by Reem Faruqi
and never babysit her kids
again.
Weighing Down of Words
It happens again.
This time Dadi doesn’t ask
if I want to go
to Baskin-Robbins.
This time I am reading
words heavy on my mind
and when I look up
and around
she is gone
and the front door
is open
again.
I run down the path.
Relief.
My heart
begins to beat slower
when I see her there.
But oh no oh no oh no
her hands are holding out
rupee notes
and someone is giggling.
Aidan is behind the counter
and his smile
is not a good smile,
but a straight line
mocking her.
How can a smile
make me feel
so bad?
Aidan
When he sees me
he doesn’t acknowledge me
with the crooked smile
the way he does
in science class
instead
his eyebrows rise
and his straight line
goes away
but it is too late
my fists roll up
the rupee notes
and when I guide Dadi
out the door
quick quick quick
leaving her strawberry ice cream
behind
I hear their laughter
erupt.
Decision
Ek minute
I tell Dadi
steadying her
by the door.
I remember when my tongue
betrayed Owais
I remember when my tongue
betrayed me.
I remember I need to
say something.
I go back in
to their laughter.
I find my voice
and
spit it out
It’s not funny.
The store gets
Very Quiet
and I feel
light again.
I grab Dadi’s ice cream.
I remember what hope
tastes like,
a little sweet
and tart
like strawberries.
The Mirror
In the mirror,
I hide my hair
in a sparkly pink
chiffon.
In a dusty-orange
cotton.
And my favorite
an aquamarine-blue
silk.
I study who I am
who I am becoming
who I want to be.
Before
I would have thought
what Aidan thought
what Junaid thought
what Stahr thought
what Alyson thought
but now
I care
what I think.
I care
what I say
and it feels good.
I think of Ms. White.
I grab my pencil
and
start to draw
something unexpected.
The new me.
No Longer
I no longer
speak to Aidan
in class
and the only thing
he says to me
is
Uh sorry
your grandmother
looked scary,
dry laugh.
But it is not funny
to me,
I cannot dry laugh
with him.
I wish I could
pound pound pound
the gentle cowlick
of his head
but instead I fix my eyes
on the teacher
on the board.
Instead I let Brittany
do the talking,
be his lab partner,
which she happily does
and doesn’t notice me,
not once.
Lab
My anger doesn’t feel
so angry,
it feels sad,
it feels lonely,
because I’m supposed
to have a partner
and I don’t have one
anymore.
Trying Again
Two tables down sits
Brittany’s old partner,
who looks as lost
as I feel.
Want to work with me?
A sudden smile.
Brittany’s old partner
Emika
was very quiet
with Brittany
but with me
she talks talks talks
and my ears welcome
her voice.
When she turns,
her thin braid
winks at me.
Melty Circles of Joy
Stahr’s eyes are leaky
with tears
while she and her mom stay at
Comfort Suites
for a few days
before moving
to their new apartment
which is no longer 8 houses away
from me
but 2 windy golf cart paths
or 3 roads away
and 6 traffic lights.
Stahr’s tears stop leaking
when I lead her to the lobby,
introduce her to
Miss Polly and Miss Josefina
and to the freshly baked
chocolate chip cookies,
to melty circles
of joy.
Unwanted
After school
Stahr drives her golf cart
over to my house
and rings the bell.
She brings Mason too.
Mason, who she chooses
for a partner
in math class,
has chosen
for a partner
in real life.
Ammi gives me a look
her eyes saying
What is that boy doing here?
as she opens the door.
My face feels hot.
Too hot.
Don’t you know
girls and boys can’t be
just friends?
I know Ammi is thinking that.
But he is not my friend.
He is Stahr’s friend.
He is Stahr’s boyfriend.
Want to go with us
to Target? she asks.
No thanks,
pretty busy around here.
Got to go.
I feel relief as I shut the door
in their faces.
Ammi’s gaze on me
cools.
Practice
Ammi’s gaze on me warms
when I practice wearing
my hijab
a little bit
now and then
to Walmart
to Pizza Hut
other places too.
In the beginning
the looks of others spear me
but the more I wear it
the easier it becomes.
The more I wear it
the looks seem to
soften.
Spring Conferences
A kernel of an
idea
of hope
curls in my mind.
I think I would like
to try to wear it
tonight.
This time, I say:
This is my mom.
This is my dad.
This time,
I introduce them
to people.
This time,
you can see from my
hijab
loosely looped
and my mother’s hijab
tightly wrapped
that we are related.
Family.
The way it’s meant
to be.
Part Nine
Owais’s Room
His shelf is bare
swimming medals
stuffed in a drawer
no longer smirking
at me.
Hollowness pools
inside of me.
Now what?
Without Owais
Loneliness is the color
of the swimming pool
today.
Without Owais,
I match the mood
of the pool:
Blue.
Offerings
I offer my brother
invitations to the pool
in blue and green pastels,
the colors of hope.
Come back to the
the blue cocoon.
I tell him
it’s safe again.
You are my
Underwater Sibling.
Come back, please?
I bring him
a note
from Coach Kelly
urging him
to come back
to practice.
Instead he shrugs
it all away.
I like tennis, he says.
Returning
My grandfather Nana Abu does not smile
for photos,
doesn’t smile on Skype either,
but
when I tell him
we are bringing Dadi back,
returning
on June 12th
for a visit,
his smile fills the screen,
his voice becomes
floating bubbles
of laughter.
My Father
It is not fair
of me to say that
my father is here
just for job security
and schools.
He is here
and we are here
because he believes
this is where
we should be.
Thirsty
But still,
I am thirsty
for home.
I want to see Nana and Nana Abu
and Asna
and everyone else.
Friends
Every Sunday,
my father wakes
at the white thread of dawn
and goes to the mosque
with food in hand
for the Breakfast Club.
Sometimes it is
warm flaky parathas,
doughy circles full of air,
scooped balls
of watermelon,
eggs that are so so spicy,
enough for six men.
And my father,
I realize,
is making friends too.
Hobbies of My Brother
Every day
after school,
Owais doesn’t go with me
to the Rec Center.
Instead, he plays tennis
with his friend
Michael Lee
who lobs the ball
high
high
high
and Owais,
who always has
an eye on the ball,
smashes it
low
low
low.
And this time
if the ball goes
into the net,
he picks it right up,
dusts off the fluff,
soft and yellow,
and keeps on playing.
Who Do We Have?
I have Stahr
my mother has Penelope
Owais has Michael Lee
my father has the Breakfast Club.
Stamina
Is what you have
when you swim
back and forth
forth and back
easily without stopping.
Stamina is what I need
so I can swim
back and forth
forth and back
easily
without gasping
for air.
When Coach Kelly calls
Coffee break!
she looks right at me.
She sees me.
She throws her arms
wide
in the air.
You can only eat an elephant
(or a whale!)
one bite at a time . . . ,
she reassures me.
You can only win a race
one breath at a time.
I can do this.
One breath at a time.
Sunday School
Here,
at the masjid,
I wear Nana’s kurtas again
with piping,
3 buttons,
pockets even.
And instead of jeans,
tight denim that chokes my legs,
I wear my shalwars
soft and forgiving.
I remember the words of Nana,
When you wear hijab,
each step you take
it is as if God is smiling
upon you.
Today when I wear my hijab,
tightly wrapped,
shimmery light blue,
I can’t see my hair,
and even though my face
usually envies my hair,
today when I look
in the mirror,
I think—
Not bad.
Masjid Lobby
Where boys and girls
stand
and there is no
wall partition
like there is
when we pray,
I see Owais
and Junaid.
Although they are
arguing,
it is playful
and their features
are enhanced
instead of
distorted.
I stand by Owais,
waiting.
Have I ever been
this close to Junaid
before?
If he was like Aidan,
he would put out
his hand.
I am aware of
how I stand
how I blink
how I breathe.
The shape
my mouth makes.
He has a letter-C scar
on his chin.
How did he get it?
Nurah, I know he can play basketball,
but is he as good at swimming
as he says he is?
Junaid’s question
sprinkles the air.
WE both are, I say.
His eyes crinkle
into smiling
crescents.
You both are something else!
Owais smirks.
When Owais turns
to get water,
Junaid offers me
a smile,
just me,
while I tuck a smile
into my cheek.
Even though he can’t see
my hair
I feel prettier than I have
in a long time
and exactly where
I’m supposed to
be.
Final Art Project
Looking through
my portfolio,
Ms. White scans through
my latest
self-portrait,
my brown
look-at-me skin
shaded with pride—
my something unexpected
me in my aquamarine
silk hijab.
Ms. White’s lips dance
into a quirky smile.
Nurah
, welcome to
my memory.
Final Swim Meet
Before the final swim meet,
I know what I need to do.
I walk into my brother’s room.
My Underwater Sibling.
Grab his trunks,
and YELL
with my voice,
the one that made teachers
move mefaraway
from Asna in class,
Enough is enough!
Fine he grumbles,
Fine he mutters,
Fine he smiles.
Coach Kelly’s Warm-Up
Tan muscular arms
tracing triangles
through the air.
Freestyle.
Tan muscular arms
swirling circles
through the air.
Breaststroke.
We copy her,
stretch our doubts away.
I am ready ready ready.
Diving Block
Inside my tummy
it feels like
frogs are
hop
hop
hopping.
50 Yards
I have practiced
and practiced
over and over
back and forth
this whole season
and now have the right
rhythm for freestyle
and breast stroke.
With breast stroke,
I know to keep my arms straight together,
do a frog kick,
then circle my arms.
With free style,
I know to breathe after I’ve passed the flags,
glide through the water,
streamline off the wall
to speed
efficiently through
my blue cocoon.
I pat my goggles
over my eyes,
wave to Ammi
and Baba,
nod to Owais,
squeeze Stahr’s arm,
and when the race begins
I am already in the water
in a perfect
d
i
v
e.
Final Swim Meet
Coach Kelly’s hair
is straighter than mine today
and even though I am dripping
she scoops me up
into a hug.
You did it, Nurah!
I’m so proud!
My hug makes
the tips of her hair
curl up into smiles.
And Ammi
and Baba
are looking at me,
faces light and loose and lovey
because I am in third place,
a winner
of a medal.