Because The Poet X is set up to read as Xiomara’s private poetry notebook, language and its power rise to the forefront almost immediately. Xiomara notes early on that her notebook is the only place where she can write as her true self and actually express all of the confusing thoughts and emotions swirling around inside of her. As the novel progresses, Xiomara gains confidence as she begins to share her poems, first with her boyfriend Aman, and later at slam poetry events and the school poetry club. Through Xiomara’s discovery of spoken word poetry, as well as through the novel’s poems themselves, The Poet X positions language as an important tool available to young people as they come of age. Language, the novel suggests, allows people to make sense of their world and the people around them, while sharing language with others (especially through poetry) allows people to build communities and develop a sense of empathy and understanding for others.
When the reader first meets Xiomara, she is writing in her poetry notebook, but in every other sense she has been cut off from using language to make sense of her world. She’s unable to ask questions of Mami or of her religion, and she can barely express to her best friend her desire to kiss a boy. She’s learned throughout her life that her words won’t stop people from hurting her brother, Twin, or sexually harassing her—only her fists can stop those things. Because of this, Xiomara feels alone, defensive, and afraid—there’s no one and nothing else to validate her confusing thoughts, feelings, or experiences. This becomes a vicious cycle: as Xiomara feels increasingly alone and misunderstood, she’s even less willing to accept friendly advances from boys or other girls at school, and she’s unwilling to try to connect with any adults in her life who might be willing to speak frankly with her. However, it’s important to note that Xiomara does feel as though writing in her notebook is a meaningful and positive experience for her, even if, at the beginning of the novel, what she writes is private. This begins to suggest that even communicating one’s thoughts through writing in an exclusively private and solitary manner is a useful exercise—one that can, ideally, pave the way for a solitary writer like Xiomara to begin to share her inner monologue with others.
This kind of connection with others begins as Xiomara embarks on a romantic relationship with her lab partner, Aman. The two first connect over a shared love of the rappers J. Cole and Kendrick Lamar. Importantly, Xiomara tells the reader that she fell in love with rap and hip-hop as a kid because she felt like those artists could articulate her experiences as a young Dominican woman in a way that nobody in her life could. When she agrees to listen to music with Aman, she’s able to share some of that experience with him. In doing so, she begins to feel less alone.
Around the same time, Xiomara’s English teacher, Ms. Galiano, introduces Xiomara to spoken word poetry and invites her to join the school poetry club. While it takes Xiomara months to actually join, seeing a video in class of a black female poet performing a poem about body image makes Xiomara feel seen and heard in a way that she’s never experienced before. This experience not only gives Xiomara the courage to think more positively about her own body, but it also inspires her to begin memorizing her poems and performing them—first for herself in private, and later for Aman. As Xiomara transitions from thinking that performance isn’t for her to performing for Aman, she becomes increasingly interested in using her voice in other venues—namely, in church and in her confirmation classes with Father Sean. This shift suggests that there’s a direct link between becoming comfortable with one’s own voice in a performance or creative setting and feeling more comfortable raising it in others.
Xiomara’s life reaches rock bottom when Mami finds her poetry notebook, reads its contents, and burns it, insisting that Xiomara’s poetry makes her ungrateful, promiscuous, and sinful. Xiomara is then forced to put into practice what she learned about the power of speaking and communicating with others. Because of what she learned through writing and performing her poems, Xiomara has the courage to leave her family’s home, reach out to Aman, and then ask Father Sean for help in speaking with Mami. Importantly, thanks to Ms. Galiano’s help, Xiomara understands that communicating with Mami is the most important thing she can do, as it’s the only way she’ll be able to move forward and repair their relationship.
Even though Mami’s turnaround is arguably idealistic, it is telling that being forced to communicate openly and calmly with Xiomara by Father Sean gives Mami the ability to go on to accept Xiomara’s poetry as valid and positive. In a sense, Mami begins to make the same connections about the value of communication that Xiomara did. Furthermore, Xiomara comes to the realization that while it’s devastating to have lost her notebook, this loss doesn’t mean that she has to stop writing and communicating. On he contrary, Xiomara realizes that she can use her experiences to do for other young people what the poet she saw on video in Ms. Galiano’s class did for her: make it clear that they’re not alone. With this, the novel positions communication and language as extremely powerful tools. By harnessing these skills, young people can connect to those around them and share their personal experiences, and through doing so, they can build community and help others discover the power of language as well.
The Power of Language ThemeTracker
The Power of Language Quotes in The Poet X
The other girls call me conceited. Ho. Thot. Fast.
When your body takes up more room than your voice
you are always the target of well-aimed rumors,
which is why I let my knuckles talk for me.
Which is why I learned to shrug when my name was replaced
by insults.
And I get all this attention from guys
but it’s like a sancocho of emotions.
This stew of mixed-up ingredients:
partly flattered they think I’m attractive,
partly scared they’re only interested in my ass and boobs,
and a good measure of Mami-will-kill-me fear sprinkled on top.
What if I like a boy too much
and none of those things happen...
they’re the only scales I have.
How does a girl like me figure out the weight
of what it means to love a boy?
“Good girls don’t wear tampones.
Are you still a virgin? Are you having relations?”
I didn’t know how to answer her, I could only cry.
She shook her head and told me to skip church that day.
Threw away the box of tampons, saying they were for cueros.
That she would buy me pads. Said eleven was too young.
That she would pray on my behalf.
I didn’t understand what she was saying.
But I stopped crying. I licked at my split lip.
I prayed for the bleeding to stop.
The poet talks about being black, about being a woman,
about how beauty standards make it seem she isn’t pretty.
I don’t breathe for the entire three minutes
while I watch her hands, and face,
feeling like she’s talking directly to me.
She’s saying the thoughts I didn’t know anyone else had.
We’re different, this poet and I. In looks, in body,
in background. But I don’t feel so different
when I listen to her. I feel heard.
I just needed people saying words
about all the things that hurt them.
And maybe this is why Papi stopped listening to music,
because it can make your body want to rebel. To speak up.
And even that young I learned music can become a bridge
between you and a total stranger.
“And about this apple,
how come God didn’t explain
why they couldn’t eat it?
He gave Eve curiosity
but didn’t expect her to use it?
Unless the apple is a metaphor?
Is the whole Bible a poem?
What’s not a metaphor?
Did any of it actually happen?
He grins at me and shrugs. “I came here and practiced a lot.
My pops never wanted to put me in classes. Said it was too soft.”
And now his smile is a little sad.
And I think about all the things we could be
if we were never told our bodies were not built for them.
I’ll be anything that makes sense
of this panic. I’ll loosen myself from this painful flesh.
See, a cuero is any skin. A cuero
is just a covering. A cuero is a loose thing.
Tied down by no one. Fluttering
and waving in the wind. Flying. Flying. Gone.
“I’m sorry I got in trouble.
I’m sorry I have to be here.
That I have to pretend to you and her
that I care about confirmation at all.
But I’m not sorry I kissed a boy.
I’m only sorry I was caught,
Or that I had to hide it at all.”
I can’t remember
the last time people were silent
while I spoke, actually listening.
Not since Aman.
But it’s nice to know I don’t need him
in order to feel listened to.
My little words
feel important, for just a moment.
This is a feeling I could get addicted to.
I actually raise my hand
in English class
and answer Ms. Galiano’s question.
Because at least here with her,
I know my words are okay.
Because so many of the poems tonight
felt a little like our own stories.
Like we saw and were seen.
And how crazy would it be
if I did that for someone else?
And I know that I’m ready to slam.
That my poetry has become something I’m proud of.
The way the words say what I mean,
how they twist and turn language,
how they connect with people.
How they build community.
I have no more poems. My mind blanks.
A roar tears from my mouth.
“Burn it! Burn it.
This is where the poems are,” I say,
thumping a fist against my chest.
“Will you burn me? Will you burn me, too?
You would burn me, wouldn’t you, if you could?”
She puts a soft hand on my arm
and I look into the face of a woman
not much older than me,
a woman with a Spanish last name,
who loves books and poetry,
who I notice for the first time is pretty,
who has a soft voice and called my house
because she was worried
and the words are out before I know it:
And so, I love this quote because even though it’s not about poetry, it IS about poetry. It’s about any of the words that bring us together and how we can form a home in them.