a boy

called Loynaz, I imagine that we

are in love.

Sweaty hands. Tumbling heartbeats.

Trembling voices.

If this is amor, then why

does it feel

just as troubling

as a simple case

of youthful

shyness?

Friendship—that is all I want

from Loynaz. All these other

turbulent feelings are too

mysterious. I’m too young

for love, too confused

for marriage.

Tula

Lola has eloped!

Rosa blames me for daring

to speak in praise of a future

when women will be able

to choose marriages

based on love.

I don’t care

if I’m blamed.

One more caged bird

has escaped.

Lola is pale and her husband

is dark, but love has no limits—

of that much

I feel certain.

Tula

Rosa is so envious that she chooses

to betray my trust.

Like a spy, she takes her vicious gossip

to Mamá, reporting my harmless

flirtations with Loynaz.

I am accused

of improper behavior.

Rosa has transformed

our friendship

into cruelty.

Now she is suddenly

engaged to Loynaz,

while I must face Mamá’s

fury.

Tula

My punishment

is drastic.

The marriage

will be rushed.

Only ninety days

of freedom

remain.

Ninety days.

Nothing.

No one

can help me.

I am

lost.

Tula

I can’t do it.

I won’t pretend

to love

a stranger.

I will not marry

a bank account

instead of

a human.

Mamá

My daughter is a clever girl,

but she is selfish and thinks only

of her own fantasies.

She has made such a show of flirting

with a boy who has nothing at all

to offer—no money, no property,

no fame.

As soon as Tula is profitably married,

her wild tantrums, these ridiculous pleas

for freedom,

will end.

All our lives will be peaceful

and prosperous.

Tula

I am alone

and my heart

is my own.

Loneliness.

Solitude.

The first is a curse,

the second a blessing.

I would rather be a hermit

than live with a stranger

who would make me feel

even more lonely

than when I am

truly

alone.

Tula

Monster!

Bookworm!

Unnatural!

Professor!

Genius!

Atheist!

The insults my mother screeches

have no limit.

Atheist? No. Love is God’s

boldest creation.

Surely, angels on clouds

must gaze down and smile

each time a girl on earth

refuses a marriage

based on love’s

absence.

Tula

The punishment for shunning

a forced marriage is being shunned.

Mamá sends me to live as a prisoner,

trapped in my grandfather’s

fine marble mansion

on his lush green plantation,

surrounded by sugar

and slaves.

I am fifteen now, old enough

to know my own mind,

but my stern old abuelito

still treats me like a child,

or a monster.

He scolds and screams

until I long to die,

and then, suddenly,

after three months

of hateful insults

and endless arguments,

his raging heart fails,

and I am left feeling

truly monstrous.

I loved him, in the angry way

of young girls who love their families,

no matter how oppressive, no matter

how maddening.

Now I really do feel like la loca,

the crazy girl, a madwoman,

just as Mamá and abuelito accused.

At the funeral, I remain quiet

in my mother’s infuriated presence.

She blames me for her father’s death,

and even though I do feel shamefully

responsible for arguing, I also feel

absolutely certain

that my grandfather’s angry heart

was his own.

Tula

At the reading of the will,

my mother learns that she has lost

her entire inheritance, and this time,

the loss really is my fault.

Houses, farms, gold—everything

will go to an uncle, simply because

I refused to be sold.

From beyond the grave,

my grandfather continues

to punish my mother

for defying him

so many years ago.

I try to feel sympathy for her,

but secretly, I’m so relieved

that I will never inherit sugar

and slaves.

Tula

Banished.

Outcast.

Rejected.

Forever.

Mamá won’t allow me to come home.

She tells me to stay in the countryside

and rest. She thinks I’m hysterical.

She believes that I’m mad.

Why can’t she see that I am

the sane one, and it’s only

the bizarre rules of society

that are crazy?

My uncle, the new master

of this farm, is indifferent

to my presence, so I dwell

like a fairy-tale princess

in a palace, surrounded

by luxuries and caged

human lives.

Tula

The horror keeps me awake.

Even the house slaves fear me.

Cooks and maids never speak to me.

No one notices that I am not the one

who wields whips

and chains.

I cannot rest. I cannot write.

If my own unhappiness

could magically bring

my grandfather

back to life,

I would swiftly agree

to a future of married

misery.

Tula

When my gloating uncle leaves

to claim his other new properties,

I dare to explore the mansion.

Most of the rooms contain treasure:

books, paper, ink, pens . . .

Solitude.

Serenity.

It’s no use—

I can’t write;

I need to roam.

For the first time in my life,

I’ve been released from the walls

that trap women.

Alone, I venture outdoors, wandering

along muddy pathways, beside a river

so peaceful that I dream, and then

I swim . . .

Forests, coffee groves, guava thickets,

mango orchards. So much beauty,

so much life! Honeybee hives,

hummingbird nests, pink flamingos

and green parrots, a giant woodpecker

with a smooth ivory bill—each sight

is a marvel that deserves its own poem,

but all I can do is look and listen,

feeling serenaded by sound

and drenched in color

as I gather my skirts

to run freely

beneath wild flocks

of huge red macaws.

Has sunlight always

been this bright,

or were my mind

and my eyes

asleep?

Tula

My uncle stays far away,

leaving the mansion’s inhabitants

uncertain. Cooks and maids grow

more confident, offering their names

and their stories.

They seem to know that I’m not

the proper lady I was trained

to be, but a half-wild creature,

a throwback to some other,

more natural time and place.

I perform plays, recite poems,

and then let my audience go about

their daily routines, without

any rules

made by me.

I want to tell all the slaves

that they are free to leave,

but I have

no authority.

A few flee at night,

while overseers are sleeping,

but most stay, convinced

that sooner or later

my uncle will return

and send slave hunters

to chop off the feet of captives

who’ve shown that they know

how to run.

Sometimes, fear

is the most powerful

weapon.

Tula

I leave the sad mansion

to roam tangled jungles,

tranquil orchards, dark caves,

and my own silent fear

of never knowing

how to live

in a world

where I don’t belong.

Nature is a sanctuary. Wilderness

invites me. All I need is this leafy

green

pathway

toward truth . . .

but each time I go back to the house

that I can never think of as home,

I feel jolted by the sight of girls

my own age, scarred by whips

instead of words.

Tula

So many of the babies

on this plantation

are brown.

In the city, they would be orphans,

but here, they stay with their mothers.

When my grandfather was young

and strong, did he rule

like a brutal king?

Are any of the slaves

in the sugar fields

my relatives?

Tula

Disturbed and desolate,

I roam country roads

crowded with wanderers—

muleteers and musicians,

vendors, herders, hunters,

and traveling magicians,

all singing their rhythmic

wayfaring songs.

I dream of fleeing to Havana,

the biggest city on the island,

where I could work as a tutor,

earn my own money, travel,

see Niagara Falls,

meet Heredia . . .

Tula

One morning, on a green hill

beside a forest, an old woman

leans from the open doorway

of her raggedly thatched hut.

She calls out, inviting me

to share her dinner

and a story.

The meal is just yams and corn,

but her tale is a familiar legend

that seems to spring from the roots

of my own life: Once there was a king

who kept his son hidden in a tree

so that the prince could never

meet a girl and risk

the heartbreak of love.

Birds taught the tree-boy

their language of songs.

A hawk showed the prince

how to hunt, owls offered lessons

in wisdom, parrots taught the art

of cheerfulness, and doves spoke

of love. One day, all the birds

joined together

and lifted the tree-boy,

flying with him balanced

between their wings.

They flew and flew, until finally

they reached a far kingdom,

where they dropped the prince

onto a treetop. There, a beautiful

young princess lived in isolation

because her father, too, imagined

that young people can be protected

from the pain of finding

and losing

love.

Tula

The old woman’s tale

of lonely tree-children

stays with me until gradually,

day after day, the storyteller’s

friendly hut becomes my refuge.

It is also my inspiration.

I gather the old woman’s stories

like sour green fruits that can be eaten

later, once their sweetness has grown

full and ripe.

Other wanderers come to the hut

for tales and companionship.

I meet farmers with sun-withered skin,

children with bright, eager eyes,

and Sab—the storyteller’s godson,

a half-African freed slave,

flame-scarred

and troubled.

Sab

My name is Bernabé, but ever since

I ran into a fiery hut to rescue

a burning child, everyone calls me Sab,

from saber—“to know.” People seem

to imagine that my scars

give me wisdom.

I am not a storyteller,

but I will tell you about my life,

so that you and the other wanderers

who visit my godmother

will understand

and believe

the powerful nature

of love.

I was raised along with my owner’s

daughter, Carlota, who taught me

how to read, and how to dream

of a normal future together,

dark and light joined forever,

without any hatred, sadness,

or fear.

We were inseparable.

We were happy. We promised

that someday we would marry

and have children of our own . . .

but that hopeful age ended

along with childhood’s

shared laughter.

Now we are grown,

and I still love Carlota

with all my heart, but she plans

to marry a gentleman who gallops

around the countryside

on a spirited horse

that makes him

look brave.

After the fire, when Carlota’s father

freed me, he gave me this gentle pony,

and one imperial lottery ticket—see,

it’s a winning ticket, worth a fortune!

Her father gave me instructions, too.

He ordered me to ride all the way

to Havana to claim my prize,

enough gold to buy a house

and a business, in that rich city

where freed slaves flourish

like vines.

He told me to ride far away

and never return to this valley.

He imagined that wealth could cure

my lovesickness, but he’s wrong.

They’re all wrong, the greedy fools

who believe that an absence of love

can be purchased.

Tula

Sab’s tale of rejection

by his childhood sweetheart

is so emotional that I feel

both anger and envy.

I long for love, yet Carlota

has sent her true love away.

Did she stop caring about Sab

merely because his skin is brown

or because his face is scarred?

But what do I know of loyalty?

All I’ve seen of love is the daydream

described in romantic novels.

What about reality? It’s never

as simple as a fantasy. Is there

any way for Sab’s tale of loss

to end

hopefully?

Tula

During my next visit

to the storyteller’s hut,

I meet Carlota and her gallant

gentleman—she is lovely,

and he is so handsome

that I find myself imagining

I am the fortunate girl on his arm,

ready to travel with him to Paris

and Madrid, where we could visit

salons and I would have a chance

to meet Europe’s great poets . . .

Swept away by fantasy,

I convince myself that any man

who is charming must also be honest

and courageous, a hero of justice

like Heredia.

Sab

I have planted a moonlight garden

for Carlota.

All the flowers bloom only

at night.

While she is lost

in sleep,

the fragrance of jasmine

and angel’s trumpet

will blossom

and flow

up to her window

into her dreams,

helping her dream

of love.

Tula

I’ve been transformed

into a messenger. Sab has asked me

to carry heartfelt love notes.

In the first passionate letter,

he begs Carlota to wake up

and gaze at her moonlit garden

of night-blooming magic . . .

but her blunt reply is a series

of commands: Go. Flee. Never

try to visit me again. Send no more

flowery notes. Forget our friendship.

We were just children.

It was not love.

Sab

Instead of another doomed note,

this time I send a bracelet

woven

of my own hair,

to remind Carlota

how it felt

when our two small heads

touched

and all the rest

of this vast

spinning world

seemed so distant

and powerless.

Tula

My role as a messenger feels

oddly familiar. I am like Manuel,

a smuggler of words, as I sneak

back and forth, followed

by Leal—“Loyal”—a little dog

who chooses to regard me

as his friend, even though

he belongs to the storyteller.

Instead of answering Sab’s woven plea,

Carlota confides in me, sharing anxieties.

Her father recently placed all his wealth

into a risky investment, and now he is

suddenly bankrupt and she is poor,

and the gentleman Carlota loves

turns out to be greedy.

As soon as he heard the news

of her family’s misfortune,

he told her that he no longer

has any interest

in marrying her.

Foolish Carlota is unwilling

to forget him,

just as Sab is unable

to forget her.

Why did I ever imagine

that love

could be simple?

Sab

I envy my little horse.

He never despairs.

He does not care

if I feel sadness

or joy.

He carries me

without questions,

treating me

like his friend,

instead of a burden.

I envy the trees

that grow

at crossroads.

They are never

forced

to decide

which way

to go . . .

Tula

How could I ever

have pictured myself

in love with Carlota’s

greedy gentleman?

There is nothing gentle

about a selfish passion

for money.

Sab is the only man

I have ever known

who shares my dreams

and my nature.

Sab is the only one

I can truly love

forever.

Sab

There is a vast cave

near the storyteller’s hut—a huge,

mysterious chain of caverns

where her Ciboney Indian

ancestors

lived long ago.

Weighed down by my visions

of an unhappy future, I wander

through the maze of caves,

with only a small candle

to light my way.

One chamber resembles a palace

carved from sapphires

and diamonds.

In another chamber,

ancient people left bright

red and black paintings

of frogs and birds

on water-smoothed walls.

In some chambers, jagged crystals

are shaped like heads and hands,

as if spirits

had turned to stone.

Beyond the eleventh chamber,

no one has ever ventured.

It is said to be the jaw

of hell.

I peer into the gloom, then turn

and make my way back outdoors,

to a sunlit moment

of decision.

I will ask Tula to marry the man

who is loved by Carlota, leaving

my sweetheart free to remember

that she once loved me.

Tula

No brilliant playwright

could ever have imagined

a more ironic

and devastating scene.

Just after I realize that I’ve fallen

in love with Sab, he asks me

to marry

someone else.

My answer will have to shatter

his scarred heart

along with my broken one.

If it’s true—as the old storyteller

promises—that souls can rise and soar

in dreams, then I must be a night-flying

bird with clipped wings. Will I ever

be brave enough to sing

in sunlight?

Sab

Tula has refused to marry

the man on the spirited horse.

She calls my request horrible,

insisting that marriage

without love

is just one more

twisted

form

of slavery.

She is right.

I am human.

Tula

We carry our tangled emotions

to the storyteller, whose age gives

the wisdom of experience,

but in place of clear advice,

Sab’s godmother gives us

a parable, a story

about a house filled

with mirrors.

By the time her tale ends,

Sab and I both understand

that we are living reflections

of each other’s

freedom dreams.

Sab

When I asked Tula to marry

the gallant gentleman,

I imagined that she loved

no one,

but my godmother’s tale

of mirrors

helps me see that Tula

loves me

and I have been

cruel,

just as Carlota is cruel

to me.

Tula

Love is as tricky as a wall

of mirrors that make

narrow hallways

seem open

and wide.

Sab is startled when I invite him

to marry me, but I must admit

that I am not completely

surprised

by how readily

he refuses me.

His devotion to a childhood love

is as much a part of his goodness

as the courage that sent him

running through flames

to save

a burning child.

Sab

If I could love Tula,

I would.

But love

is a wildly

unpredictable

hurricane wind,

not a swirling

blue ocean

with peaceful

shores.

Tula

There was a time

just a few hours ago

when I felt breathless

with hope

for a future with Sab,

but now I feel smothered

by grief.

I miss the company

of orphans.

No one else has ever seen me

as I really am—an outcast,

a wanderer, condemned

to explore

the unknown world

of human emotions . . .

Sab

We remain friends,

close companions.

Tula and I agree

that we will never grow bitter,

never see each other as enemies.

If I could have a sister,

I would choose Tula.

If I could plant a garden

with wings, the feathers

would be her wandering

words.

Tula

I long for love’s joy

for myself, but I also wish for Sab’s

true happiness, even though

it means that he will find joy

with someone else.

So, while he dreams

of a thousand ways

to change Carlota’s

rigid mind,

I dream

of a million ways

to change my own

stubborn heart.

Sab

If Carlota’s father’s fortune

was restored, she could marry

her gentleman and she would be

happy.

With no other way to help her

feel joy, I resolve to give her

the only object of value

that I have ever held

in my hand.

This winning lottery ticket

means nothing to me,

but it will mean everything

to Carlota, who longs to regain

her value as a marketable

bride.

Tula

Sab’s plan is both generous

and hideous.

His only joy will grow from knowing

that his childhood love is happy

with someone else.

My own future is tragic, too.

All I can do is give ugly sorrow

a comforting home on paper,

folded

and tucked away—

my hidden treasury

of secrets.

Tula

Perhaps it is true that time

heals love’s wounds,

but for me, poetry

has always been

the swiftest medicine.

Seven long years ago,

unable to stay in the valley

where Sab loved another,

I begged a ride on a caravan

of musicians and rode, swaying

in their brightly painted wagon,

all the way to Havana, as I listened

to the sad-happy lyrics of songs

about love found and lost—

rhymed songs

wrapped

in joyful music.

Tula

Life in this huge, anonymous city

has taught me how to survive

on my own, thinking independently

and earning my own salary

as a tutor.

Plans for a few healing verses

about my turbulent feelings for Sab

have grown into a novel, a whole book—

although I’ve not yet been brave enough

to set the words down on paper.

I carry them around in my

heart and mind

like wild birds

that fly in all directions

without any fear

of being unable to return

to the safety

of a nest.

Tula

City life is a whirl of poetry readings

and forbidden tertulias, gatherings

where young and old, rich and poor,

male and female, dark and light—

runaway slaves and freed ones,

former masters and former

servants—all take turns

sharing secret verses

rooted in startling

new ideas.

Each evening, I go home

with a mind that glows

in the light of words,

which leap

like flames . . .

Tula

After reading a few

of my boldest new verses

in public, I begin to wonder

about the timid past

and the courageous future.

All the orphans I knew are grown

by now, perhaps writing and acting

their own daring parts . . .

But what about Sab—

is he happy?

And how can Carlota

ever be content in a marriage

to a man who loves only

her money?

Manuel

During visits to Havana,

I’m shocked by my sister’s

independence, but also inspired.

If a woman can shed all the whims

of tradition, then so can a man.

So can I.

When Mamá tries to choose

my wife, I’ll defy her . . .

In the meantime, I need to warn Tula

that our mother is already arranging

another profitable engagement

for her.

Tula

My brother’s warning

does not frighten me.

I am twenty-two years old,

and no one can tell me

how to marry.

Last night, at a poetry reading,

soldiers sent the audience scurrying

for safety. I had just glimpsed Caridad

in the crowd, moving toward me,

but she escaped, and I escaped too.

Now I’m convinced that I must

go overseas, to live and write

in exile, like Heredia.

There is no other way to tell

a truthfully balanced tale

of slavery.

Caridad

In Havana, I’ve earned a living

making sweet cakes.

A portion of my baking

goes to a convent, for the orphans,

and a portion of each evening

is given over to poetry, as I listen

while orphans read to me.

I almost had a chance to visit

with Tula and let her know

how much her winged turtle

meant to me.

Even though we could not

speak, I saw her smile.

I think she knows.

Tula

Can a woman ever write

the true thoughts of a man?

Will I be able to show Sab’s

soul on paper?

Can a free person

really understand one whose dreams

must fly up and soar

high above the depths

of slavery?

Is my imagination enough,

or do I need to add the ways

in which I myself

have felt enslaved?

I must be honest, writing myself

into the story, revealing

all my secrets.

Tula

Manuel and I have bought

passage on a ship to Spain,

with a stop in France.

He warns me that Mamá

and our stepfather will be

on the same ship, but I know

that I can avoid their tricks.

I am strong.

People in small boats call out,

then turn and rhythmically row

back to shore. Sailors sing,

while I watch the sea.

With my face to the wind,

I dream of Sab, both the real man

and my novel.

This will not be a book

about the whips and chains

of slavery. It will simply be

a gentle

tale of love.

If the story is seen

as proof that human souls

are transparent and free

of all color, class, and gender,

then I will know

that I have succeeded

in showing how people

are all equal

and should always

be equally

free.

Tula

The novel will have to wait—

this blue sea fills my mind

with poetry.

When a hurricane overtakes

the ship, Manuel and Mamá

flee to their cabins, but I perch

on deck

in a double tempest.

I live at the center of two storms,

one of wind, the other a hurricane

of the spirit, a storm of emotions

that helps me fight back

with strong words

whenever life is unfair

and I feel

powerless.

Tula

Passage across the sea

is long and exhausting,

but I feel so exhilarated!

We’ve arrived at the French

river port of Bordeaux,

and I’ve managed to ignore

my mother’s efforts to talk

about another engagement.

Eager to write about Sab,

I sit at a little desk in a small room

in a hotel called Paz—“Peace.”

I have a feather pen,

and a window

with a view of sky.

What more do I need?

I don’t know how my book

will end.

All I know is that love

is not the modern invention

of rebellious young girls.

Love is ancient.

A legend.

The truth.

Historical Note

The Lightning Dreamer is historical fiction. I have tried to present realistic portraits of Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda and her family, but I have also taken great liberties, imagining many details.

Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda (1814–1873):

Born in Puerto Príncipe (now Camagüey), Cuba, Avellaneda was variously known by her childhood nickname Tula, the pen name La Peregrina (“The Wanderer”), and La Avellaneda. Because her mother regarded reading and writing as unladylike, young Tula wrote stories about giants and vampires in secret, then burned them.

Sab, Carlota, the old storyteller, and the greedy gentleman are actually fictional characters from Avellaneda’s groundbreaking abolitionist novel, Sab. Biographers believe these characters were inspired by real people Avellaneda met at the age of fifteen, when she was sent to a country estate “to rest” after refusing an arranged marriage. I have imagined Avellaneda’s encounters with her own fictional characters, borrowing many aspects from Sab and inventing others.

During her lifetime, Avellaneda was celebrated as one of the world’s most prominent female writers. Known primarily as a poet and playwright, she chose lyrical prose for her boldest work. Written in the romantic, melodramatic style of the time, Sab was one of the world’s first abolitionist novels and the earliest one written in Spanish. Sab is also the only known Latin American abolitionist novel that combines proemancipation views with feminist themes. Banned in Cuba, Sab was published in Spain in 1841, eleven years before the American publication of Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe.

Avellaneda began writing Sab when she was only twenty-two, at the Hotel de la Paz (Hotel of Peace) in Bordeaux, France. The interracial love story in Sab was considered so scandalous that numerous copies were purchased and destroyed by Avellaneda’s relatives in Spain. Despite their efforts to suppress the book, Avellaneda’s brother, Manuel, remained loyal and brave, smuggling her banned books between Spain and Cuba.

Sab became influential throughout Europe and the Americas, inspiring compassion for slaves and for young girls forced to marry strangers. Avellaneda not only believed that slaves should be freed and women should choose their own husbands; she was bold enough to portray interracial marriage and voluntary marriage as completely normal. She felt that regardless of ancestry, all Cubans belonged to a rich cultural blend of Spanish, African, and indigenous Ciboney-Taíno Indian origins. Her conviction that all should be equally proud of every ethnic component of a shared society was an idea so original and courageous that it helped readers question the way they viewed slavery, interracial marriage, and the broader issue of voluntary marriage. By telling a simple love story, Avellaneda conveyed her dream of universal dignity, freedom, and equal rights for men and women of all races.

Avellaneda spent most of her adult life in Spain, where her writing often focused on marriages arranged for profit, a tradition she viewed as the marketing of teenage girls. With essays such as “Capacidad de las mujeres para el gobierno” (Capacity of women for government), she confirmed her role as one of the world’s earliest and most outspoken feminist authors.

While Avellaneda achieved remarkable literary success, her personal life was plagued by tragedy. After refusing two potentially profitable arranged marriages, she was shunned and ridiculed by disappointed relatives. Later, she fell in love with a man who refused to marry her because she was poor and another who abandoned her after she gave birth out of wedlock. She eventually married twice, but her first husband died of illness and the second was stabbed during a duel with a heckler who had tossed a cat onto the stage during a performance of one of her controversial plays.

The greatest disappointment of Avellaneda’s professional life was her exclusion from the all-male Royal Spanish Academy. Without membership, she could not receive the financial benefits granted to male writers. She satirized her rejection as the “Bearded Academy”‘s policy of discrimination against anyone who could not shave.

In 1859, Avellaneda returned to Cuba, where she established a literary magazine for women. In 1864, on her way back to Spain, she visited Niagara Falls in memory of José María Heredia, whose poetry and abolitionist views had inspired her.

During her lifetime, Avellaneda’s ideas were considered shocking, but her clear vision of racial and gender equality was eventually accepted. Cuban slaves were emancipated; public employment and public schools were integrated. Interracial marriage became common throughout the Spanish-speaking Caribbean, now home to one of the world’s most culturally mixed populations. The archaic custom of forcing young girls into financially motivated arrangements was gradually replaced by voluntary marriages based on love.

José María Heredia (1803–1839):

Heredia[1] is regarded as Avellaneda’s mentor, even though they never met. As Cuba’s first Romantic era poet, Heredia paired his abolitionist views with the goal of independence from colonial Spain. He was still a teenager when he became a founder of Los caballeros racionales (“The Rational Gentlemen”), a nonviolent branch of the secret society called Los Soles y Rayos de Bolívar (“The Suns and Rays of Bolívar”). Heredia was forced into exile after he was betrayed by a spy. He escaped from Cuba disguised as a sailor, lived in Boston, wrote poetry at Niagara Falls, taught Spanish in New York, and became a diplomat and judge in Mexico. Known as El homero Cubano (“The Cuban Homer”) or El cantordel Niágara (“The Singer of Niagara”), Heredia inspired later generations of Cuban abolitionists and independence advocates.

The following excerpt from the poem “A Emilia” (“To Emilia”) is representative of Heredia’s work:

. . . bajo el hermoso desnublado cielo

no pude resolverme a ser esclavo,

ni consentir que todo en la natura

fuese noble y feliz, menos el hombre.

. . . under the beautiful clear sky

I could not accept slavery,

nor regard all of nature

as noble and happy, except man.

The Writing of Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda

PROSE:

Excerpts from the abolitionist novel Sab:

¿Quién se acordará de tu color al verte amar tanto y sufrir tanto?

Who will remember your color when they see how greatly you love and suffer?

Los hombres dirán que yo he sido infeliz por mi culpa; porque he soñado los bienes que no estaban en mi esfera, porque he querido mirar al sol, como el águila . . . ¿Es culpa mía si Dios me ha dotado de un corazón y de un alma?

Men will say it is my own fault that I have been unhappy; because I have dreamed of things beyond my reach, because I have longed to gaze on the sun, like an eagle . . . Is it my fault if God has given me a heart and a soul?

¡Oh! ¡Las mujeres! ¡Pobres y ciegas víctimas! Como los esclavos, ellas arrastran pacientemente su cadena y bajan la cabeza bajo el yugo de las leyes humanas.

Oh! Women! Poor blind victims! Like slaves, they stoically drag their chains and lower their heads beneath the yoke of human laws.

POETRY:

Excerpt from “Las contradicciones” (Contradictions):

. . . Ni libre soy, ni la prisión me encierra;

Veo sin luz, sin voz hablar ansío . . .

Busco el peligro cuando auxilio imploro;

Al sentirme morir me encuentro fuerte . . .

. . . I am neither free, nor locked in prison;

I see without light, without a voice I long to speak . . .

I seek danger while pleading for rescue;

Feeling doomed I discover my strength . . .

Excerpt from “A mi jilguero” (To My Goldfinch):

Libertad y amor te falta;

¡libertad y amor te doy!

¡Salta, pajarillo, salta,

que no tu tirana soy!

Salida franca,

ya tienes, mira,

goza, respire . . .

libre eres ya.

You lack liberty and love;

I give you liberty and love!

Leap, little bird, leap,

I am not your tyrant!

A clear exit

is yours, look,

enjoy, breathe . . .

you are already free.

Excerpt from “La noche de insomnio y el alba” (The Night of Insomnia and the Dawn):

Noche

Triste

Viste

Ya,

Aire,

Cielo,

Suelo,

Mar.

Brindándole

Al mundo

Profundo

Solaz,

Derraman

Los sueños

Beleños

De paz.

Sad

Night

Already

You’ve seen

Air,

Sky,

Soil,

Sea.

Offering

To the world

Profound

Solace,

Spilling

Dreams

The potion

Of peace.

Excerpt from “Romance” (Ballad).

Canto porque hay en los seres

Sus condiciones precisas:

Corre el agua, vuela el ave,

Silba el viento, y el Sol brilla.

Canto sin saber yo propia

Lo que el canto significa,

Y si al mundo, que lo escucha,

Asombro o lástima inspira.

I sing because each being

Has its purpose:

Water flows, birds fly,

Wind whistles, and Sun shines.

I sing without knowing

What my song means,

And whether the listening world

Is amazed or wounded.

References

Avellaneda, Gertrudis Gómez de. Cartas ineditas. Madrid: Fundación Madrid, 1975.

———. Poemas. Barcelona: Linkgua Ediciones, 2007.

———. Sab. Madrid: Catedra Ediciones, 1998.

———. Sab and Autobiography. Trans. and ed. by Nina M. Scott. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1993.

Bravo-Villasante, Carmen. Una vida rómantica—La Avellaneda. Barcelona: EDHASA, 1967.

Harter, Hugh A. Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda. Boston: Twayne, 1981.

Heredia, José María. Antología Herediana. Havana: Imprenta El Siglo, 1939.

———. Obra poética. Havana: Letras Cubanas, 1993.

———. Selected Poems. Trans. Angel Aparicio Laurencio. Miami: Ediciones Universal, 1970.

Lazo, Raimundo. Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda, la mujer y la poetisa lírica. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa, 1990.

Pastor, Brígida M. Fashioning Feminism in Cuba and Beyond: The Prose of Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda. New York: Peter Lang, 2003.

Acknowledgments

I thank God for the magic of words that travel across centuries and oceans.

Lifelong love and thanks to Curtis—without you, I would be unable to write.

I am grateful to my editor, Reka Simonsen, and the entire publishing team at Harcourt, especially Jeannette Larson, Lisa DiSarro, Jennifer Groves, Elizabeth Tardiff, Amy Carlisle, and Adah Nuchi.

About the Author

MARGARITA ENGLE is a Cuban American poet and novelist whose work has been published in many countries. Her books include the Newbery Honor–winning Surrender Tree, The Poet Slave of Cuba, Tropical Secrets, The Firefly Letters, and Hurricane Dancers. She lives with her husband in Northern California. Visit her website at www.margaritaengle.com.

Footnotes

1. Often confused with his cousin, the Cuban French poet José María de Heredia (1842–1905)

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