The Penguin Book of Migration Literature

by Dohra Ahmad

  Whereas Millat was like youth remembered in the nostalgic eyeglass of old age, beauty parodying itself: broken Roman nose, tall, thin; lightly veined, smoothly muscled; chocolate eyes with a reflective green sheen like moonlight bouncing off a dark sea; irresistible smile, big white teeth. In Glenard Oak Comprehensive, black, Pakistani, Greek, Irish—these were races. But those with sex appeal lapped the other runners. They were a species all of their own.

  “If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head . . .”

  She loved him, of course. But he used to say to her: “Thing is, people rely on me. They need me to be Millat. Good old Millat. Wicked Millat. Safe, sweet-as, Millat. They need me to be cool. It’s practically a responsibility.”

  And it practically was. Ringo Starr once said of the Beatles that they were never bigger than they were in Liverpool, late 1962. They just got more countries. And that’s how it was for Millat. He was so big in Cricklewood, in Willesden, in West Hampstead, the summer of 1990, that nothing he did later in his life could top it. From his first Raggastani crowd, he had expanded and developed tribes throughout the school, throughout North London. He was simply too big to remain merely the object of Irie’s affection, leader of the Raggastanis, or the son of Samad and Alsana Iqbal. He had to please all of the people all of the time. To the Cockney wide-boys in the white jeans and the colored shirts he was the joker, the risk-taker, respected lady-killer. To the black kids he was fellow weed-smoker and valued customer. To the Asian kids, hero and spokesman. Social chameleon. And underneath it all, there remained an ever-present anger and hurt, the feeling of belonging nowhere that comes to people who belong everywhere. It was this soft underbelly that made him most beloved, most adored by Irie and the nice oboe-playing, long-skirted middle-class girls, most treasured by these hair-flicking and fugue-singing females; he was their dark prince, occasional lover or impossible crush, the subject of sweaty fantasy and ardent dreams . . .

  And he was also their project: what was to be done about Millat? He simply must stop smoking weed. We have to try and stop him walking out of class. They worried about his “attitude” at sleep-overs, discussed his education hypothetically with their parents (Just say there was this Indian boy, yeah, who was always getting into . . . ), even wrote poems on the subject. Girls either wanted him or wanted to improve him, but most often a combination of the two. They wanted to improve him until he justified the amount they wanted him. Everybody’s bit of rough, Millat Iqbal.

  “But you’re different,” Millat Iqbal would say to the martyr Irie Jones, “you’re different. We go way back. We’ve got history. You’re a real friend. They don’t really mean anything to me.”

  Irie liked to believe that. That they had history, that she was different in a good way.

  “Thy black is fairest in my judgement’s place . . .”

  Mrs. Roody silenced Francis with a raised finger. “Now, what is he saying there? Annalese?”

  Annalese Hersh, who had spent the lesson so far braiding red and yellow thread into her hair, looked up in blank confusion.

  “Anything, Annalese, dear. Any little idea. No matter how small. No matter how paltry.”

  Annalese bit her lip. Looked at the book. Looked at Mrs. Roody. Looked at the book.

  “Black? . . . Is? . . . Good?”

  “Yes . . . well, I suppose we can add that to last week’s contribution: Hamlet? . . . Is? . . . Mad? Anybody else? What about this? For since each hand hath put on nature’s power, Fairing the foul with art’s false borrow’d face. What might that mean, I wonder?”

  Joshua Chalfen, the only kid in class who volunteered opinions, put his hand up.

  “Yes, Joshua?”

  “Makeup.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Roody, looking close to orgasm. “Yes, Joshua, that’s it. What about it?”

  “She’s got a dark complexion that she’s trying to lighten by means of makeup, artifice. The Elizabethans were very keen on a pale skin.”

  “They would’ve loved you, then,” sneered Millat, for Joshua was pasty, practically anemic, curly-haired, and chubby, “you would have been Tom bloody Cruise.”

  Laughter. Not because it was funny, but because it was Millat putting a nerd where a nerd should be. In his place.

  “One more word from you, Mr. Ick-Ball, and you are out!”

  “Shakespeare. Sweaty. Bollocks. That’s three. Don’t worry, I’ll let myself out.”

  This was the kind of thing Millat did so expertly. The door slammed. The nice girls looked at each other in that way. (He’s just so out of control, so crazy . . . he really needs some help, some close one-to-one personal help from a good friend . . . ) The boys belly-laughed. The teacher wondered if this was the beginning of a mutiny. Irie covered her stomach with her right hand.

  “Marvelous. Very adult. I suppose Millat Iqbal is some kind of hero.” Mrs. Roody, looking round the gormless faces of 5F, saw for the first time and with dismal clarity that this was exactly what he was.

  “Does anyone else have anything to say about these sonnets? Ms. Jones! Will you stop looking mournfully at the door! He’s gone, all right? Unless you’d like to join him?”

  “No, Mrs. Roody.”

  “All right, then. Have you anything to say about the sonnets?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “Is she black?”

  “Is who black?”

  “The dark lady.”

  “No, dear, she’s dark. She’s not black in the modern sense. There weren’t any . . . well, Afro-Carri-bee-yans in England at that time, dear. That’s more a modern phenomenon, as I’m sure you know. But this was the 1600s. I mean I can’t be sure, but it does seem terribly unlikely, unless she was a slave of some kind, and he’s unlikely to have written a series of sonnets to a lord and then a slave, is he?”

  Irie reddened. She had thought, just then, that she had seen something like a reflection, but it was receding; so she said, “Don’t know, miss.”

  “Besides, he says very clearly, In nothing art thou black, save in thy deeds . . . No, dear, she just has a dark complexion, you see, as dark as mine, probably.”

  Irie looked at Mrs. Roody. She was the color of strawberry mousse.

  “You see, Joshua is quite right: the preference was for women to be excessively pale in those days. The sonnet is about the debate between her natural coloring and the makeup that was the fashion of the time.”

  “I just thought . . . like when he says, here: Then will I swear, beauty herself is black . . . And the curly hair thing, black wires—”

  Irie gave up in the face of giggling and shrugged.

  “No, dear, you’re reading it with a modern ear. Never read what is old with a modern ear. In fact, that will serve as today’s principle—can you all write that down, please.”

  5F wrote that down. And the reflection that Irie had glimpsed slunk back into the familiar darkness. On the way out of class, Irie was passed a note by Annalese Hersh, who shrugged to signify that she was not the author but merely one of many handlers. It said: “By William Shakespeare: ODE TO LETITIA AND ALL MY KINKY-HAIRED BIG-ASS BITCHEZ.”

  TATO LAVIERA

  AMERÍCAN

  we gave birth to a new generation,

  AmeRícan, broader than lost gold

  never touched, hidden inside the

  puerto rican mountains.

  we gave birth to a new generation

  AmeRícan, it includes everything

  imaginable you-name-it-we-got-it

  society.

  we gave birth to a new generation,

  AmeRícan salutes all folklores,

  european, indian, black, spanish

  and anything else compatible:

  AmeRícan, singing to composer pedro flores’ palm

  trees up high in the universal sky!

/>   AmeRícan, sweet soft spanish danzas gypsies

  moving lyrics la española cascabelling

  presence always singing at our side!

  AmeRícan, beating jíbaro modern troubadours

  crying guitars romantic continental

  bolero love songs!

  AmeRícan, across forth and across back

  back across and forth back

  forth across and back and forth

  our trips are walking bridges!

  it all dissolved into itself, an attempt

  was truly made, the attempt was truly

  absorbed, digested, we spit out

  the poison, we spit out in malice,

  we stand, affirmative in action,

  to reproduce a broader answer to the

  marginality that gobbled us up abruptly!

  AmeRícan, walking plena-rhythms in new york,

  strutting beautifully alert, alive

  many turning eyes wondering,

  admiring!

  AmeRícan, defining myself my own way any way many

  many ways Am e Rícan, with the big

  R and the accent on the í!

  AmeRícan, like the soul gliding talk of gospel

  boogie music!

  AmeRícan, speaking new words in spanglish tenements,

  fast tongue moving street corner “que

  corta” talk being invented at the

  insistence of a smile!

  AmeRícan, abounding inside so many ethnic english

  people, and out of humanity, we blend

  and mix all that is good!

  AmeRícan, integrating in new york and defining our

  own destino, our own way of life,

  AmeRícan, defining the new america, humane america,

  admired america, loved america,

  harmonious america, the world in peace,

  our energies collectively invested to find

  other civilizations, to touch God,

  further and further, to dwell in the

  spirit of divinity!

  AmeRícan, yes, for now, for i love this, my second

  land, and i dream to take the accent from

  the altercation, and be proud to call

  myself american, in the u.s. sense of the

  word, AmeRícan, America!

  SEFI ATTA

  GREEN

  This is going to be really boring. I forgot my book in the car. We are in the immigration office in New Orleans. The television is on CNN not Disney. A news woman is talking about the elections again. I don’t vote. I’m only nine.

  We sit in plastic purple chairs joined together, Mom and me. Dad stands in line for one of the booths. The booth curtains are purple too. They are open like a puppet show is about to begin, but real people sit behind the glass windows, stamping and checking. I hope my parents get their green cards. I really hope we can drive back to Mississippi in time for my soccer game.

  Booth A is for information and questions. Booth B is for applications. Booth C is for replacement cards. D is for forms and E is for adjudications. I know these words because I read, especially when I’m bored. What I don’t understand is why must they explain the rules in different languages here?

  No Smoking is No Fumar.

  No Drinking is Khong Duoc Uong.

  No Eating is No Comer and Khong Duoc An.

  I ask Mom, “What language is that?”

  “Spanish,” she says. She is not wearing her glasses so she can’t see far. She is holding the yellow envelope for their passports.

  I should have guessed Spanish. I take lessons in our after school program. Mr. Gonzalez won’t let us leave until we get our words right. He is always telling us to shut our mouths or else. Then you should see him at mass on Thursdays, eating the body of Christ and drinking the blood of Christ.

  There are people here who look like Mr. Gonzalez. Indian looking people too, like my friend Areeba who left our school because Catholic religion was confusing her. There are people who look Chinese to me, but whenever I say this, Mom says, They’re not all Chinese! Sometimes she gets on my last nerve. I’m just a kid. There is one family who looks African like us, but Mom says they must be Haitian because a man next to them keeps speaking French to their son.

  A pretty woman comes out of a wooden door. “Mr. Murphy?” she says. “Enrique Morales?” The third name she says sounds like Hung Who Win?

  Mr. Murphy is the French speaking man. “À bientôt,” he says, when he gets up. No one in the Haitian family answers him. Maybe they are too tired to be polite.

  I tell Mom, “Bet that’s where the green cards are hidden. Behind that wooden door.”

  “Like lost treasure,” she says.

  “Why green?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe because green is for go?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Remember when you ran a red light, Mom?”

  “When did I ever run a red light?”

  She did. She ran one and said it was too late to stop. I was small and I yelled, “Oo, that’s begainst the law.”

  “Can I please go and get my book from the car?” I ask. “Please?”

  “No,” she says. “Absolutely not. What if they go and call us?”

  Green is for vegetables. I will never eat mine. Green is for Northeast soccer field, especially when it rains. Green is for envy. My best friend Celeste is trying to make a move on my man, just because their names both start with C. His name is Chance. I told Mom my true feelings when she forced me to share. She said if two women are fighting over a man they’ve already lost. “What if your best friend makes a move on your man?” I asked. “Kai,” she said and bit her finger. “I blame that Britney Spears.”

  Dad hands over their passports to an old woman with orangey lipstick in the booth. When he comes back, he sits next to me.

  “How long will it take?” I ask.

  “You never know,” he says.

  “What if it takes all day?”

  “We’ll wait.”

  “Aw, man.”

  “‘Aw man,’ what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Last year, when Grandpa died, Dad couldn’t go for the funeral in Africa. Mom said this was because they were out of status waiting for their green cards. If Dad went to Africa, he wouldn’t be able to come back to America. Dad cried. Mom said people didn’t know the sacrifices we had to make. Then on the day of Grandpa’s funeral, a white pigeon landed on our roof. She said that it was Grandpa coming to tell Dad his spirit was at peace, which made me scared, so I sneaked into their bed again, in the middle of the night, even though I really didn’t believe that pigeon on the roof was my Grandpa.

  “How I wish we can get back to Mississippi before six,” I say.

  “What’s on at six?” Dad asks. “Some Disney rubbish?”

  “Never mind,” I say.

  If I tell him, he’ll think I’m selfish. I want to get back to Mississippi in time for soccer. Already he is watching the elections on CNN.

  Green is for my parents’ passports. Green white green is the color of the flag of their country in Africa, Nigeria.

  * * *

  * * *

  The pretty woman comes out of the door again. What she says sounds like Oloboga? Ologoboga?

  “That’s you,” I say, pulling Dad’s jacket. “Come on. Come on.”

  “Ah-ah, what’s wrong with you?” he asks.

  “Calm down,” Mom says.

  Sometimes my parents act like I’m bothering them all the time. I walk behind them. I don’t even want to be in the same footsteps with them. The pretty woman says, “Hey Sweetie.”

  “Stop sulking,” Mom says.

/>   “Are we getting your thumb print today, Sweetie?” the pretty woman asks me.

  “No, she’s the American in the family,” Mom says and smiles.

  On the other side of the door, I don’t see any green cards, only a room with a table and a copier. The pretty woman does Dad’s thumb print, then Mom’s, and then she writes our address in Mississippi to send their green cards. Mom won’t stop thanking her.

  “You have no idea. We waited so long. When will they come?”

  The woman leads us to the door saying, “By regular post. Yes, you can travel as you like. Yes, yes, you’re officially permanent residents.” I don’t think she cares.

  “Can we go now?” I ask, after she shuts the door.

  The Haitian family is still sitting out there. The lines for the booths are longer. An Indian boy spreads his arms like plane wings and makes engine sounds with his lips. Brr! Brr!

  We walk to the elevators.

  “Mardi Gras parade,” Dad says.

  “Is there one this afternoon?” Mom asks.

  “Shall we?” he says. “To celebrate?”

  “Do you want to stay for a Mardi Gras parade?” Mom asks me.

  Dad is dancing. Limbo. The yellow envelope with their passports is under his armpit. It’s so embarrassing.

  “Em,” I say. “No.”

  Last year we came for Mardi Gras in New Orleans. The weather was sunny. We watched the Oshun Parade on Canal Street. I was trying to catch the beads people were throwing from the floats. I preferred the golds. My neck was weighed down. Mom kept yelling in my ear, “Oshun is African. People here don’t know. She is the Yoruba goddess of love.” Her breath smelled of the beignets we ate for breakfast. Dad was saying, “Don’t just reach out like that. That’s why you keep missing them. See, there is a technique to catching the beads.” “What technique?” Mom asked and Dad stepped in front to show us and a huge black bead smacked him in the face. Then we had to eat lunch. I said I wanted Chinese. They said they wanted Thai. Mom said it was all the same. “Chinese is not Thai!” I said, and Mom asked, “How come you know the difference when it comes to food?” We ate King Cake on our way back to Mississippi. It was creamy and glorious. I got the pink plastic baby Jesus inside and Dad said, “That’s great,” and Mom asked, “What if she choked on it?”