What I Learned When I Turned Nine
By Cruz Villarreal
The bathroom mirror affirmed the innocence
of my ignorance.
The only color a child should see,
is reflected in the maple tree of fall
or the coral and pastel hues of roses in spring.
But on my names day, my friend said,
“Let’s go to the movies, we’ll have ice-cream on the way.”
A soft concoction of chocolate and vanilla swirl
the sweetness blended and inseparable
like we once were.
Our goodness to be soon consumed.
My first movie.
He said that he would pay
because he had a little but I had less.
You see—my friend was sparrow-rich
and I was church mouse poor.
101 Dalmatians was in town.
It was exciting to be in line.
And then a boy my size,
Lassie’s Timmy came to mind.
Who like a lion, snarled and roared.
He bore his teeth and spat at me
because I was brown and he was not.
He spat at me and cursed my friend
because he was white and I was not.
With his father’s voice—
he changed my name to Spic.
He caused the candles of my cake to die,
the maple leaves to fall and roses fade.
Then I saw the world in painful clarity
like magnets in reverse polarity.
My color repels and casts away.
Back then, I thought I was the same,
that one boy brown and one boy white were all alike.
That one and one was one
a blended concoction of chocolate and vanilla swirl
the sweetness mingled and inseparable.
But what I learned when I turned nine—
is they were white,
and I was not,
that one boy brown and one boy white were not alike.
That blended and inseparable goodness
was consumed like tissue on a fire—
the day my innocence, lay on the funeral pyre.
Cruz Villarreal is a local Lansing, Michigan, area poet. A first generation American from Mexican parents, he was born in Carrizo Springs, Texas, and still caries many of the Mexican traditions given him by his parents. He enjoys creative writing, and several of his works have been published locally. More of his work can be read at cruzpoet.openlcc.net. Readers are encouraged to leave comments or suggestions on how to improve his work.