neatly pinned
around her face.
Wears a hijab
because she is Muslim,
not because she is Pakistani.
Yet even when
she does wear jeans
and lightly lines her eyes with
L’Oréal instead of kajal,
I doubt they are lined
with American hope.
Before the move,
it felt like my mother was in color.
Bold.
Now she’s in black and white.
Faded.
Her movements are smaller,
her smiles zipped.
Her “back home” accent is turned down,
like volume on a knob.
What more will she lose?
Language Barrier
But your English is so good . . .
is what we hear.
Yet
from the car,
when we order food
from McDonald’s
fast
the way it’s done in America
fast
they don’t understand us.
So we learn
fast
to stop saying water
with a soft t—
instead with a hard d.
A hardness new to us.
But old to Americans.
We learn fast.
We learn
the supermarket is a grocery store.
A dustbin is a trash can.
A trolley is a shopping cart.
We learn to move quickly in line,
not linger.
We learn to not expect tea and snacks
everywhere we go.
Language
Pakistan is said like: Pack-is-stan
Muslim is said like: Muzz-lim.
Water is said like: Wah-der.
All wrong.
Pakistan is supposed to be “Pah-kiss-tahn.”
In “Muslim,” the u is supposed to be like oo in book,
the s a soft and gentle pout—
not a hard z
buzzing back at you.
Which Land Is Mine?
In Peachtree City, Georgia,
the trees touch the sky
and the air smells different.
The water tastes different too.
The wind is pure
and free
from exhaust.
Yet the sidewalks are empty.
The roads have only cars.
In Karachi, Pakistan,
the trees are shorter
like me.
The air has whiffs of exhaust
and mango juice is plentiful.
Rickshaws sputter on the roads.
A donkey here or there.
Scooters everywhere.
Sellers of every kind
selling
coconuts
birds in cages
balloons
towels.
They all
gather on the road.
Different melodies
all at once.
Even though their lives
are hard,
they seem free.
Yet America with
its pure air
and people stuck inside
all day
is known as
the land of the free.
Pakistan with
its free people everywhere
and dirty air
is known as
the land of the pure.
Hotel
We are in a hotel
and our bags are
sticking their tongues out
at us
half opened
spilling their contents out
just so.
Our room is ugly
with small windows
the color of spit
and Owais and I are
restless, trapped
even though it is sunny out.
Go get your Quran.
Let’s read Surah Al-Kahf.
Ammi’s voice is
too floaty,
too cheerful.
Owais’s eyebrows hug.
His face is light enough to turn red.
Whoever reads Surah Al-Kahf
on Friday will have a light that shines
from one Friday to the next.
Go get it now,
commands Ammi.
You can’t make me.
Her voice
is fragile poison.
What did you say?
I want to tell Owais
don’t say anything.
Just sit down with me,
open your Quran,
and read Surah Al-Kahf,
the way we always did on Fridays.
The melodious words
of peace
rolling off
our
tongues.
Instead,
his voice is
dangerously quiet.
You can’t make me.
Ammi raises
her palm
while I wait for the
stinging sound
of
skin to skin.
The hot slap.
You know,
here in America,
I can call the cops
and DFCS can take you away?
He walks to the door.
Tears pinch my nose tight.
I who never cry
in front of anyone,
never ever
find that my face
is wet.
Little
When we were little
and Ammi would tell us
to go pray,
we would listen.
But when we would put our foreheads
on the ground,
instead of praying,
we would look at each other
and whisper secrets.
Now,
I look at my brother,
and I don’t know who he is,
or what his secrets are.
Stop
They both look at me,
surprised.
My tears
surprise me most.
I cover my face,
hoping the embarrassment
evaporates.
Relieved that their voices are
mute.
Owais, who was
on his way out,
stops
turns
changes his face.
Nurah, I didn’t mean
to make you cry.
Sorry.
Ammi, I can’t take it anymore.
I hate this place.
I’ll read later.
And then he is
slamming the door
behind him,
gone.
My Family
Is beginning to fracture
one day at a time
while we are stuck
in this stuffy
hotel room.
Maybe when school starts
when the leaves
start changing
colors . . .
Baba has promised us
the leaves will change into
the colors of
hot spices:
cumin, red pepper, and turmeric.
Maybe then, things will get better.
Ammi Says
You should:
Make your bed
Go for a walk
Pray on time
Go find a pool
Go find a pool . . . ?
Owais and I
exchange a look.
If we find
a safe blue cocoon,
maybe then
our moods
will cool?
Where?
Where is a pool?
Where are the crows?
Where is the garden?
Where is home?
They’re a 15-hour flight away.
Part Three
The Rec Center
A sigh of relief
even though it
smells of
stale socks
and warm sweat,
because most importantly
there is the smell of chlorine.
A pool.
Warm Welcome
I s l o w l y
d
i
p
the big
toe
of my
right foot
into the pool.
Bliss.
Blue Cocoon
Under the water
the bright-blue world
welcomes me
with a cool hug.
Under the water
Owais and I exchange
one watery smile.
If I just close my eyes
hard enough,
if I float just so,
I can almost imagine
I’m back
home.
Trophy Case
Between the locker rooms
is a shiny wall
with swimming medals and trophies,
and when we walk by the wall,
Owais takes a quick look.
But I take a
slow
look,
place my hands on the glass,
leave behind smudgy fingerprints,
but take my dreams with me . . .
TV
On the Olympics channel
Owais and I
tune in to swimming.
As I watch,
I hold my breath.
Exhale when
the race is over.
Owais flicks off the TV.
Keep practicing
maybe you can be in the Olympics . . . ,
says Baba
looking at Owais
the star athlete.
My mouth turns
the tiniest bit down,
so he adds
You too, Nurah!
I nod,
turn my lips back up again.
But the good energy in the room
that was swimming around us
is now drowning me.
What does it feel like
to be a winner?
School Morning
On my first day of school
when we climb into the big yellow bus
step by step
we don’t know that Baba follows our bus to school
stop by stop.
Ammi tells us later
Baba wanted to make sure
we reached school safely.
I guess it’s not just Ammi—
Baba worries too . . .
The First Day of School
The leaves still haven’t changed colors.
I knew I was short at school,
but I didn’t realize
how short I really was
until I saw Jason Flynn
the tallest boy in the school
and as I followed him
down the hallway
my head reached the bottom
of his book bag.
I knew I was brown,
but didn’t realize
how brown I really was
until I saw so many
who were white and pink,
pink and white,
and only a handful of dark brown.
And although school just started,
and the bell rang only 7 minutes ago
(420 seconds to be exact),
I already feel like I don’t belong.
Language Arts
Is a class
where I don’t know where to sit.
So I stand by the classroom door
and double numbers
inside my head
to calm me.
1 + 1 = 2
2 + 2 = 4
4 + 4 = 8
8 + 8 = 16
16 + 16 = 32
32 + 32 = 64
64 + 64 = 128
I reach the number
1,024
when the teacher shows me
where to
