Mama knows what happened
before Issa even brings me home.
She clings to both of us
and makes a sound I have never heard before.
It sounds like terror,
like primal relief.
They could have taken you, she says,
still squeezing us both tightly.
It is exactly what I said to Issa.
There is an Arabic proverb that says:
The offspring of ducks float.
It means,
all children end up like their parents.
I guess I am starting
to float.
After the raid on Issa’s apartment,
My mama, who has never been afraid of anything,
suddenly is squeezing my hand tight
when we walk to the market,
pulling me close to her at every corner,
looking ten times before we cross the street.
I watch her when she makes dinner.
She does everything a little slower
than she used to.
It’s like there is now a blinking caution light
inside of her.
Even Baba checks the lock
on the door
twice every night,
rubs Mama’s shoulders more than he used to,
though I’m not sure if that’s to make her
or him
feel better.
Maybe both.
I hear them late at night,
whispering back and forth to one another.
I can’t always make out the actual words,
but I can feel them,
taste them.
They taste like fear.
I stare up at the ceiling of my room.
I wonder where my brother is,
if he’s staring up at his ceiling,
in his new apartment,
if he’s afraid like me,
if he’s afraid at all.
When Mama first tells me,
it’s just us
sitting at the kitchen table,
sharing a snack of feta cheese and olives.
It’s only a visit, she says,
to see my brother.
My heart drops into my stomach.
Her brother lives an ocean away
in America.
We have never visited him because
it is not an easy place to visit.
It is a long trip.
An expensive one.
It is not a trip you would take for no reason.
We are leaving, I challenge her.
I look in her eyes
demanding she tell me the truth.
Sunlight streams in through the cracks in the blinds.
She used to leave our windows all the way open during the day.
Only for a little while, she admits,
and I can tell she wants to believe
what she is saying.
She wants to believe it for both of us.
What about Baba? I ask and watch
Mama’s big dark eyes fill up with tears.
What about Issa?
The tears spill over.
She tells me that Baba has to stay because he cannot
will not
leave the store.
She tells me that Issa
will not
leave.
I wish he would, she says,
holding out her hand to me,
and I know she means it to be comforting
that we both wish this,
but it only makes my heart hurt more.
Why do we have to go?
Her eyes are still wet.
She squeezes my hand tighter.
I’m sorry, habibti, but I cannot wait for things to get worse.
We cannot take the risk.
But things might not get worse, I argue.
I am thinking of everything I heard that night
in Issa’s basement.
Ideas about hope
and freedom.
Mama puts her hand on her stomach.
Jude, she says. I need you.
I need you, she repeats.
To help us.
My eyes study her hand,
her belly,
the rise and fall of her breath.
And all of a sudden,
I see all the pieces and how they fit.
My eyes are still watery, but I smile.
A baby? I say because I am worried
that if it’s not said out loud
it won’t be true.
Nunu, she confirms.
I slide out of my chair
and snuggle up to her belly,
pressing my ear against the soft fabric of her dress,
and I swear I hear
a heartbeat.
I am learning how to be
sad
and happy
at the same time.
It is our last day
and I am supposed to be packing.
Fatima and Auntie Amal have come over
to say good-bye.
I wanted to have a big party but
Mama said no.
She says there is no need
to make a big fuss
when we will be back soon
but the way she says soon
with the click of her tongue
makes it sound like a wish
instead of the truth.
Even though we aren’t having a big party
Auntie Amal still brought me sweets
from Chez Mariana
which is my favorite bakery.
Mariana went to Paris to study
and her bakery is filled with
tarts stuffed full of rich creams and
cakes that look like they belong in a fashion magazine.
Mama says that only tourists would pay
Mariana’s prices for cake.
Mama says the word cake like it’s just an ordinary food,
which is strange since everyone knows that cakes are made of magic.
I am on my second slice of cake
my hands sticky with the vanilla bean icing
when Fatima says,
You won’t forget me, will you?
I laugh and my knees go
weak so I sit on the floor
but Fatima swats at me.
Don’t laugh, she says and her voice cracks,
thick with emotion,
driving a rushing river between us,
with her on one side
and me on the other bank.
I want to swim back toward her,
but for the first time ever,
I’m not sure how.
When I look into her movie star–like eyes
I see real worry.
I couldn’t forget you even if I wanted to.
Fatima gives me her Take Me Seriously face.
She always wants me to be serious.
She likes dramas where people
fall in
and out of
and into love.
Where they
cry and sigh and cry some more.
I like comedies where people
laugh and then laugh
some more.
No one ever tells people in comedies to
grow up.
Fatima walks over to my bed
and sticks her head in one of the boxes
that I haven’t sorted yet.
She picks up two scarves,
one for each fist,
and waves them like she is
at the finish line of a race.
Are you going to bring these?
What she wants to ask is,
Are you going to wear these in America?
Are you going to grow up without me?
I take the scarves from her,
one
by one
and neatly place them in the
one bag
Mama has given me to pack up my
whole
life.
What would you like to eat?
she asks me, in English,
and we both laugh.
How are you doing today? she says,
a broad smile on her face.
For years now,
we have practiced English phrases.
I wonder if speaking English in America
will be anything like speaking English here at school.
I wonder if anything about America will be like it is
here.
I’ll write to you every day, I say.
Promise?
I nod and the river that rushed between us before
begins to dry up
and even though I am leaving
and she is staying,
it feels like we’re standing on the same shore again.
When I say good-bye to Baba,
he hugs me tight,
his arms saying everything that his lips don’t.
His tight embrace tells me to
be good and
listen to Mama.
His tight embrace tells me that
he is going to miss us
a lot.
My brother has come over to say good-bye, too.
It is all four,
five, my mind corrects,
of us in the same room and I wonder when,
if,
it will ever be like this again.
Issa picks me up off the ground
and twirls me around.
When he sets me back down,
he gives me a wide smile.
The type of smile I haven’t seen on his face
in a very long time.
The type of smile he used to wear
when we would spend hours
reciting movies and singing along to
Madonna and Whitney.
I don’t understand how you can be so happy, I say.
I’m leaving.
I say the second part in case my brother forgot
because recently,
he’s been forgetting a lot of things,
to come home for dinner,
to pick up the phone when we call,
to let us know that he’s okay.
I see Issa’s smile falter a little
and somehow this makes me happy,
a little.
Aren’t you going to miss me? I ask.
He pulls me close,
and whispers, Akeed.
But you’re going to have so much fun in America.
It’s going to be an adventure.
He must be able to tell I’m about to argue with him
Because he kisses the top of my head.
Then he brings his face close to mine
and whispers in my ear,
Be brave.
My knees lock and I am about to tell him
I don’t know how to do that.
But then I see Baba embracing Mama.
He is gently patting her stomach
and I have never seen Baba look so
proud and so worried all at the same time.
And that’s when I realize I don’t have a choice.
I’m going to have to learn how to be brave.
We’re all going to have to learn.
PART TWO
Arriving
The plane flight is
long.
Our seats are near the back of the plane,
Mama pressed against the window and me
pressed against her.
While Mama sleeps,
I look out the window.
When the sun rises,
I can see the ground below.
It all looks so
tiny
and far away.
I gasp but no one
hears me.
From the window of the plane,
I see a muddy river
framed by green rolling hills
that are dotted with houses.
I wonder which of those houses will now be mine.
We arrive,
in a city that I cannot pronounce,
a city called Cincinnati.
When the plane lands,
Mama and I are quickly directed to a long line
for people like us,
people who are not from America,
but who are trying to enter.
The line moves slowly.
My eyelids feel heavy
and my body does not have any idea what time it is.
It is finally our turn.
We are called up to talk with a man
sitting in a booth
under a sign that says
immigration.
The man beckons for us to step up closer.
He has kind blue eyes that seem tired.
Everyone in this airport seems
tired.
He starts talking and I know some of the words
that are coming out of his mouth,
but my mind feels sticky
and I can’t quite catch the meaning.
Back home,
I was always good at English.
I was one of the best in my class
at having pretend conversations.
I think of practicing simple phrases with Fatima
right before I left.
I think of how easy they came to me then—
How are you?
Good. Thank you.
Are you hungry? Would you like to go to lunch?
I would like a sandwich, please.
But this man is not asking me
simple things like
if I am hungry or what I would like to order.
He is asking real questions that
I can barely understand like
Why are you here?
And how long do you plan on staying?
I glance at my mama and her newly swollen stomach
and know this part is my responsibility.
I am the one who knows English.
I am the one who needs to talk,
But I am failing.
Words, all kinds of them, bubble up in my throat
but nothing comes out.
Mama reaches into her purse
and hands the man an envelope.
We watch as the man opens the envelope
and looks through the documents.
He studies each one as though it were a precious
artifact
and every organ in my body holds its breath
as I watch him make up his
mind about us.
Your uncle lives here? he asks me,
giving me
one
more chance to prove myself.
You are coming here to visit him?
Yes, I say.
Yes, yes, yes. It is clear as crystal.
Relief bubbles up inside of me.
One word in English, but it seems to be enough.
The man stamps our paperwork.
Welcome to America.
We are lucky.
I know this because Mama tells me over
and over again
as we walk down the narrow hall
toward baggage claim.
Mahzozeen, Mama whispers under her breath.
And I know she is referring to the fact
that our papers worked,
that we are not still stuck in that line,
that we were not sent back.
It is so strange to feel lucky
for something that is making my heart feel so sad.
My uncle is not what I was expecting.
He is tailored suits and a fancy wristwatch.
He is perfect English and a big car that purrs as it
hums down the street.
He meets us at the airport with his wife,
my aunt Michelle,
and their daughter,
my cousin, Sarah.
When he sees my mother,
his whole face lights up.
He has my mother’s smile.
He has her eyes,
my eyes.
My mother rushes to him,
and I feel her exhale
as he wraps his arms around her,
and something inside me twists.
I don’t want my uncle to think that we needed
saving.
I don’t want to owe him
anything.
I cross my arms over my chest
to show them—
my uncle, his wife, his daughter—
that I am not a stray animal they need to adopt.
But my resolve
starts to fade when his wife
walks toward me
and clasps my hands
in hers.
Welcome to America, she says.
Her voice sounds like an American movie star—
clear and sprinkled with sugar.
She looks like an American movie star, too.
Honey blond hair,
big light eyes,
casual elegance.
Call me Aunt Michelle.
We’re so glad you’ve come to visit us.
She is looking at me,
telling me
not to worry.
That I don’t owe them anything.
I smile at her,
and find my words in English,
Thank you.
My uncle drives us back to his house
which is in a neighborhood called Clifton.
Cliff-ton is easier to say than
Sin-Sa-Nati.
Clifton, I practice saying,
and my cousin Sarah laughs.
She has barely said anything but hello to me,
and now she is laughing.
Laughing at me
and my English pronunciation.
Sarah, Aunt Michelle says,
and I hear the warning in my aunt’s voice.
That is something powerful enough to transcend oceans:
a mama’s ability to say something
without actually saying it.
I don’t like this about myself,
but the more I look at my cousin,
my cool American cousin,
with her jean shorts that are purposefully ripped,
and sequined T-shirt,
and pale pink lip gloss,
the more I want her to like me.
But from the way
she is staring out the window,
pretending like I don’t exist,
I get the feeling that she doesn’t care much
whether or not
I like her.
My uncle’s house is so big
that it could fit four of my old apartments inside of it.
It has three whole stories
and shiny wooden floors that
creak when you step on them.
My uncle Mazin works all the time.
He is an important doctor at an important hospital.
So during the day, it is just
Aunt Michelle
Mama
Sarah
and me.
Our first few days in America are a blur of
mornings that feel like nights
and nights that feel like mornings.
Plates of baked chicken and pasta,
bowls of milky cereal,
and lots and lots of questions from Aunt Michelle.
No matter how tired we are,
Aunt Michelle forces us to get up
and get out.
We take long walks around our new neighborhood.
Aunt Michelle charges ahead,
Mama and me are sandwiched in the middle,
and Sarah walks slowly behind us,
sulking a little.
I keep expecting to see a
cliff in
Clifton
but so far,
I’ve only found really
big hills,
and even bigger trees.
Clifton is filled with old big houses.
Aunt Michelle tells us that their house
is over one hundred years old and I can tell she is
proud of this, but I’m not sure why.
Everyone back home wants
a new house
not an old one.
When I ask Mama about it,
she says,
Americans don’t have much history
so they like things they think are old.
At first, I don’t think I will like the
old house with its
creaking
wooden floors
and steep staircases.
Mama and I live up in the bedroom on the
top floor,
the third floor.
But one morning,
when I wake up,
the floor creaks
and it sounds like the house is saying
hello
and that makes me feel less alone.
The old house is
slowly
becoming my friend.
My first American friend.
When my uncle is home,
he is always asking
if we are okay,
or does Mama need a glass of water?
I know he means to be nice,
but it only makes me feel more like a guest
in his house,
a visitor,
a burden.
Come here, Jude, he says,
in English.
Even though I know he speaks Arabic,
he always speaks to me in English.
He invites me into his study
and shows me his speakers
that can play music
without any wires.
And his shiny computer
with its big flat screen.
I know he wants me to be impressed,
and I am,
but I try to hide it.
Showing him I’m impressed
feels somehow like a betrayal of Baba,
a betrayal of home.
My cousin Sarah is
chunky platform sandals that
clomp clomp
on the hardwood floors of the old house.
She is sparkly pink lip gloss
and nails the color of a sunset on a summer night
and jeans that have shiny sequins on the pockets.
Sometimes she is friendly,
inviting me to sit next to her on the couch
where she watches a television show about
American teenagers who wear fancy clothes and
are trying to figure out
who murdered one of their classmates.
I tell Mama about the show.
Americans are obsessed with murder, she says.
And you made me move here to be safe, I say,
half joking, half not.
Mama shakes her head and tells me to stop watching.
But the very next afternoon,
I sit next to Sarah
on the sun-soaked white leather couch
and watch the American teenagers play detective.
Sarah is less than a year older than me,
but I feel like she is already a
woman
while I am still a little
girl.
She doesn’t seem surprised
by all the kissing on the show.
I wonder if she has been kissed herself,
but I’m not brave enough to ask her.
I start to think that Sarah is becoming my friend,
but one night,
I hear her talking with Aunt Michelle.
When will they leave? Sarah says.
My heart sinks as I translate the words
in my head,
the weight of them slowly settling
onto my chest like a stone.
She can’t go to my school, Mom, Sarah says.
She doesn’t even speak English, she says.
I spend the rest of that night
locked in the bathroom,
whispering to myself in the mirror.
I speak English.
America is
full of new things.
Glittery
blinking
in-your-face
things.
Everything in America
moves fast
and is loud.
Cars honking
Traffic lights flashing
Big billboards advertising
hamburgers
drinks
an entirely new life.
It seems like everything
everyone
is trying to sell you something.
Sometimes I feel dizzy with want,
sometimes I just feel dizzy.
Aunt Michelle takes us shopping
at a mall that feels like it is larger
than my entire town back home.
When I say this to Mama
she scoffs and tells me our town is
not that small
but when she doesn’t know I’m looking,
I see her eyes fill with wonder as she takes in
the cold, air-conditioned stores,
each one bigger
fancier
than the last.
In America,
it seems like everyone has money,
new shiny sneakers
bright-colored lipstick
pants that fit just right.
Then I start to notice the man on the corner
with a sign begging people for help,
the tired woman waiting for the bus
with shoes that are cracked at the sole.
America, I realize,
has its sad and tired
parts too.
America,
like every other place in the world,
is a place where some people sleep
and some people
other people
dream.
Sometimes I think I might split in half
from the ache of missing
my brother
Baba
Fatima
Auntie Amal
the ocean
Chez Mariana
fruit that tastes like sunshine.
I even miss the tourists
and sometimes I even
miss the smell of fish.
Sometimes it feels like when I boarded that plane
to fly to America
I left my heart behind,
beating and lonely on the other side of the ocean.
I talk to Baba through
my uncle Mazin’s fancy computer.
The first time we call him
I sit in my mama’s lap while my uncle
presses buttons that make the computer
come alive
and all of a sudden Baba is on the screen.
Both Mama and I squeal with delight.
We tell him about the
old house
and the even
older houses on our street.
We tell him about the big trees
that stretch up high in the sky
and the big hills
and the big cars that we see driving down the street.
Everything is big in America?
he asks, smiling.
Baba is smiling so big
it makes me think
if only for a second
that everything is going to be okay,
that someday soon we’ll all be
together
again.
Mama asks him about the store
and he says everything is good
but his smile fades.
Until now, I never knew you could see
fear
through a computer screen.
Baba says our town is safe
but there are still protests
and there are still tanks in nearby towns.
When he talks about the protests
and the tanks in the nearby towns,
we all tense and
my heart is thinking
Where is Issa?
Do you see him?
Do you miss him?
But my mouth is silent,
my lips shut like a
closed door.
When Baba ends the call
and it’s just Mama and me left in Uncle Mazin’s study,
I ask Mama about Issa.
Her big eyes go sad,
she kisses my face,
and tells me not to worry,
but it’s hard to do that when I can see,
and smell,
the worry all over her.