Other Words for Home

by Jasmine Warga

Mama is wearing a cozy sweater and cotton pants that are stretchy but elegant. I have never seen her wear a sweater or pants, and I know Aunt Michelle must’ve bought them for her, and that’s when I realize America has also changed Mama. I just haven’t been paying close enough attention.

She has not heard from Auntie Amal since they moved. She does not know if they are okay, but she is choosing to believe that they are because Allah would want us to have faith.

On the day of tryouts, there are so many people in the auditorium and all of them have racing hearts and sweaty palms. There is enough energy in here to power a train, an airplane, a small country. Layla has come with me even though she is not trying out. You don’t have to do this, she says. She is more nervous than I am and she doesn’t even have to get up on that big stage with the blinding lights.

It happens while I am waiting for the results of the tryouts to be posted. Your body is growing up, Mama tells me in a soft voice when she sees the tears in my eyes and the fear on my face as I look at the bloodstained spots that appeared on our sheets overnight. Initially I thought the blood had come from Mama and I cried for the baby. But then I saw the slow thick crimson drip between my legs, and I felt the dense cramp of my stomach and I knew. I bit my lip, afraid of what this meant, afraid of what it meant was coming. But Mama held me and told me that I might be growing up but I don’t need to be afraid because even if she has a tiny baby in her stomach I’ll always be her baby too. And when she held me, I could feel that there was still space in her arms for me.

Ok. The whole world is always talking about periods. At least that is what it seems like.

Maybe it is a trick of the light, maybe it is the beautiful scarf, but I feel like I look wiser, like someone I would ask for advice, not someone asking for it. You are a woman, Jude, Mama says, her voice equal parts awe and admiration. I am looking into the mirror at the image of me that I do not recognize. A stranger who I will get to know. A stranger who I am excited to meet.

Everyone has a reaction to my hijab, like Layla’s mother who gently grabs both my hands and pulls me close to her, kissing me on each cheek and greeting me like I am a brand-new person. And then there are the people on the street who never used to notice me before when I glided down Ludlow in my beautiful coat but now stop and turn their heads, their eyes watching me like I am a ticking time bomb.

Or there is Aunt Michelle who pulls me aside and asks me if I really want to wear it and I look beautiful no matter what but she hopes I know it is my choice.

That it is possible for two things to look similar but be completely different. That I cover my head like other strong respected women have done before me, like Malala Yousafzai like Kariman Abuljadayel like my mama.

I am proud and want to seen as I am.

There is an Arabic proverb that says: She makes you feel like a loaf of freshly baked bread. It is said about the nicest kindest people. The type of people who help you rise.

She shouts so loud that people turn their heads to look at us two hijabi girls standing in the middle of the hallway in the middle of America celebrating.

Sarah has never commented on my headscarf but on Saturday afternoon when her and me and Aunt Michelle are all watching the movie Beauty and the Beast a movie I have never seen but am already falling in love with— Sarah says, Plumette is supposed to be sexy. I don’t think they will let you wear that during the musical. She stares at me, her gaze is a challenge.

You are our Plumette because I can tell you have punch, my dear, liters of it.

And I know I should feel angry at Sarah, but I don’t. Not really.

I have this magical thing called punch. Liters of it.

Mrs. Bloom tells us that the most successful plays are successful because the cast and crew become like one big family, all working toward the same goal.

Cool, another girl in our group says. Her hair is a tangle of red curls and she is chewing gum even though I’m pretty sure we aren’t allowed to chew gum inside the auditorium. I’m Ruth. I work on sets. And I’m really excited about this year’s play because musicals are kind of my whole life and I can’t wait to move to New York City when I’m older.

The other person in our group is Ethan. He is playing the role of the Beast and we all act like he is a real life movie star even though he has a small piece of granola bar stuck in his braces.

I’m okay, I say quietly. I was just thinking. He shoves his hands into his black, baggy pants. That’s cool. I also like thinking.

So what do you think it would feel like to step on the moon? he asks. I blink. At first, I think I misunderstood him. That something is wrong with my translation. You know, he says, and I see a flash of embarrassment cross over his face. It’s something to think about.

Free, I say, even though it’s not really what I mean. How do I put into words what I think it would be like to stand on a rock in the middle of a black expanse? To look down at our world and see it with new eyes? To feel so tiny and so big all at the same time? He studies me for a moment, and I worry he is going to laugh, that he will think what I said was dumb, but instead his face breaks into a wide smile. Yeah, me too. Yeah, me too are now my three favorite words in English.

But whenever I walk into Mrs. Ravenwood’s I feel safe. I feel at home.

Bougie, he says. Means fancy. Rich. Boogie? Omar says, he pretends to dance and then laughs. Omar has a laugh Like Issa’s. It makes you want to join in. No, Ben says, even though now he is laughing too. Boo-Gee. We all repeat after Ben, the new word tasting like America on our lips.

There were a couple of places that sold pizza, I say, pausing to take another bite of my slice, the oozy greasy cheese sliding down the back of my throat. But they were expensive, mostly for tourists. My family didn’t really eat there.

He tells me about Sputnik, how she has black and white fur and her favorite thing in the world is to chase squirrels.

And then she tells me: About the explosion, about the blood in the streets, and the horror and the death. I am upset and sad about what she tells me, but confused why she is so fixated on this news when it happened in a city so far away from us. Be careful, Jude, she says, and I don’t understand. She tells me that now I will learn what it means to be a Muslim in America.

I shrug off Layla’s warning, because in America, I have perfected the shrug. Because in America, I have come to believe that things work out. Because in America, I have been cast in a play, and in America, I have become friends with a cute boy who wears T-shirts with the moon on them.

Each glare demanding an apology an explanation for something I did not do.

I glance over my shoulder and see that the man is following me. My heart jumps up in my chest, and it hammers furiously. Go back to where you came from, he says. We don’t want you here.

There is a ringing in my ears and for a moment I freeze, unsure I actually heard what I heard. I want to say something to make this man understand that he has no reason to be afraid of me, to hate me, but all I manage to do is walk away.

You don’t have to say anything, I say. He walks beside me for a moment and we are both quiet. Where are you headed? I’m about to say my uncle’s house, but instead I choose to be brave, instead I say, Home.

It turns out Miles only lives a few blocks away from Uncle Mazin and Aunt Michelle’s house. He invites me to stop by to meet Sputnik and even though I want nothing more than to go home and curl up in bed and pull the blankets over me and pretend I’m back home in my old sunny bedroom that smelled like jasmine and sea salt, I agree because I really do want to meet this dog.

I nod, his words drape over me, feeling like the relief of an umbrella in a storm, the comfort of a soft blanket on a chilly night. I pick the tennis ball up off the cold ground, and Sputnik runs over to me with excitement and begins to lick my hands, her tongue rough against my skin. I laugh, surprised by the feel of her tongue, surprised by all of it.

Don’t they know we hate this too? That we suffer too? It’s only after I say it that I realize Layla is no longer my “we.” She was not raised in a part of the world where it is no longer shocking to hear about bombs going off in cars markets mosques. Bombs going off while people are praying celebrating loving. I ask why this attack in particular is so upsetting to Americans. Why not last week in Lebanon? Or the week before in Pakistan? Layla tells me it is because this attack took place in the West.

She tries to explain that it is like how we all expect it to be snowy in Antarctica but sunny and warm in Tahiti but if it snowed in Tahiti that would be news because it would be unexpected, but no one bats an eye when snow falls in frozen Antarctica. It takes me a while to process this, that what Layla is saying is that Americans think it’s normal for there to be violence in places where people like me are from, where people like me and people who look like me live.

Too much sunshine makes a desert. I wonder, though, if it is possible for there to be too much rain. I am starting to feel like I am drowning, like I don’t know how much longer I can stay afloat.

He shakes his head angrily, his eyes hard. Whoever did that is an awful person. Whoever did that is a terrorist, I say, and then bite my tongue so hard I can taste blood. I look back at the bright red paint. T e r r o r i s t s. My vision blurs with tears.

I tell Mama what has happened. She pretends to receive the news calmly, but she forgets that her eyes speak. They show her anger and her fear. She pulls me into a hug and rubs small circles on my back.

This is not about you. It is about one person’s ignorance and fear. It feels like it’s about me. I feel like it’s about all of us, I say.

Sometimes talking to Mama reminds me of a feather duster brushing dirt away from a mirror. She doesn’t give you anything new, but she helps you better see what is already there.

You’re lucky, Jude. Please don’t start that again, I say. No, she says. Her voice has the force of a windstorm. You belong somewhere. I don’t belong anywhere. Not here, not there. That’s not true, I say,

but my voice is weak, like a gasp of air.

She is asking simple questions with hard answers. All she wants is for me to listen.

Here, I’ll always look like the guy who did it, or look like someone the guy who did it loves, Layla says.

But if I go there, she finally says, I’ll always be the American. So you see, I don’t belong anywhere.

Whenever I approach her, she turns away. I try to pretend like it doesn’t bother me. I focus on memorizing my two and a half lines over and over again. I focus on getting into the role of a feather duster who has a crush on a candlestick who sometimes notices she exists and sometimes doesn’t. There are parts of her character I cannot relate to. I am not flirty and confident in the way she is, but I try to pretend to be. I work on understanding her better by leaning into the parts of her that I do understand— the desire to be seen, to be noticed, to be heard.

I like the word terrified. Not because of what it means, but because it actually feels like the word it is. When you say it, you hear the terror.

I shake my head and say, I’m excited, even though I am nervous about the play.

I’m excited, too! Grace says. We’re all going to come see you.

It’s going to be dope. Dope? I say, trying out another new word. Dope means something amazing. Something really cool, Ben explains.