They Call Me Güero. David Bowles

other kids could read.

      She was going to teach us the alphabet

      one letter per day! Not me! No way!

      I dropped out of kindergarten,

      little rebel that I was.

      Instead, my mom took me

      to the public library

      every day, all year long.

      I read book after book after book

      delighting in the new tales,

      the strange and mysterious places.

      And when first grade rolled around

      (not optional like kinder),

      the school was so amazed at my skill

      they put me in a third-grade reading class!

      I got picked on, sure, but I was pretty proud

      and didn’t care when kids called me nerd.

      The school counselor told my folks

      I can already read at college level!

      And I’ve found lots of answers,

      but also many new questions.

      Of course I pass all the state tests

      with super high scores.

      Learning in class is easy for me.

      Dad says all those books

      rewired my brain,

      got me ready

      for study.

      Just think—

      I owe it all to those stories

      my abuelita used to tell us

      sitting in her rocking chair

      as we shivered and thrilled.

      Even then, words were burrowing

      into my brain and waiting,

      like larvae in a chrysalis,

      to unfold their paper wings

      and take me flying into the future.

      NAGUAL

      Late one summer night

      at the ranch,

      we all gather ‘round the fire

      as the dark wraps around us,

      Uncle Joe tells us of the nagual—

      magical trickster shaman

      who shakes off his human form

      to reveal the beast within—

      coyote, wolf or dog—

      and raids ranches

      to feast on cows and sheep.

      Wow!

      I wish I knew that magic,

      could say some spell

      or perform some ritual

      so I could slip my skin

      like that fabled shapeshifter

      and feel the freedom,

      running beneath the stars,

      night wind in my fur,

      eyes bright with glints

      of moonlight

      and wild animal joy!

      BOTTLE ROCKET BATTLE

      Like every other Fourth of July,

      we gather to celebrate out on the ranch.

      My father and uncles light the mesquite

      as they sip on cervezas and talk about sports.

      While our mothers prepare the feast,

      my cousins and brother shoot BBs at birds.

      But Teresa and me, we just huddle inside

      and enjoy a new video, laughing at jokes.

      Our abuela’s invited the new parish priest:

      He flies back and forth like a black Chachalaca.

      I guess it gets boring hearing confession,

      so now he’s all busy, sharing the gossip!

      When the carne asada is ready, we eat.

      I stuff quesadillas with fajitas and beans,

      guacamole as well. Then I grab a coke

      from the ice. It’s apple, my favorite flavor.

      The music is loud, lots of cumbias and salsa

      streamed from our Tía Isabel’s phone,

      mixing with laughter and shouts and singing

      as the sleepy red sun slips its way from the sky.

      Soon it gets dark. Since our bellies are full,

      all us kids group together and open the fireworks.

      The little huerquitos get bags of snapdragons.

      Others light strings of black cats and laugh.

      Now Grandpa Manuel, a Vietnam vet,

      gives a moving speech about the U.S.,

      the country he loves, the friends he lost,

      and his dreams for us all. A moment of silence.

      Then Isabel pulls up Grandpa’s favorite playlist,

      and to the beat of patriotic songs,

      Uncle Joe and Tío Mike

      set off the bigger, brighter bangs!

      The national anthem fades. Then sparklers slash

      the dark in the hands of pingos, like Jedi

      who face a horde of deadly Sith.

      My cousin René gives a sinful grin.

      “Are you ready for bottle rocket battle?”

      he asks us older boys with a wave.

      We all nod and follow as he leads us behind

      his father’s stable. We gasp and cheer.

      That René, he has taken plastic pipe,

      electrician’s tape and bits of wood,

      and made six weapons, one for each.

      “These are bottle rocket rifles,” he says.

      He shows us how to shoot them, to slide in the rocket,

      wedge the fuse tight at the mouth of the pipe.

      We flick our fathers’ lighters with glee,

      quickly scattering to take deadly aim!

      I dodge the missile that Joseph lets fly:

      It explodes far away, flinging its sparks.

      Timoteo, however, is struck in the chest

      by Raúl’s perfect aim! WHOOSH! BAM!

      It’s war! We rush through the brush with whoops,

      a half dozen rockets shoved in back pockets.

      HISS! René’s deadly dart whizzes right by,

      singeing the back of my hair! OW!

      Soon the battle invades the grown-ups’ domain.

      All the men start grinning and egging us on,

      though