You Bring Out the…..

I love Sandra Cisneros' energy and unwavering celebration of heritage. Her vignettes in The House on Mango Street have inspired countless students to explore their identities through the written word and through style imitation.

I base one exercise on Cisneros' poem "You Bring Out the Mexican in Me." Each year, I challenged my students to create their versions, starting with "You Bring Out the _______ in Me." This prompt has proven to be a gateway for self-discovery and expression. My teenage students, hailing from various cultural backgrounds, used this exercise to uncover core truths about themselves and their worldviews. The resulting pieces introduced me to a variety of spaces and perspectives. I became richer for it (metaphorically, of course).

Recently, I introduced this prompt to a small class of adult poets, and the results were equally compelling. The beauty of this exercise lies in its versatility – it can spark creativity whether you're writing poetry, nonfiction, or even fiction.

In the spirit of vulnerability and creativity, I've decided to share my 20-minute response to this prompt online. While I consider it a work in progress, I believe in the importance of sharing our words, even in their imperfect states.

I encourage you to try this prompt yourself. Begin with "You Bring Out the _______ in Me" and see where it takes you. If you're willing to share your draft, I'd be thrilled to read it – perhaps it could even find a place in the Wellspring newsletter!

Remember, the goal is not perfection but exploration.

You Bring Out

In Response to Sandra Cisnero’s, You Bring out the Mexican in Me.

You bring out the poet in me, the shove my

rough, stark words in your face in me, the 

daffodils-can-cure-depression me.

You bring out the dancer and the dance,

the moment where I lose myself, my what-

do-I-look-like brain and dance-to-the-rhythm

dance-dance to the rhythm. You are the rhythm

that brings out a meter in me, a bass, a treble,

a rhyme, abbaabba cc. You bring out

the sonnet- ode- terza rima in me, the form

containing the hurricane, the eye of the tiger,

the heart of darkness. You stir up Jungian

archetypes, Freudian slips, I-love-you

you-love-me in me. You bring out fire,

icy rapids, steam on the mountain’s canopy.

In me there are magma and ice floes,

Disney and hellfire, diamonds and Doritos

straight from the bag, orange fingers

slipping into cheesy lips. You bring out

the binge of the compulsive eater, the anorexic,

the addict, the Southern Comfort, red, red wine,

cattle calls and fog horns lonesomeness in me.

A wild woman roaring, a child 

with arms to heaven imploring,

a woman who is like a child with arms open 

to anyone who might wade into the body.

You bring out the Crone, the shriveled heart

and broken laughter, me in me.

In your wake, I investigate what's left

after the chaos you brought out in me, I see

a nothingness. A waste land, until

in this zeitgeist of wreckage, my feet find a beat, a rhythm,

a shit-kicking hoedown of dust and ash.