BY Margarita Engle
The first story I ever write
is a bright crayon picture
of a dancing tree, the branches
tossed by island wind.
I draw myself standing beside the tree,
with a colorful parrot soaring above me,
and a magical turtle clasped in my hand,
and two yellow wings fluttering
on the proud shoulders of my ruffled
Cuban rumba dancer’s
fancy dress.
In my California kindergarten class,
the teacher scolds me: REAL TREES
DON’T LOOK LIKE THAT.
It’s the moment
when I first
begin to learn
that teachers
can be wrong.
They have never seen
the dancing plants
of Cuba.
I like how this poem really tells a story and the line that I really like is βIt’s the moment
when I first begin to learn that teachers can be wrongβ because it shows that she stood her ground about her roots and her culture, and what her trees back in Cuba looked like. She didnβt let herself be changed by what a teacher told her what a tree looks like. I also love the imagery and color that the first paragraph emits and just how itβs clear for me to see the colorful parrots and the magical turtles.
