by Reem Faruqi
says Owais.
So I do.
Slowly,
slowly,
I am getting better.
I know this because
Owais high-fives me
Stahr hugs me
and Coach Kelly
smiles wider when I finish
my laps quicker
beating the clock
second by second.
Coach Kelly tells me
if I keep it up,
I will start winning soon.
I am the water,
buoyant with hope.
Part Six
Bullied
Now that Ammi
is herself again,
she is back to what she does best:
worrying.
Ammi worries about us,
too much.
She buys us brand-new swimsuits
that smell like Walmart.
She packs us school lunches,
rolled-up parathas,
fried aloo kababs,
thermoses of rice
that tease us of home.
Are you being bullied?
No, we say,
because we aren’t.
We smile big,
too-big American smiles,
to reassure her.
But
if she were to ask me
about the man
the man on the bus,
I would have to
say Yes.
The Bus
The bus is a friendly yellow.
On the bus is a man.
The man on the bus is a monitor.
He is almost whole.
He has 2 legs.
2 eyes.
2 feet.
2 ears.
2 nostrils.
1 arm.
1 hand.
Jay
On the bus is Jay.
Jay like the alphabet,
Sandwiched between I and K.
A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K . . .
Jay has eyes the color
of a swimming pool.
A dangerous one
I wouldn’t want to jump into.
Jay and Cal are a team.
They whisper
to the man on the bus.
Did You Know?
A wedding ring
is worn
on the left hand?
The Incident
Jay and Cal do not whisper
anymore.
Their voices are loud.
Do you wear a wedding ring?
Can you shake hands with your left hand?
Their faces
change.
Their lips
smirk.
Their voices
laugh.
They laugh
All
The
Way
Home.
Mr. Tim,
the bus monitor,
stutters,
face turning red,
and looks out the window.
All
The
Way
Home.
I Wish
My skin stings
hot with anger,
but is too brown
to turn red.
I wish I could say something,
do something,
stop them,
but how?
I just look outside
at the trees.
Silent witnesses.
Just
Like
Me.
Sunday School
Whoever sees evil,
change it with his hand,
and if he is not able to do so,
then change it with his tongue,
and if he is not able to do so,
then with his heart—
and that’s the weakest of faith.
I am the weakest.
Pep Talk
Coffee break! yells
Coach Kelly,
her arms
waving us over
even though
there is no coffee
just puddles
of chlorine water.
By the pool
we huddle
shivery and warm,
warm and shivery.
Don’t forget
be like an octopus!
An octopus is not only quick
in the water.
An octopus is highly
intelligent.
An octopus knows
how to free itself
from difficult situations.
An octopus knows
how to soar
through the water.
I want to be
like an octopus.
Courage
Ms. White
arranges dying flowers in vases
walks around the room
in shoes that make no noise.
Ms. White gives advice as she peeks:
Soften your edges . . .
Notice the angles . . .
You could add more here . . .
Behind me she stops
quiet
pushes her glasses up.
Her mouth lies down in thought.
I think she is surprised by
how I hold my charcoal
easily
how I press down
dark
how shapes and shadows appear
clear
It takes courage to be so
bold.
Nice work.
Time
I hate riding
bus 11-269.
I hate stopping by
Blueberry Hill.
The stop adds 10 minutes
to our ride home.
10 minutes.
600 seconds.
Enough time
for anything
to happen.
Temper
In first grade,
Ms. Chowdhury made me sit next to
Ahmed Anwar.
A good girl
next to a bad boy.
Why don’t teachers
change their tactics?
He threw my favorite
Little Mermaid
pencil case
down to the ground.
I gave him a look.
The second time
I told him to stop.
The third time,
I pounded
the back of his head,
right next to
the gentle circle
of his cowlick,
Pound, pound, pound,
down to the ground,
until I got dragged out
to the hallway
by Ms. Chowdhury.
Good Girl no more.
Inside
When I get mad,
I am not like
the water in a rice pot
simmering slow.
I am calm
calm
calm
and then I explode.
I am a teakettle
waiting to scream.
The Incident
Tension takes bites
out of my stomach.
At first nibbles,
but then bites.
Jay and Cal
are bending their arms
into stumps
waggling them
back and forth
laughing quiet and loud
all at once.
Even though my face is calm
like a lake,
with no ripples at all,
my face becomes a wave.
Tidal.
Wild and furious
all at once.
SHUT UP!
SHUT UP!
ACT YOUR AGE.
My voice is so loud,
such a surprise—
it
shuts
them
up.
Tomorrow
I fidget at the bus st
op.
I am so scared
of what they will do today,
of what they will say today.
Owais is so lucky he is 15,
and that his friend Michael Lee is 16
and drives him to high school.
I feel so alone.
But before leaving, Owais
nods at me.
Is he trying to say
Everything will be okay?
Aftermath
Today
Cal and Jay
don’t even look at me.
Not a peek.
They don’t look at
Mr. Tim either.
The edges,
corners,
of my heart
feel lighter.
Terrorist Attack
We can’t focus
on our homework
because the words
stare angrily
in WHITE CAPITAL LETTERS
from the bottom
of the TV screen.
I don’t like
the way
they are saying
Muslim
on TV.
Owais throws down
his pencil.
It’s ironic, isn’t it?
Islam means peace.
I guess the shooter
didn’t really click
with that part.
The faces of my parents
look old and tired
and their sighs are
those of old people.
My father’s face is still a frown
and his eyebrows
inverted Vs no more.
Please pray for the victims.
Be careful when you are
out and about.
You never know
when someone will look at you
and because they may think
you believe
what that idiot does,
they may
snap.
Knock on the Door
The next day,
when we are in school
and my father is
buttoning the third button
on his shirt,
there is a knock at the door.
The man’s shoulders
are as wide as a refrigerator,
his waist a narrow bucket.
Sir, can you step outside?
My father asks why.
Again
Sir, can you step outside?
Then
I’m from the FBI
I need to ask you some questions.
Although my father’s
eyebrows change
from delicate inverted Vs
into straight lines,
he asks
Why don’t you come in?
The man whose shoulders
are as wide as a fridge—
his eyebrows become inverted Vs,
Sir, are you sure?
If I step inside,
and I see anything,
anything,
I can arrest you.
My father’s answer
is easy:
I have nothing to hide.
My mother’s voice
is gentle:
Would you like some tea?
Don’t they know yet?
You don’t have to be nice
to everyone in this country.
Facts
In Peachtree City,
it is sometimes colder in February
than in December.
It rains often.
Thunder.
Lightning.
Sometimes when it rains
hard enough in Peachtree City,
the electricity goes.
Just like in Pakistan.
In the darkness,
I am reminded of
home.
But today, it is rainy
and cold
so I cannot eat outside
with Stahr,
but Stahr is not here
because she is
getting the metal
on her teeth
tightened.
Inside the cafeteria,
a blur of faces,
I don’t know
where to sit.
My insides feel
tight.
No one else
except Stahr
has said those 8 words to me
Do you want to eat lunch with me?
I square-root numbers inside my head
100 . . . 10
81 . . . 9
64 . . . 8
49 . . . 7
36 . . .
to calm myself.
I am only at 36 when . . .
A whispery voice.
Where are your friends today?
Cal is in front of me.
Probably no one
wants to sit with you
or your people
anymore.
His face is a chewed-up sandwich.
My insides become ice
my cheeks become fire
I am too brown
to become red.
I open my mouth.
But this time—
the words are stuck
inside me.
Y’all need to find a seat . . .
Ms. White is on lunch duty
walking with purpose.
Cal smirks,
Good luck with that . . .
Ms. White turns.
I scuttle out of the cafeteria,
plan to go back to the triangle space
underneath the stairwell
to eat my lunch
alone
again.
A tap on my shoulder
I look up
Up
Up
at a tall girl
I saw what happened.
She pushes her braids
behind her ears
a warm smile
brown sugar skin.
I’m Destiny.
You can eat with us . . .
I follow her.
Knots loosen
from my tongue.
Thanks . . .
Inside the cafeteria
the lights are too bright
But Destiny
walks right by Cal
too close.
You’d better leave her alone . . .
She is much taller
than Cal,
much wider too,
she holds her breath in,
looks down at Cal,
with scowling eyes.
Cal’s face becomes
sour,
pinched.
He looks at me
hard
then walks away.
Art Class
Blocks of paper
creamy white,
charcoals smoky,
fat pastels,
welcome me on
Tuesdays and Thursdays.
In math there’s only one correct answer
which I like
but in art there is no wrong answer
which I love.
A line can be swirly or straight.
A circle can be perfectly round
or turned into an oval.
Math I can do quickly
But art
I do
slowly
on purpose.
After the Terrorist Attack
The FBI officer
makes sure
to knock on all the doors
of the neighbors
before leaving
to ask questions
about any suspicions
they may have.
Does my father’s skin,
beige like the grass
that has died in winter,
make you suspicious?
The voice of my mother
tired of being gentle
is now tight—
Assalamualaikum, Nurah,
&nb
sp; Wa-alaikum-as-salaam, Ammi,
How was your day?
Fine.
Hidden words fill the air.
I don’t tell her about Cal
picking on me
in the cafeteria.
I don’t want to worry her.
I have a feeling she worries enough
by the way she peeks in the mirror
and loosens her hijab
ever so slightly,
before she leaves
the house.
Part Seven
Looks
It is important to note
that my skin is
dark
like the heel of oatmeal bread
while Owais’s skin is
light
like the center of oatmeal bread.
We do not look alike
are not recognized
as brother and sister.
Jealousy
Coach Kelly praises Owais
all
the
time.
Owais is always
first.
I am almost always
in the middle.
When Owais wins,
Coach Kelly smiles big.
When I finish in the middle,
Coach Kelly smiles small.
Today, in our race,
I forgot my technique.
50 yards of me
slicing through the water,
my rhythm is off,
my arms and legs thrash
and
I am last.
Behind my goggles,
I can feel the familiar
pricking
of tears.
Why can’t I be more like him?
When will I win?
Owais’s Room
By his mirror
smirks
a
shelf
that
shines.
By his mirror
smirks
a shelf
full of
trophies
and
medals.
By his mirror
I am invisible.
By his mirror
if my insides
were visible
you would see
anger
bubbling
underneath
my skin.
Extra Practice
That is all you need,
reassures Owais,
my Underwater Sibling.
But I am already practicing extra
in the mornings.
Come with me
on the weekend
I’ll show you some pointers,
Owais’s slice of dimple smiles.
He tosses another medal
too easily
onto his shelf.
I shouldn’t have said Yes
while my anger bubbled.