Other Words for Home: Parts Two–Three

Sarah bounds in
and leaves me staring up
at the enormous old building
which is new to me.

Pre is an English preposition that
means before.
Pre Jude knew the way to all her classes,
Pre Jude never showed up late.

Pre Jude reveled in her classmates’ attention,
but now I just want to blend in.

It is a communal moment I do not participate in
because once I’ve figured out what
Mr. Anderson means by “homework,”
he’s already talking about something else.

As he grabs a piece of chalk
and writes problems on the board,
I think about the word
housekeeping:
the upkeep of the home,
the management of household affairs.

As he grabs a piece of chalk
and writes problems on the board,
I think about the word
housekeeping:
the upkeep of the home,
the management of household affairs.

We are watching another show
about glamorous American teenagers.

My whole body rings
with anticipation as I wait
for Sarah’s invitation.

But it doesn’t come.

We all look at each other excitedly,
thinking that she is going to let us watch
a snippet of an American movie—
a treat she sometimes allows us
when we’ve worked hard in class.

I may not be able
to see the appeal of bleeding meat,
but butter,
I understand.

And that’s when I realize
my uncle hasn’t been showing me
all his fancy stuff to impress me,
but to convince me.

Mama cannot believe that
Uncle Mazin doesn’t go to mosque.

I drum on the table with my fingers,
in the same way I used to watch Issa do,
when he would take me out to the sandwich shop,
and we would wait for our order of falafel and hummus
and extra tahini sauce.

She shows me website after website
that is filled with delicious photographs of food
and also photographs of women dressed in beautiful
outfits sprawled across beautiful furniture
in their beautiful houses.

Everyone gets very quiet while Mrs. Bloom talks about
the guidelines for the tryout:
a two-minute monologue
and a song.

Mrs. Bloom paces the stage,
the heels of her boots echoing against the wood,
and I imagine it again:

Me, walking on that stage.
My footsteps echoing.
My voice radiating through the room.

I wake up early,
tiptoeing out of bed before Mama rouses from sleep.

Like my uncle,
I am hungry to read every word I can about
Aleppo
about the families from my country
who were not as lucky as me,
who are fleeing from towns that are under siege
taken over by violent radicals
or by the government under the guise of stopping
violent radicals.

Like my uncle,
I am hungry to read every word I can about
Aleppo
about the families from my country
who were not as lucky as me,
who are fleeing from towns that are under siege
taken over by violent radicals
or by the government under the guise of stopping
violent radicals.

But in talking about him,
in saying anything,
even in my mangled
fractured English,
I am imagining him,
imagining and wishing
and hoping
that he is safe.

The buttery smell of blueberry muffins
that are baking
wafts through the kitchen.

We are both in a daze,
the word bint on our lips,
tasting like chocolate,
tasting like afternoon mint tea with three extra
spoonfuls of sugar,
tasting like sunshine.

Her finger moves from Mama’s face to
point to her head,
to her hijab.

I’ve decided it is very American
to have the audacity
to claim that three things
add up to everything.

I feign ignorance and ask, Which friend?

But Sarah is already walking toward Harper
toward Mina
toward Sloane

and I am trudging behind her,
trying to figure out how not to act weird,
trying to figure out how to belong.

We are on the top of the tallest hill
and SarahMinaHarperSloane are talking about
tryouts for the school play
and I am planning to just listen but
then something inside of me kicks.
An impulse that I have
buried and thought I left on the other side of the
Atlantic.

Everyone stares at me in
silence
until finally Mina
and then Sarah
followed by Sloane
volunteer that they are planning to try out
but they all downplay their chances
talking about how seventh graders never get
cast in actual speaking roles
and definitely
never get any
of the parts with singing solos
except for a girl
named Abigail last year who got one
and this year she’ll probably get a lead role.

Her mother has ladled us two big bowls of soup
convinced that
the lemon in the broth will stave off
all the winter viruses going around.

Her mother has ladled us two big bowls of soup
convinced that
the lemon in the broth will stave off
all the winter viruses going around.

Her swallow is a big fat period
at the end of her sentence,
a declaration.

I recognize the handwriting immediately.
It is poised and neat,
because I am confident in the Arabic alphabet,
unlike my shaky form when it comes to English letters.

She skips over my last name,
gargling all the letters together,
making a mess of the name that is mine
Baba’s
Issa’s
and will be my baby sister’s.

And for a moment,
my nerves turn from anxious
to angry,
from nervous
to defiant.

You are a woman, Jude, Mama says,
her voice equal parts
awe and admiration.