Language arts
is a lie.
There is no art
in here.
Just lots of punctuation
, . ! — . . . ; ?
And confusing questions
that can have
more than one answer.
Science Class
Relief.
Because we have
assigned seats.
Relief.
Because there is
a math problem
on the board.
Relief.
Because math problems
are safe
and have only
one
answer.
Hands
I am already solving
the math problem
in my head . . .
when Hi, I’m Aidan,
his arm reaches out.
Hi, I’m Brittany,
her hand shakes his.
This time he looks at me.
Hi, I’m Aidan,
his hand is out.
His hands waits.
I am so surprised
for a second
I don’t know what to do.
I don’t want to explain,
so instead my hand
reaches out slowly.
He smiles.
My fingers—always cold—
touch his.
His fingers
are warm
like his smile.
I forget to say my name.
It’s Nurah.
But they don’t ask.
I hope no more boys
try to shake my hand.
I’m Muslim,
I’m not supposed to touch boys
who aren’t related to me.
Guys who aren’t my brother,
father,
grandfather,
mother’s or father’s brother.
Aidan isn’t any of those.
What would Nana say
if she saw me
shaking a boy’s hand?
Math Class Decisions
The numbers draw me
into their world
inviting me with a wink
of + - ÷÷ and ×.
The numbers almost distract me from
seeing a girl
with a fat braid
who reminds me of Asna.
Coloring 101
In geography class,
there is a teacher,
brown-ponytailed,
with a too-big smile.
Welcome to geography.
Otherwise known as
Coloring 101.
Baba,
You lied.
I thought the schools
here in America
are supposed to be better?
Lunchtime
At lunchtime,
the girl with the fat braid
is sitting at a table
loud with laughter,
full of friends.
I realize
that I need her,
but she doesn’t need me.
I button my lips,
keep walking past her table,
past all the tables,
and slink near the stairs.
Second Day of School
What did you say your name was again?
Aidan asks.
Nurah.
My name is Nurah.
I sneeze.
God bless you.
I don’t know if
I’m supposed to say thank you,
so I say nothing.
To be safe.
Aidan
His skin is golden brown,
like smooth sand.
His eyes much lighter
than mine,
soft toffee brown,
and much kinder
when he offers me a
crooked smile.
Isn’t he cute? whispers Brittany
when he gets up
to go to the restroom.
And when Brittany asks
that question,
Brittany Walker with her
blond hair and blue eyes,
I don’t know why,
but I feel smaller than I am
and sad.
I don’t feel like I,
Nurah Haqq,
with black hair and dark-brown eyes
am enough
enough for Aidan?
And if I ever will be.
Lab Partner
For some reason
when it’s time
to choose a lab partner,
Aidan smiles
his crooked smile
and chooses me,
not Brittany.
And I feel better than
I’ve felt
in quite a while.
Clothes
Nana has tailored
my clothes
for me.
Red piping.
3 buttons.
2 pockets even.
Floral print.
Colors bright
and happy.
Aqua blue
paired with
eggplant purple.
Ripe-mango yellow
paired with
unripe-mango green.
Rosy pink
paired with
bright orange.
Cloth so soft
it feels like tissue.
But then I hear the whispers
that scratch like nails.
Even though
I pair the kurtas
with stiff jeans, not shalwars . . .
Why does she wear clothes
like that
every day?
Why doesn’t she wear anything
different?
I don’t know how some people
go through middle school
dressed like that.
The colors of my clothes
are no longer happy.
In Walmart, the only
long-sleeve shirts
that are loose
that I like
are in the women’s section.
No pockets.
No floral print.
No red piping.
Shirts rough like towels.
Dull like
the colors of
crumpled litter on the beach.
Ugly faded brick.
Faded purple marker.
But I buy them anyway.
Autumn
The leaves have finally
changed into
a glory
of spices.
And our moods
have cooled
with the weather.
But even though Asna
emails and calls
and I
email and call,
she is far,
too far
away.
I am still
alone.
So alone,
even when we 4 are all
together
in 1 little hotel room.
Sweet in Comfort Suites
Baba has booked us
an extended stay hotel
called Comfort Suites,
but I don’t feel the comfort
(the sofa bed sags and groans)
and it’s not sweet.
Baba plans for us to be here
for no more than
a couple of months
(60 days or less)
while we look for a house,
maybe a home?
Owais and I long
for a house
until we realize
every Tuesday
and Thursday afternoon,
the staff bakes and serves
melty circles of joy
in the lobby:
chocolate chip cookies.
The suites are becoming
sweeter.
Comfort in Comfort Suites
We don’t know anyone.
But now we know
Miss Polly and Miss Josefina
who wear stiff blue housekeeper uniforms.
In the corner of our suite
is a small black rectangle stovetop
where Ammi cooks food
where magic happens
where the taste of home
coats my tongue.
When Miss Polly or Miss Josefina say
Something sure does smell good
(it does!)
Ammi packs them curried rice
to take home.
Even though Ammi uses
frozen bags of vegetables
and fried onions from packets
and tomato sauce from cans,
we scoop the steamy golden rice
into our mouths
over and over
again.
The Ways of Rice
Ammi shows us
the ways of rice.
In Karachi we had a cook
named Zeeshan.
Now we must help Ammi.
We put 2 teacups
of rice in a pot
(the one with the
jiggly handle).
Wash with cold water.
Measure the water up
to 1 fingertip line
and cook on bubbly high.
Once the rice
swallows up the water
and it looks like finger holes
are poked in the rice,
Owais covers the pot
and sets the timer
for 10 minutes.
We wait wait wait
until
the beeeeep!
I fluff the rice
with a fork,
coat it with ghee . . .
Cooking coats us
with togetherness.
House Hunting
We see houses that are too big.
Some houses that are too small.
One house looks “just right,”
a room for me
a room for Owais.
The “just right” house has big windows,
rectangles of sunshine that warm
my outside skin,
and black creepy shutters that chill
my inside skin.
My parents pray istikhara,
Oh God
I seek your counsel.
If you know buying this house
is good for me,
my religion
my life
then decree it for me.
If it’s bad for me,
then turn it away from me
and give me something good
and make me satisfied with it . . .
My parents pray
they talk
they sleep on it
then they say Yes.
We get the “just right” house
creepy black shutters and all.
A New House
We are in the new “just right” house
finally
with carpets the color
of teeth.
We are scurrying
like roaches
unwanted visitors
because the plumber
is coming.
Quick
wipe the counters,
Quick
wash the dishes,
Quick
vacuum the crumbs.
But why?
We wonder.
Because we don’t want the plumber
to think Muslims are dirty!
Ammi’s hands pause from washing
and find their way
to her hips.
The air puffs my hair,
floats it,
as I sigh.
The plumber comes
and goes
and he does not take
off his shoes,
leaving red footprints
of Georgia clay
on the white carpet.
And we are the ones
worried
about
dirt?
Lunchtime
The loud chattering
of friends
who are not
my friends
scrapes at my soul.
I never know
where to sit
or who with.
So I sit underneath
the stairwell
in a triangle space
that is dark and small,
just like me.
In my last school,
I always knew
where to sit
and with who.
In my last school,
my name was known.
In my last school,
my voice was loud.
In this school,
I am mute.
In this school,
I am invisible.
Skype Calls
Late nights or early mornings
when Nana and Nana Abu call
when Asna calls
Boop Boop Boop!
Boop Boop Boop!
Happy sounds.
Even though the
