{"product_id":"home-is-not-a-country-isbn-9780593177051","title":"Home Is Not a Country","description":"\u003cb\u003eLONGLISTED FOR THE NATIONAL BOOK AWARD • A CORETTA SCOTT KING HONOR BOOK • A\u003ci\u003e KIRKUS REVIEWS\u003c\/i\u003e BEST YOUNG ADULT BOOK OF THE CENTURY\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nothing short of magic.” —Elizabeth Acevedo, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Poet X\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFrom the  acclaimed poet featured on \u003ci\u003eForbes Africa’\u003c\/i\u003es “30 Under 30” list, this powerful novel-in-verse captures one girl, caught between cultures, on an unexpected journey to face the ephemeral girl she might have been. Woven through with moments of lyrical beauty, this is a tender meditation on family, belonging, and home.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003emy mother meant to name me     for her favorite flower\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eits sweetness     garlands made     for pretty girls\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ei imagine her    yasmeen     bright \u0026amp; alive\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u0026amp; i ache to have been born her     instead\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNima wishes she were someone else. She doesn’t feel understood by her mother, who grew up in a different land. She doesn’t feel accepted in her suburban town; yet somehow, she isn't different enough to belong elsewhere. Her best friend, Haitham, is the only person with whom she can truly be herself. Until she can't, and suddenly her only refuge is gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the ground is pulled out from under her, Nima must grapple with the phantom of a life not chosen—the name her parents meant to give her at birth—Yasmeen. But that other name, that other girl, might be more real than Nima knows.  And the life Nima wishes were someone else's. . . is one she will need to fight for with a fierceness she never knew she possessed.“\u003cb\u003eMovingly unravels themes of belonging\u003c\/b\u003e, Islamophobia, and the interlocking oppressions thrust upon immigrant women.” \u003ci\u003e—Kirkus Reviews, \u003c\/i\u003estarred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003e[A] surreal crash-course \u003c\/b\u003ein perspective, agency, and self-love.” \u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Artfully profound and \u003cb\u003eachingly beautiful\u003c\/b\u003e, Elhillo’s verse \u003cb\u003eaptly explores diasporic yearning for one’s home\u003c\/b\u003e and a universal fascination with possibilities.” \u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e, starred review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Elhillo's \u003cb\u003etender\u003c\/b\u003e and descriptive writing may leave readers feeling the need to live life to the fullest…[a] \u003cb\u003epassionate, piercing\u003c\/b\u003e YA collection of poems.\" \u003ci\u003e—Shelf Awareness,\u003c\/i\u003e starred review \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A \u003cb\u003elove letter\u003c\/b\u003e to anyone who has ever been an outsider, or searched to understand their history, no matter where they come from.” \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003e—NPR\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eRichly imagined\u003c\/b\u003e [...] An \u003cb\u003eimmersive experience \u003c\/b\u003eof the intersectionality of gender, class, race, religion, and identity.\" \u003ci\u003e—The Horn Book\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eSafia Elhillo is the author of the poetry collection \u003ci\u003eThe January Children\u003c\/i\u003e, which received the the 2016 Sillerman First Book Prize for African Poets and a 2018 Arab American Book Award.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSudanese by way of Washington, DC, she holds an MFA from The New School, a Cave Canem Fellowship, and a 2018 Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Fellowship from the Poetry Foundation. Safia is a Pushcart Prize nominee, co-winner of the 2015 Brunel International African Poetry Prize, and listed in Forbes Africa's 2018 \"30 Under 30.\"  She is a 2019-2021 Stegner Fellow at Stanford University.\u003cp\u003eThe Airport \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eonce when i was small  we packed a shared suitcase\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof bright cotton  floral prints  \u0026amp; something yellow \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; silken i’d never seen my mother wear \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; for the trip across the country she wore perfume \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; her best red beaded scarf  \u0026amp; we clattered \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einto the terminal  my mother  collecting all the light\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea wedding on another coast  its promises \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof sunlight \u0026amp; gold  \u0026amp; her scattered schoolmates \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; cousins \u0026amp; faraway friends  all crowded \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einto a rented hall  making it  with color \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; incense \u0026amp; song  our country \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; it all shone in my mother’s face\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewe approached the counter to check in  the family \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eahead of ours handed their boarding passes with a grin \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebefore the agent turned to us \u0026amp; his smile clicked shut \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esaid  check-in is closed  \u0026amp; no \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethere is nothing he can do \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; no there is no manager to call \u0026amp; please can we leave \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethis counter is now closed\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy mother’s faltering voice  the soft music in her english \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher welling eyes  her wilting face  her beaded scarf \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; all she said was please  please  i have a ticket \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; i’d never seen her so small  english fleeing her mouth \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; leaving her faltering  frozen  reaching for words \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat would not come  dabbing at her eyes \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith the scarf  its red so bright  so festive \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike it was mocking us\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; all i could do was reach  for the suitcase with one hand \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher limp arm with the other  \u0026amp; wheel us to the exit \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; in our slow retreat i heard the last snatches \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof that man’s joke  his colleague’s barking laugh \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eno way we’re letting \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emohammed so-and-so near the plane \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; that’s why we don’t go anywhere  anymore\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy mother is so often sad  so often tired \u0026amp; wants mostly \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto sit quietly in front of the television  where we watch \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eturkish soap operas dubbed over in arabic   \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etheir sweeping landscapes \u0026amp; enormous romances \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003euntil she falls asleep \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003echin pointed into her chest \u0026amp; glasses askew\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eon bright days she plays music  pitches her voice high \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; sings along to all the ones we love  abdel halim \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; wardi \u0026amp; fairouz  sayed khalifa \u0026amp; oum kalthoum \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003egisma’s open throaty voice \u0026amp; frantic percussion \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto which mama claps along  tries sometimes to teach me \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe dances  the body formed like a pigeon’s \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe chest arced proudly upward  head twisting helixes \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eagainst the neck  in a surprise to no one i cannot dance \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut love to watch her  love that she tries anyway \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto teach me \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; sometimes  rarely  by some magic  the movement \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewill click fluently into my body  \u0026amp; she’ll ululate \u0026amp; clap \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhile i twist my head in time to the song  mama’s voice \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecelebratory \u0026amp; trilling  my nima  my graceful girl\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHaitham\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis smaller than me  three weeks younger \u0026amp; always \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea little disheveled  always dressed in something that \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esomeone else wore first  \u0026amp; laughs \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe most enormous sound\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehaitham passes me a drawing  during arabic class \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efull-color cartoon on the back of a worksheet \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof our horrible teacher  spit flying from his \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elarge mouth  with a speech bubble that reads \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eWE ARE NOT AMERRICANS! YOU SPEAK \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eZE ARRABIC!  eyes bulging \u0026amp; his bald patch \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eglistening in the light\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei press my fist over my mouth to keep the laugh inside \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; it builds until i think my eyeballs might burst \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003euntil the sound threatens to come pouring from my \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eears  from my nose  until my face is wet \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith tears\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; haitham swipes the drawing  crumples it \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einto his notebook  right as the teacher turns \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; thunders over  spits a little while asking \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhat on earth  (the only way teachers are allowed \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto say the hell)  what on earth is wrong with me \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei only manage to choke out    allergies \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; haitham  from the row behind  offers me \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea tissue with a grin\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ePyramids\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eonce  in arabic class  excited that the new girl’s name \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eluul  reminded me of the song i love  the pearl necklace\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei sang a little of it when she introduced herself \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; watched her smile falter  confused  before she finally\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eexcused herself  \u0026amp; by the end of the day everyone \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas giggling  nima loves old people’s music  pass it on\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso even here among my so-called people i do not fit \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehere where the hierarchy puts those who have successfully\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eamericanized  at the top  i’ve marked myself by caring \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout the old world  \u0026amp; now i hover somewhere\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat the bottom of the pyramid  (while our arabic teacher drones about ancient times  \u0026amp; the little-known fact\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat our country has 255 pyramids remaining today) \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe bottom of the pyramid with those recently arrived\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edusty-shoed \u0026amp; heavy-tongued  \u0026amp; though i’m born here \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethough my love of the old songs \u0026amp; old photos\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edoesn’t translate to my spelling  my handwriting \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy arabic pronunciation  or grammar  or history \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor memorization of the qur’an  i recognize \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein their widened eyes  that feeling  that shock\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof being here instead of there\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHaitham\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elives in my building  which isn’t actually surprising \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esince it seems everyone from our country immigrated \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto this same block of crowded apartments \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eit’s saturday morning \u0026amp; he’s ringing the doorbell \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrantic    \u0026amp; falls inside when i answer \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esweaty \u0026amp; rumpled \u0026amp; still in his house shoes  coughing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith a little joke in his eye\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis grandmother opening his t-shirt drawer to put away \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe laundry  found his secret pack of cigarettes  which \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe doesn’t even really smoke  which he tried to explain \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eaway  while dodging the slippers aimed at his head \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewho knew mama fatheya was so athletic \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeverything always so funny to him \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe chased him out with cries of \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eDISKUSTING!  DISKUSTING!  \u0026amp; where else \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewas he going to go\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy mother hasn’t left yet for work  \u0026amp; makes us tea \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eboiled in milk  poured into mismatched mugs \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; hands us packs of captain majid cookies she gets \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom the bigala that haitham \u0026amp; i call  ethnic wal-mart \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhere we buy everything  from bleeding legs of lamb \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto patterned pillow covers  \u0026amp; cassettes \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecovered in a layer of dust\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe never seems old enough to be anyone’s mother \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso pretty \u0026amp; unlined \u0026amp; smelling always of flowers \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe clears the cups \u0026amp; wipes the crumbs from the table \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; our faces in quick movements  pins her scarf \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003earound her face \u0026amp; leaves for work\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehaitham isn’t wearing shoes so we cannot go outside \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewe instead spend the day playing our favorite game \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ecalling all our people’s typical names out the window \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einto the courtyard mohammed! fatimah! ali bedour! \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto see how many strangers startle  \u0026amp; look up \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen they are called\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHaitham\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehaitham’s grandmother once asked us  suspicious \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhat do you two do all day?  \u0026amp; by the middle of the list \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehad already turned her eyes back to the television \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas haitham continued to list our every microscopic act \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emusic videos  snacks  monopoly \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeven though half the cards are missing  five-dollar tuesdays \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat the movie theater after school \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003econcan even though nima thinks i cheat \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; we don’t really know the rules \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; in truth i do not know what we really do \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith our time together \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebecause it’s always been like this \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy every day is filled with haitham \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehis laughter pulling my own to join it \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eour nonsense jokes \u0026amp; riffs \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; misremembered lyrics \u0026amp; laughing \u0026amp; more laughing \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei see him every day \u0026amp; somehow still have so much to tell him \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eevery time one of us rings the doorbell to the other’s apartment \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; crosses the threshold  already beginning whatever story \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ealready unfolding whatever thought  \u0026amp; he’s never \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejoined the other kids in making fun \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof all my strangeness  makes it feel instead \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike a good thing\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eeven when he calls me the nostalgia monster \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehe makes it sound like a compliment \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efull of affection \u0026amp; pure joy  has never \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emade me feel that there is anything wrong with me at all\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eAn Illness\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethrough the bathroom door i hear haitham singing loudly \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the shower  stretching each note with a flourish\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei perch next to mama fatheya on the couch \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhile she watches  intent\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas a woman on the television pulls a glistening chicken \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom the oven  i am so bored  \u0026amp; haitham\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis taking his time  the mantel above the television \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis crowded with photographs\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehaitham’s mother  khaltu hala  younger \u0026amp; first arrived \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher hair cut short \u0026amp; eyes haunted\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehaitham a bundle in her arms  mama fatheya, \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etell me about back home  she glances up from\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher program  irritated at first \u0026amp; then softening \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003enostalgia is an illness, little one  she says gently\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eturning back to the television  but continues \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eours is a culture that worships yesterday over tomorrow\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebut i think we are all lucky to have left yesterday \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebehind  we are here now\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edissatisfied  i press on  wait, you actually \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elike it here?  \u0026amp; she faces me again  a sadness hitched\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebehind her eyes  here i have lost nothing i could not \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eafford to lose\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ejust as haitham squawks the last notes to his song \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; shuts off the shower  i look at the lost country\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein mama fatheya’s face  \u0026amp; recognize it \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom my own mother’s face  the face of every grown-up\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein our community  a country i’ve never seen \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eoutside a photograph\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; i miss it too\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHaitham\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ealways laughing \u0026amp; pulling laughter from anyone he meets \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehas interests that keep him here instead of dreaming \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof a lost world  for a while he tried to get me \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto play video games  but i could not make myself care \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; now i mostly sit on the plastic-covered couch \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; watch him play while i daydream  \u0026amp; when he’s done \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor tired of losing  he’ll put on one of the old movies \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom the box under his grandmother’s bed  though by now \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewe’ve watched them all dozens of times  we each \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epick a favorite character \u0026amp; recite all the dialogue \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elong since memorized  \u0026amp; squawk off-key \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto all the songs  though secretly we are each belting \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethem out in earnest\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei think that  secretly  he loves \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethis old world almost as much as i do\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eKhaltu Hala\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehaitham’s mother  her hair cut close around her ears \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethough in the old pictures she wore it long  puffed out \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003earound her shoulders  curls halfway down her back\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei like her  her gruffness \u0026amp; briskness \u0026amp; her short bark \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof a laugh  the books shelved floor to ceiling \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the little apartment  each one of them hers \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etraced for years by her fingers until the ink \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebegan to gray  the way she coaxes a smile \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efrom my mother  \u0026amp; clears the shadow from her face \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe way she growls out every letter of my name \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein approval  how i can’t imagine her ever afraid \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethough when she is home we don’t watch the old films \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eor sing the old songs or ask too many questions\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy mother never talks about it except the one time \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eafter khaltu hala heard me humming the song \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout the pearl necklace  \u0026amp;  eyes bulging \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003evoice hoarse  told me to leave  \u0026amp; go home \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eknocking gently on our door hours later \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea little pearl ring passed from her hand to mine \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher embrace bright with the smell of oranges \u0026amp; soap \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eapology muffled by my sweatshirt’s thick fabric\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat night  my mother  voice hushed  told me \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout the officers that cut khaltu hala’s hair  the long scars \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003estriped down her back  the thousand things \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe will not talk about  in hopes of erasing \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat whole country  \u0026amp; starting again here \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebrand-new  \u0026amp; i almost wish she hadn’t told me \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; for weeks after i did not want to listen \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto the songs  \u0026amp; every photograph looked sharper \u0026amp; ugly \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; gave off the faintest smell of copper  of blood \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; now i mostly try to forget the story  \u0026amp; return to loving \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe dream of home  \u0026amp; the pearl never leaves my finger\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethough the story about khaltu hala hurts  i do not \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewant my mother to stop telling stories  she who\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eso rarely tells anything at all  i ask \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eabout my grandmother  loved flowers  about\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy mother as a young girl  i wanted to be \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea dancer  \u0026amp; when i ask about my name\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e  \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe frowns a little  squinting as she chooses \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe words  i had a whole other name picked out,\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003edid you know?    but when your father died \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei don’t know  it felt like that name belonged to him \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; i couldn’t bear to keep it without him   so i picked \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esomething else  \u0026amp; i feel that old pang  of being\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esecond-best  to that other girl  my ghost-self \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e     yasmeen\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eOverheard\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy mother has guests over \u0026amp; i am hiding in my room \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ehumming to myself \u0026amp; looking through my tin box \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof artifacts  the photographs again  my mother as \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea painted bride  my parents dancing  i put the pictures \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eaway  the cassettes  \u0026amp; hear my mother calling me \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto greet her guests  hello  fine thank you \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei’m almost fifteen  school’s fine \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003earabic’s fine  alhamdulillah  you too \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; i duck back into hiding\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; i hear khaltu amal with the tattooed eyebrows \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewho is not actually my aunt \u0026amp; who always smells like ghee \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003epurring to my mother  she could be such a pretty girl \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; my mother mourning my unkemptness  sometimes \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe won’t even brush her hair  \u0026amp; i don’t know why \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe insists on wearing that sweatshirt all the time \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei have to pry it away to wash  \u0026amp; khaltu amal again \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher cloying voice  remember when we were girls? \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe daughters we imagined we’d have?  \u0026amp; i hate her \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; her pink-gray face  her still-brown neck she hasn’t \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebothered to bleach to match  i hate her armful \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof clattering bangles  the way she touches my mother’s \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003earm \u0026amp; pretends to be her friend  the way she wrinkles \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher nose whenever she enters our apartment  her own \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eapartment large \u0026amp; expensive but filled with awful gaudy \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eobjects  i giggle a little to myself at the memory of haitham \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esaying to her  straight-faced \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eaunt amal, would you agree that money can’t buy \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003etaste?  though my laugh dies as i hear her continue \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto mama  remember the girl you wanted to name \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eyasmeen?  with yellow ribbons braided into her hair \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003esuch a pretty name  i never understood \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhy you chose the other\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; in the mirror i try to unknot the hair tangled at my neck \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; of course there’s no point  i give up \u0026amp; stare \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003einto my blurring reflection  my body filled \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith strange static  \u0026amp; see only a smudge where my nose \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; mouth should be  only the eyes \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003elarge \u0026amp; blinking \u0026amp; intact  \u0026amp; when i blink again it’s back \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe same unremarkable face\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eMama\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof course i know my mother is lonely \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher days \u0026amp; nights spent mostly in the company \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof ghosts  so much of who \u0026amp; what she’s loved \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe speaks of only in past tense  though mostly \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eshe keeps quiet  i can’t help but imagine \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethat her life was enormous before we came here \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eloud \u0026amp; crowded \u0026amp; lively as any party \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; then the final notes of the song  \u0026amp; everyone \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eis gone  except me  \u0026amp; i feel my own smallness \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eas i try to fill her life’s empty spaces \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethough they gape around me like the one pair \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eof her high-heeled shoes i used to love \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto play with when i was little  so much of our life \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003efeels like sitting at a table set for dozens \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewho will never again arrive  the two of us surrounded \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eby empty chairs  my mother is lonely \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; i am her daughter her only i think that might be why \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei’m lonely too \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eThe Photographs \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethe photographs are how i piece together \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003emy imagining of my mother’s first life \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewhen she was aisha  life of the party \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ea girl in a yellow dress who was going \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eto be a dancer  loved \u0026amp; laughing \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; never lonely  a whole life stretched \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebefore her in the company of friends \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; family \u0026amp; the man she chose \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewho chooses her \u0026amp; knows all \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eher favorite songs  who watches her \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ewith awe  \u0026amp; never dies  his life \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ebraided tightly to the long bright ribbon of hers\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ei don’t think she even knows i have them \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ethese pictures  i’ve had them for years \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003ein the box i keep under my bed \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u0026amp; she’s never noticed  because she never \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003easks for them  because she hasn’t looked \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eat them in years\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Make Me a World","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300314534117,"sku":"NP9780593177051","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593177051.jpg?v=1767729162","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/home-is-not-a-country-isbn-9780593177051","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}