by Reem Faruqi
flip my apple
upside down,
biting into
the red underbelly
creating a flower-shaped pattern.
Then pray namaz,
then homework,
then finally,
it’s time to swim.
In the pool
we dive
low.
We float high.
On the surface,
eyes closed,
I float my worries away.
Bright-Yellow Flyer
I see it
at the Rec Center
underneath the sunny window
winking at me.
I grab one
fold it into
one rectangle
two rectangles
three rectangles
four.
I place it at the top
of my swimming bag
with a smile.
Teatime
Why don’t we both
try out for
the Center swim team?
Owais’s face
is happy.
Owais is the
athlete,
the one
with the medals and trophies.
I am okay,
but not good enough
to win a medal
or a trophy
or anything really—
at least not yet.
But when I see
Owais’s dark eyebrows
unstitched
I know I can win.
Maybe even a medal,
so that is why I ask.
That is why I say,
Let’s do it!
Maybe you can make
some friends,
adds Baba.
Definitely!
Enthusiasm
is
contagious.
Skin
At swim team tryouts
there is skin
skin
skin.
Arms and underarms
legs and thighs.
I am wearing leggings,
a swim shirt with sleeves.
And even though I am covered
covered
covered
I am scrutinized.
The odd one out,
again.
Dollop of Hope
The next day
at tryouts
one girl is there
wearing tights
and long sleeves
too!
She stands by me.
Does she know
I need a friend?
Before we dive
leaving a trail of bubbles
like hope behind us . . .
I’m Stahr!
I’m Nurah!
Pep Talk
Coach Kelly’s
hair is
curly,
bouncy,
like the tentacles
of an octopus.
But her voice is
low
and
rough.
If you make the team,
I expect
Winners
I expect
Medals
I expect
A strong team
I expect
You to do your best
I expect
Teamwork.
Any questions?
Stahr
Whose name has an extra h
but is pronounced like Star
finds me at school
before I go to
my safe triangle
underneath the stairwell.
Do you want to eat lunch with me?
8 words that change my life.
Stahr has freckles.
Not like me.
Stahr’s teeth are covered in metal.
Not like me.
Her eyes are pale green and gray.
Not like me.
She wears long sleeves
at school
all the time.
Just like me.
But one day at lunch,
she pulls up her sleeves,
and shows me the yellow,
the purple,
and the blue.
My dad hits us with his belt,
and cusses at us.
Don’t tell anyone, okay?
I am a good friend.
So I don’t.
Camouflage
I always wished I
had freckles,
but seeing Stahr’s,
I don’t think I would want
that many.
If Stahr wears green,
her eyes are green.
If Stahr wears gray,
her eyes are gray.
It doesn’t matter
what color I wear—
my eyes stay
dark dark brown.
Imagine
Underneath a sky
the color of promises
Stahr and I sit
at lunchtime
on a bench
in bright sunlight.
Imagine.
Difference
The difference between
having a friend
and not having a friend
can be told
from my face.
Before having a
friend
I would wear a mask
of silence.
I would not look here,
there,
everywhere,
but rather,
at the hallway floor.
Tile
after
tile.
With a friend,
I look here,
there,
everywhere.
With a friend,
my feet feel light,
like my name.
With a friend,
I don’t have to stitch
my mouth tightly
together.
With a friend,
I let the corners
of my mouth
curl into a smile.
Swim Tryouts
Stahr swims like me
and
I swim like Stahr.
We share the same pace
arms slapping the water
feet kicking.
We talk about
how we want to make the team
how we want to win medals
and Stahr wants to know
How did Owais get so good?
We float lazily
and giggle giddily
until Coach Kelly claps
her hands
and barks
Okay, ladies,
less talking,
more swimming!
But this only makes us
laugh louder,
and Coach Kelly
offers us a little smile.
Strokes
It’s all about the strokes,
says Coach Kelly.
You want your arms to
slice
the water
not slap.
This I can understand.
For art
with my pencil
I can press hard
to get darker colors
light strokes
for light colors.
For swimming:
quick strokes,
precise strokes,
to win.
Alyson
In geometry class,
Mr. Ferguson sings the
quadratic formula.
Negative b
Negative b
Plus or minus square root
Plus or minus square root
b squared minus 4ac
b squared minus 4ac
all over 2a
all over 2a.
While he sings
and I doodle,
the sunlight
is making friends with my hair.
My arms are s
o long they can easily reach
the tops of the cabinets to get a glass,
to drink wader not water,
but my legs are not so long,
I am the shortest,
always the shortest in the class.
And Alyson who looks like the person
on the cover of the magazine,
and whose arms and legs
and everything in between
are exactly the size they should be,
puts down her pencil and says,
Omigosh Nurah, your hair is so pretty.
Surprised, I put my pencil down,
and let my lips whisper, Thank you.
Owais
I have better hair,
but his face is better looking than mine.
If you take a loaf of oatmeal bread,
I am the brown heel of the bread.
He is the white inside.
His lashes are longer than mine
even though he is a boy.
His lips fuller
even though he is a boy.
When I was little,
I thought Owais and I looked alike.
But now when I hear the aunties talk about us,
my ears pay attention
and I realize
we don’t look alike at all.
Aunties will smile wider
when he is around
will compliment his looks
the slice of his dimple
when they think he can’t hear,
but they forget that
we can hear
much more
than they think.
Masjid
At the masjid
I am covered.
You can see just my face
and hands.
Here we are mirrors
of each other.
Everyone here is almost all brown—
different shades,
and I feel like I can breathe easier,
like I’m almost home.
With my forehead down
on the prayer mat,
cool and soft,
I pray for me
to make the swim team.
I pray for medals.
I pray for peace in Pakistan.
I pray for God to give me the world.
Ripe and glistening
a gift
in my palm.
At the masjid, no boys will try to shake my hand.
Here the girls will try to be my friend,
but I will see them looking over my shoulder.
Is Owais looking?
I talk about him just enough
to keep their attention.
Junaid
Owais’s new masjid friend is named Junaid.
After basketball in the parking lot
when the boys are in a circle,
even though a circle has no point,
no leader,
he is the leader.
His laugh the loudest,
his eyes the brightest.
In my mind,
his name bounces
round and round.
Does Owais talk about me at all to him?
I wonder.
Hair
It is too long
and its weight
is bogging me
d
o
w
n.
At the salon,
I point to my chin,
like a girl in a magazine
confident and smooth,
to show the lady
how short I want it to be.
Sweetie,
is your mom here with you?
My head shakes angrily.
No.
Can I talk to her on the phone?
I am tired
of always being treated
like a baby,
but I mumble the number anyway,
a number that I don’t even like
memorizing
because I miss my old number
back home.
I just wanted to make sure
it was okay to cut her hair so short.
She looks so young!
As she cuts and snips,
my anger evaporates.
But when the assistant
sweeps away my hair
smiles at the
silky black Cs
on the floor,
she says
I’m trying to grow my hair out.
Just like how your hair
used to be.
I don’t smile back.
School
I get random
compliments
from random people.
But when Aidan
walks by me in the hallway
he looks looks looks
at me
just me
and says,
Nice hair, Nurah.
I now know the reason
for my haircut.
Stand Out
Coffee break! yells Coach Kelly
whenever she wants to give us
a pep talk.
Remember,
when you’re in the water,
you want to STAND OUT.
Got it?
Stand out.
We nod
and shiver.
Yes,
we will
do our best
to stand out.
Fall Parent Conferences
Needs to participate more
is written under the comments.
She can’t stop talking at home,
Ammi tells Ms. White.
I am tired of being told
I talk too much
or I talk too little.
Ms. White thinks
I talk too little.
Coach Kelly thinks
I talk too much.
Why can’t they just let me
be?
Hi, Nurah!
This is my mom.
This is my dad.
Stahr says to everyone,
eyes gray today
because she’s wearing gray.
Walking proudly
next to her parents.
I do not tell anyone
This is my mom
or this is my dad.
I try to walk a little in front,
sometimes a little behind.
Ammi is the only one
wearing a hijab
(seafoam green at that)
and even though I like the sea,
I really don’t want
to call more attention
to us.
Why can’t I just
blend,
like everyone else?
Why can’t I just
blend,
like Stahr?
Amphibian
In water
I want to stand out.
But on land
I want to blend in.
On the Way Home
What a friendly child
your friend Stahr . . .
what nice parents too . . . ,
Baba and Ammi remark
and I hate
how anger
pools inside of
me.
To make them stop,
Her dad hits her, I say
and my mother’s face is sad again.
Swim Team
My mother’s face
My father’s face
My brother’s face
My face
are happy today
because we both made the team.
(Stahr too!)
In a red booth
we sprinkle pizza with red pepper.
In a red booth
my mother wears red lipstick.
In a red booth
the cheese melts long and liquid—
into joy.
Part Four
My Mother’s Belly
The belly of my mother is
&
nbsp; mostly flat
but inside it
there is a secret.
The secret
is the size
of a raspberry.
I am expecting a baby,
she says, her voice full of
hesitation,
but underneath the hesitation,
I hear hope.
I finally feel
light
like the meaning
of my name.
Back Home
Asna has a baby sister
whose hair smells like Cocoa Puffs
and when I held
the baby,
I knew
how to
curl my mouth
into
a sh-sh-sh-sh.
I knew
how to
bend my knees
up-down-up-down.
My body will remember
again.
Doubts
But later,
when I’m alone,
I wonder and wonder and wonder
and the wondering makes
me feel heavy and heavy and heavy
all over again.
Before Bed
Did we move to
America
just so you could have babies
who are American citizens?
Is that why we are here?
The question slips out
much louder than I meant it to
and I can taste the salty anger
on my tongue.
My mother looks up
while she braids
her hair with one hand—
twirl bend loop.
Her face tired,
so tired
that I feel sorry—
I wish I could iron
her wrinkles away.
My Father’s Answer
No
No
No
No
That is not the reason
that we are here.
We are here because of
job security,
the schools are better,
more opportunities.
Don’t you like it here?
Anger
When I was little
and I lost swimming races
against Owais,
I would cry tears
shaped like secrets,
salt mixed with chlorine
behind my goggles.
I would throw my towel
call him names
churning the sadness
into anger.
Because isn’t it easier
to be angry
than sad?
Swimming