Other Words for Home

by Jasmine Warga

As I leave her room I think of the Arabic proverb that says: She cannot give what she does not have. I have never really understood what that means, but it seems wise and like I might be learning to better understand it now.

Uncle Mazin doesn’t go to mosque. He makes excuses like he is busy with work family life, but Mama won’t hear any of it. She finds a mosque on Clifton Avenue. It’s only a ten-minute walk, she says to me, proud that she has found it, proud that she is attending, proud that she is walking there on her own.

She asks in Arabic, if I speak Arabic, and even though her Arabic is good, I can tell she is a native English speaker, by the shape of her mouth, and the way the words slide out unbent by the athletic tongue of someone who was born speaking Arabic. She motions for me to take a seat at a table in the back of the restaurant. Wait for me, she says, this time in English.

It feels like it has been a very long time, too much waiting. (I am always saying too in English when I mean so.) And I am about to leave, but then the girl comes back. She has a tray full of shawarma falafel hummus pickles olives fresh bread. My mouth waters and then I see at the end of the tray, there is a small metal teapot and it looks exactly like the one Auntie Amal used to pour us our tea during asroneyeh.

I’m Layla. And I say, I’m Jude.

These are the things I know about Layla: She is in grade eight, whereas I am in grade seven. I also know that her baba, Samir, is from Lebanon, and her mama, Dasia, is also from there.

Her mama manages the kitchen, and her baba manages everything else which is an American phrase that I don’t quite understand. Layla has never been to Lebanon and she picks my brain for every tiny detail about the Middle East. You’re so lucky you’ve been there, she says. I’m here now, I say. But that’s lucky too, she insists.

I tell Layla how much I am liking school, but that I don’t have any very close friends yet, no one like Fatima, and then her face falls and she says, But you have me. I nod because I know Layla wants to be like my Fatima and she is my good friend, but no one is like Fatima.

I think about mentioning the boy from my math class who always wears T-shirts with pictures of space, but I haven’t exactly met him yet. I’ve only stared at the back of his head. Wow, Layla says. She sounds like such an American when she says wow. You really do like it here. I shrug, and she gives me a look, which I don’t quite understand. It is part surprise, and part waiting. It is all unknown.

Aunt Michelle lets me click through the recipes on her iPad, and sometimes even lets me choose which ones we should try. My mouth waters at the images of pumpkin risotto black bean tostadas tofu tacos. These are words that I don’t quite know what they mean, but my eyes translate for my stomach.

One night, though, Mama wins and Aunt Michelle lets her cook dinner. Mama does not find her recipe online. She finds it in her memory, her heart.

I watch her as she fries up the cauliflower in lots of oil and roasts the lamb with even more oil and on the table there are loaves and loaves of pita bread that she got fresh from Layla’s mom and toasted up right on the stove, righ...

Uncle Mazin is smiling too, and he looks at Mama and says, This tastes like home.

It’s a big deal, Layla says. This is one of Layla’s favorite phrases. I’ve saved it for the next time I talk to Issa, I think he will find it funny. So many people try out, Layla says. And people from all over the city come to watch on opening night. Last year, it was written about in the paper.

I don’t say yes but I go with her to the meeting that takes place after school in our school’s big theater. The theater is beautiful with a wide wooden stage and velvet plush seats that you sink into when you sit down. The seats remind me of the movie theater that Sammy took Fatima and me to that one summer. I cannot believe this school my school has an auditorium like this.

I can’t imagine it. I can’t stop imagining it.

Math class is tough for me because I usually know how to solve for x or y but I don’t know how to explain how I know.

I glance out the window at the trees that are shedding their final leaves. I wonder if it is exhausting to be a tree. To lose something, year after year, only to trust that it will someday grow back.

During Mrs. Ravenswood’s class, Omar shivers. It is never this cold in Somalia. He is surprised that I am not bothered by the cold. Syria, I say, is a country with many climates. Everyone in the class seems surprised by this. I like being able to surprise people.

But then I start to like being able to put into words the thoughts that are in my head. Grace feels the same way, she tells me. But do you worry that you’re going to forget your mother tongue? It makes me smile the way Grace calls Korean her mother tongue. That means Arabic is my mother tongue, And it is my mama’s tongue, but I’ve never thought of it that way before.

I don’t think you have to forget in order to learn, I say, making sure my English is perfect. Grace smiles at this, and I think she’s as proud as I am that my English is getting better every day.

But on the day Mama tells me that Issa is gone, the sky is bright, and I’m happy because in math class my teacher, Mr. Anderson, asked me a question in front of everyone and I got the answer right. In English. In front of everyone. So when I burst through the front door of Uncle Mazin and Aunt Michelle’s house— which I am beginning to think of as my house too— I am not expecting to find Mama waiting for me in the chair by the big bay window, her face illuminated by the watery winter light. She stands up from the chair and hugs me tight, so tight that I swear I feel the baby inside of her, kicking against her stomach.

Near Aleppo. Mama’s voice is barely a whisper but her words thunder in my ears. Aleppo. Even a girl like me, a girl who likes movies more than news, a girl who didn’t pay much attention to what was happening, knows Aleppo is synonymous with war. And death. Mama hugs me and I hold her back. Sometimes all you can do is hold on.

But ever since I heard the news about Issa, I can’t imagine not having the security of Mama’s solid body there in the middle of the night when my sleep breaks and I am filled with a terror of not quite knowing where I am or where I am going. I wrap my arms around her and I hold on, I hold on to that feeling of home.

There is something comforting about the fact my uncle has read the articles first. Even if he doesn’t talk out loud about what is happening in Syria.

I read about how Europe and America no longer want to allow people who come from my country to move to their shores for safety. I read about families stranded on shaky boats, trapped in refugee camps.

Lucky. I am learning how to say it over and over again in English. I am learning how it tastes— sweet with promise and bitter with responsibility.

That is so impressive, Aunt Michelle says. What? I ask, looking up from the lined page of notebook paper. That you can write in two languages. I wish Sarah knew how to speak Arabic. I shrug. In America, I have picked up a habit of shrugging.

I think again of that Arabic proverb: He cannot give what he does not have.

I’m with Mama at the doctor’s office, and we are holding our breath as the ultrasound technician squeezes gel out over Mama’s round stomach and then presses the wand against it. The screen overhead lights up, a tangle of gray and black shadows that at first don’t look like anything, but then, if you squint your eyes just right, you see a foot a hand a mouth. You see life.

It is the sound of one tiny loud miracle.

Mama turns to me. Her English has been getting better from the lessons she’s been taking at the mosque, but it is still not so good. Aren’t I having a baby? Mama says to me in Arabic. I laugh. The woman looks at me, confused. I tell her what Mama said, a shy smile on my face. The woman laughs, and this makes Mama smile wide. She has made an American laugh.

As I thought, the technician says, smiling, another little girl. Bint, I confirm to Mama. Her eyes spill over, tears running down her cheeks that have grown fuller in the months we have been here. Pressure builds behind my eyes, too. Mama grabs my hands, squeezes. I’d almost forgotten that it’s possible to cry because of happiness.

But then, right as we are walking out of the hospital doors, a woman stops us. Hey! she says, pointing a finger at Mama’s face. Hey! she repeats, the word like a stone thrown, You don’t have to wear that anymore. The cold air from outside hisses in through the half-opened door, and it no longer feels festive. Her finger moves from Mama’s face to point to her head, to her hijab. You’re in America now. You’re free. Mama does not say anything; she grips my hand. The woman looks from Mama to me and back at Mama.

As I pass the woman, my shoulder inches from her chest, I say, Excuse us. Thank you. We are happy.

But I wanted her to understand that we’re happy here, even if we don’t look like what she thinks of as happy.

Because, habibti— Aunt Michelle has recently started calling me that. It is an Arabic word that she has heard Uncle Mazin say over and over. There is something funny about hearing that word come out of her mouth. There is something lovely about it. There are other holidays this time of year too. Like Hanukkah and Kwanzaa.

Sarah walks with purpose, like she is not afraid of being heard. She has that same American boldness that I’ve seen advertised on billboards, like the restaurant down the street that brags about their fully loaded special that comes with everything, but really only includes peppers, onions, and cheese. I’ve decided it is very American to have the audacity to claim that three things add up to everything.

Can’t you ever make normal pancakes, Mom? Aunt Michelle casts me a smile and I feel like we are sharing a secret since I helped her pick out the almond flour recipe, helped her count out the cacao nibs.

Layla, I say, What is so—I pause and then try the decidedly American word—weird about her? Sarah waves at Harper, who has just jumped out of her mom’s shiny silver minivan and says, She just acts like she isn’t from here, you know? All the warmth that had built up in me during the car ride rushes out of my body and I shiver inside the blue puffy coat.

Layla’s American, is all I mean to say. She was born here, I add because I can’t help myself. She’s American. 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.

Layla worked on the sets last year, I say, and I know my English words are difficult to understand because when I get nervous my accent gets thicker and I also think the fact that my feet are freezing is not helping matters. It is hard to think in two languages when your feet are freezing.

Layla tears a piece of pita bread in half and then tells me all of the other reasons she thinks I shouldn’t try out. You don’t speak English, she says. I frown, and in perfect—thank you very much— English, say back, I do, too.

So she tells me that my English is good but it isn’t like native speaker English good and the tryouts are so competitive, even kids who have been acting for years don’t get a part, and can I even sing? And what will I use as my monologue? Can I even memorize something in English? So many questions, so many doubts. When I don’t say anything, she frowns. I’m not trying to be mean. I’m trying to be realistic.

I left home, I flew across an ocean. My brother is missing, in the middle of a war zone. What is there left to be afraid of?

Jude, those parts aren’t for girls like us. What do you mean? We’re the type of girls that design the sets, that stay backstage. We’re not girls who glow in the spotlight. I take another bite of the soup and it tastes like home, it tastes like the future.

She gives me a look, not the look, it is a look that I have never seen before. She is seeing me differently. She is seeing me.

Some of my strongest memories of my brother are him standing up on the couch, belting out the words to Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You,” while Fatima and I ate our asroneyeh and sang along with him. Our mouths full of food and laughter and love.

I have never been a famous actress with a seemingly glamorous life that people on the outside think is perfect. But I have lived a life that people don’t quite understand in a place that lots of people, I am learning, don’t understand at all. I lean into that feeling, of insecurity, but also of the boldness of surprising people.

I practice the English words in the mirror, I watch the scene over and over and over and over again.