shimmery light blue,
I can’t see my hair,
and even though my face
usually envies my hair,
today when I look
in the mirror,
I think—
Not bad.
Masjid Lobby
Where boys and girls
stand
and there is no
wall partition
like there is
when we pray,
I see Owais
and Junaid.
Although they are
arguing,
it is playful
and their features
are enhanced
instead of
distorted.
I stand by Owais,
waiting.
Have I ever been
this close to Junaid
before?
If he was like Aidan,
he would put out
his hand.
I am aware of
how I stand
how I blink
how I breathe.
The shape
my mouth makes.
He has a letter-C scar
on his chin.
How did he get it?
Nurah, I know he can play basketball,
but is he as good at swimming
as he says he is?
Junaid’s question
sprinkles the air.
WE both are, I say.
His eyes crinkle
into smiling
crescents.
You both are something else!
Owais smirks.
When Owais turns
to get water,
Junaid offers me
a smile,
just me,
while I tuck a smile
into my cheek.
Even though he can’t see
my hair
I feel prettier than I have
in a long time
and exactly where
I’m supposed to
be.
Final Art Project
Looking through
my portfolio,
Ms. White scans through
my latest
self-portrait,
my brown
look-at-me skin
shaded with pride—
my something unexpected
me in my aquamarine
silk hijab.
Ms. White’s lips dance
into a quirky smile.
Nurah, welcome to
my memory.
Final Swim Meet
Before the final swim meet,
I know what I need to do.
I walk into my brother’s room.
My Underwater Sibling.
Grab his trunks,
and YELL
with my voice,
the one that made teachers
move mefaraway
from Asna in class,
Enough is enough!
Fine he grumbles,
Fine he mutters,
Fine he smiles.
Coach Kelly’s Warm-Up
Tan muscular arms
tracing triangles
through the air.
Freestyle.
Tan muscular arms
swirling circles
through the air.
Breaststroke.
We copy her,
stretch our doubts away.
I am ready ready ready.
Diving Block
Inside my tummy
it feels like
frogs are
hop
hop
hopping.
50 Yards
I have practiced
and practiced
over and over
back and forth
this whole season
and now have the right
rhythm for freestyle
and breast stroke.
With breast stroke,
I know to keep my arms straight together,
do a frog kick,
then circle my arms.
With free style,
I know to breathe after I’ve passed the flags,
glide through the water,
streamline off the wall
to speed
efficiently through
my blue cocoon.
I pat my goggles
over my eyes,
wave to Ammi
and Baba,
nod to Owais,
squeeze Stahr’s arm,
and when the race begins
I am already in the water
in a perfect
d
i
v
e.
Final Swim Meet
Coach Kelly’s hair
is straighter than mine today
and even though I am dripping
she scoops me up
into a hug.
You did it, Nurah!
I’m so proud!
My hug makes
the tips of her hair
curl up into smiles.
And Ammi
and Baba
are looking at me,
faces light and loose and lovey
because I am in third place,
a winner
of a medal.
Owais’s Turn
The pool welcomes him,
acts like he’s never been gone,
and he swims
so beautifully
so swiftly.
Even though I’m
out of breath
from doing laps,
watching him
still takes my breath
away.
Medal
It is the perfect
amount of heavy
and hangs on the hook
on my wall
and on my heart
in my body.
Newspaper
In the city gazette
is a picture
of the team
me on the lower right
next to Stahr
holding my medal.
I
snip
snip
snip
the paper rectangle
out
carefully
to show Nana and Nana Abu
and Asna and
family back home.
I highlight my name
in yellow,
show it to Dadi.
When she asks me
my name,
I point to it
proudly.
Summer
Suitcases being zipped up,
full and fat,
when the bell rings.
Visitor
The man who is missing one arm
Mr. Tim
holds out the smell of cinnamon.
My wife b-b-b-baked cookies.
Thank you, says Owais.
My fatherextendshis hand.
Please come in.
But Mr. Tim shakes his head
and smiles,
how different he looks
with a smile on his face.
Sure fine d-d-d-daughter
you got there . . .
He waves,
and this is the first time
I notice
a wedding ring on the fourth finger
of his right hand.
Glinting in the sunlight.
Teatime
My mother delicately
nibbles Mr. Tim’s cookie,
then smiles and rests
her hands,
with the tips of her nails
bitten into
crescent moons,
onto her belly,
which is full and fat.
This time,
the baby is the size
of a mango,
my favorite fruit.
For My Mother
My father presents
a bouquet
of white flowers
so tiny
and faint
like tissue paper.
Baby’s breath, she says,
her eyes smiling
so hard
her mouth
is jealous.
So
Do you like it here?
asks Baba
and Owais
answers an
I guess so
but not before
he tucks
a smile
inside his cheek,
making all of us
smile
smile
smile.
Windy Day
My father
sometimes reads people
well,
but he reads the wind
very well.
On windy days,
when the trees dance,
my father calls us
and we watch
his kite
unfurl on a long
long
long
piece of thread
until it kisses the sky.
And even though
the trees here are taller,
the houses too,
my father makes the kite
dance easily in the wind.
Trim little circles,
zigzags
too.
In those moments,
when I dive into
my blue cocoon,
soar through the water,
I become the kite—
free.
Author’s Note
Although this story is fictional, I drew on my experiences from when I moved from Abu Dhabi, the United Arab Emirates, to Peachtree City, Georgia. Like Nurah, I joined a team—not swimming, but a tennis team, and found those experiences shaped and challenged me. I barely made the team, but got much better with consistent practice. Full disclosure—like Owais, my three brothers excelled at the sport much more than I did!
Like Nurah’s, my grandmother, who was highly educated, struggled with Alzheimer’s and did not remember my name anymore. I still remember the numb sadness I felt watching her decline, and tried to show it through Nurah’s eyes.
Like Nurah’s father, my father followed the school bus to our school on our first day of high school to make sure we reached it safely. I rode a bus where the bus monitor was missing an arm and was picked on by some students. I remember the horror I felt. I remember wishing I could say something to help. Alas, I did not my find my voice, but my eldest brother did. The day the students teased the monitor asking if he wore a wedding ring was the day my eldest brother broke his silence and yelled at the other students to SHUT UP. I remember feeling elation mixed with fear. I worried that we would become easy targets the next day, but amazingly the students stopped picking on the bus monitor. To this day, I think saying something, anything, to help someone who is being picked on mercilessly is better than just sitting there and being a silent witness.
I was a senior in high school the year the September 11 tragedy occurred. Unbeknownst to us, an officer from Homeland Security stopped by to interrogate my father. Luckily, my father was eventually left alone, but that is not the case for others. Unfortunately, there are criminals who commit terrorist attacks citing Islam, a religion of peace, as a
