Page 25 of You've Got a Place Here, Too

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seemed butterfly-caught in my throat. My classmates could have

their Yales and Harvards of old white men—I walked the land

of Ralph Ellison, George Washington Carver, the dream

of Booker T. Washington, the alma mater of Betty Shabazz.

The training fields that saw Hotesse earn his wings.

I pushed the big blue moving cart that held my bedding and books.

Tía pushed Mami’s wheelchair.

We were all quiet. As if we could feel in the air what this moment

meant. Mami reached her hand out and touched mine. Dark on

dark. Like the earth, the little brown bird that swooped in front of

us and chirped.

Mami and Tía stayed for two nights. And when orientation was

over, they kissed me and wished me bendiciones.

And tried not to let me see them cry, although I let them see my

eyes tear up. We were used to being away from each other. But

it never got easier.

And soon I was alone.

Even before I’d ever been on a plane,

I knew I wanted to be a pilot.

Mami always said I lived in the sky and I would lie

in the backyard, under the cashew tree, through the

canopy of leaves and nut fruit, my eyes trained on the clouds.

I had a toy airplane as a kid that I played with so much

I chipped off the paint color, wore the wheels down

to paper-thin rubber.

The little spring-back action that propelled

the plane was done for before I reached double digits.

Anywhere I’ve traveled to I’ve taken that toy plane with me.

And when I unpacked at Tuskegee, it was the first thing

I found a home for.

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