The Lightning Dreamer

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I feel like a new person
when I play make-believe games
in the garden, inventing tales
of monsters and heroes.