With the Fire on High by Elizabeth Acevedo
Histories
We walk outside the cathedral and I’m still quiet. Julio is always lecturing me about who we are, but I usually only listen with one ear. I definitely don’t get as hyped as he does. Until today. Seeing that statue of Columbus really hit home. Sometimes it seems like being Puerto Rican is such a fact of life that I forget not everyone hand-washes their panties, or eats pernil at Thanksgiving, or has some traditions and names for things that are African and Taíno: mofongo, cassava. People don’t realize that Spain is a complicated place for someone like me. I just can’t shake off how much it feels that this place, Spain, and this city, Sevilla, are tied to who I am even if I’m not sure I want to be tethered to them.
“Want to see the castle, Santi?” Malachi brushes my arm. I don’t know how he knows I’m in a weird funk but he does. I nod. We enter the Alcázar, and I’m surprised; the castle looks nothing like I expected. It’s as beautiful as the rest of old Sevilla, but seems to belong to a different country: high arches, six-pronged stars carved into the stone walkway, orange trees blooming along the perimeter.
“What is different about this part of the palace?” a tour guide asks her group in English. We join in when we see Pretty Leslie and Amanda are a part of it. “Does anyone know?”
We all shake our heads, and I’m surprised when Malachi raises his hand.
“It’s paying homage to Islam.” He points to the ceiling. “The star and moon. And that bell over there looks like a call to prayer.”
“Exactly right! This is one of the few palaces that shows the Muslim conquest of Spain in 711 AD.”
I look around. This is a place where two worlds collided. Beautiful because of the struggle that happened to create it. Holy because of the belief people had in it. A home, a masterpiece of art, a mixture of different cultures.
“How did you know that?” I whisper to Malachi. Something about this place makes me feel a need to whisper.
“I’m from Newark.” He shrugs. “And you from Philly, so you should know every other Black kid is probably Muslim. Plus, Malcolm X is my hero. And when I was younger and read his autobiography, I began to study Islam. Still figuring it out, but I picked up a lot when I visited the mosques. And although I’m a beast in science, history is my favorite class.”
How didn’t I know he studied Islam? How didn’t I know about his love of history? “There’s so much about you I still don’t know.” And suddenly I want to know everything. I want to ask him all of the things. I want to kiss the deep dimple in his cheek. Maybe it’s because we are not at home anymore, but I feel free: free to say what I want, to feel what I feel, without having to think of every single action and reaction.
“Hey, how about ice cream later?” I ask. “After dinner?”
His smile grows bigger and he raises a brow. “You asking me on a date, Santi? You know ice cream is the way to my heart.”
I bite my lip. I don’t know if I want his whole heart yet, but I also don’t know if I would mind having it. We’ve entered a rose garden. A twisty maze that has big orange trees hanging over the bushes. A plaque near the entrance says that a Muslim emperor built it for his wife. “Yeah, Malachi, I think I am.”
“Shhh.” Pretty Leslie hushes us from the front of the group. “Some of us are trying to learn! Y’all so damn rude.”
And I wonder how many other Black Puerto Rican Philly teens have laughed in this orange-tree garden built for a queen.