Shrinking star
She now shines
after years of struggling with the language,
a star capturing daddy’s furtive attention.
She raises her hand high in class
when the teacher calls on her,
when she wants the right answer.
She stands tall to read her stories,
proudly, loudly
while the other kids roll their eyes.
She speaks English with no accent now,
but abuelita’s hand-stitched dresses
are still mocked by the kids in jeans.
Teacher’s pet.
Nerd.
Immigrant.
Their words slowly crumble her,
dumbing her drive,
sapping her spirit.
She has trophies lining her windowsill,
but her phone never rings
for playdates or get-togethers.
She is the last one picked
when they make teams,
though she’s best at dodging the ball.
She hides her perfect scores on tests now,
when, if, they ask,
telling them she got an average grade.
She sits, teary-eyed in the schoolyard,
reduced, discarded,
while the other kids laugh and play.
This once proud and rising star
now alone in a corner,
shrinking, dimming.
The diplomat’s wife
The perfectly polished diplomat’s wife,
proper, polite, primped and poised,
pearly whites masking a perturbed past.
Her tongue a whip when grammar digressed,
her hand a hammer when children distressed,
her corrective gaze ever handing down sentence.
A grandmotherly dichotomy,
in sharp contrast to my loving abuelita abroad.
Her invites for tea were a thing to be endured,
like her outbursts when Mom would interrupt,
She once threatened to throw a plate at her
when she mentioned the family ring Dad never got.
Dad, her black sheep son with the strawberry birthmark
she had surgically deleted when he was old enough,
retouching all his photos to delete the blemish.
Her Asperger’s child who never grasped manners.
That gentle, submissive soul she blindly cast aside,
chastised, berated and outlived.
I was the only one of my kin she seemed to care for,
because she could brag about my accomplishments,
as if they were somehow a reflection of her.
She refused to see my brother if his tattoos were showing,
and blasted me for not telling her when my abuelita died,
because it meant her condolence card would arrive late.
Now that she is gone and I’ve been a diplomat myself,
there is no condolence card sent.
No tears. No visits to her grave.
I feel guilt at some level for my lack of emotion,
and worry what my grandparents might think.
It’s so decidedly undiplomatic of me.
Jen Ross Laguna is a Chilean-Canadian writer with hundreds of published articles and more than 15 years working for the United Nations. Seven years ago, she relocated to her husband’s country, Aruba, to take some time off to write, and stayed. Her poetry appears in Better Than Starbucks, the other side of hope, descant, Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Woods Reader, Defenestrationism,and an anthology by The Poet Magazine, and is forthcoming in Azahares Literary Magazine and a multilingual international poetry anthology.
Aloka 