For Noel

2024 7th & 8th Grade Poetry Winner

8 am, February 3

L Train, Jefferson Station, Brooklyn

61 years and working

Noel Quintana boards the train.

Brown hands pray the rosary

Beads slip between each finger

Calm.

Slow train rattle, hum of the tracks.

Peace.

Prayer.

Kick.
One swift kick to his bag.

Fear implanted into body and mind already

Move. Move now.

Center of a crowded train, backpack adjusted, not a bother.

He moves, too. The kicker follows.

Bam.
Another kick.
Anger. Red-hot anger in the kicker's face.
Fury.
Punches are coming.

Noel braces himself for the impact.
Expects a fist to explode into his face.

No.
It is not a fist that meets Noel's face.

Sharp, searing pain
Help. The man needs help, please god
Nothing. Not one person moves.
No answer to the cry of help
Basic human empathy seems to have run out

Noel touches his hand to his face.

Blood.

So much blood.
Pain shooting from ear to ear.
Breathless.

The attacker holds a box cutter.
Slashed from ear to ear.
Noel Quintana was slashed from ear to ear.

With a box cutter.
A box cutter.
Individual spears of plastic and metal
Swung across this Filipino man's Filipino face
No. No.
No.
Please no.

Get off the train.
Attacker leaves, too.

Noel finds an MTA worker.

Ambulance is called.

Bellevue Hospital.

Alive. Stable, at least

100 stitches.
100 stitches.
100 stitches.

This story is recounted to me by my father

Through a video fighting back against Asian hate.
One look at this man's swollen, scarred face
And I'm crying, afraid to step out of my apartment

Because Noel Quintana has the same Filipinx blood I do.
The same blood my sister and dad have.
The same blood Abba has.
The same blood.

Sadness and anger bounce off of each other

One is never present without the other.

Protests break though, I stand beside my Tita Lisa as we chant and hold our signs
Everyone is here.
I remind myself of my Pinay Guerrilla Warrior Roots.
Strength enters once again.

The movement is not over.

My father and I write and photograph

Ten year old me, standing still, mask on, hood pulled up.

We are furious.
So we act.

Because Abba was born in the Philippines
Because my dad cooks pancit
Because Tita Lisa taught me the warrior dance
Because Noel silently prayed the rosary
Because no one called 911
Because 100 stitches is too much
Because it should never hurt to smile.