loops lazily over my ponytail.

Two circles of flowers

placed on my

too-skinny wrists

by Nana.

Polished petals

hinting

at New Possibilities.

At hope?

Part Two

On Land

Differences attack my senses.

The American airport has no smells.

The AC is strong.

The floor is carpeted.

The voices are bold.

The clothes are different.

And why is everyone wearing jeans?

settle

verb set·tle \se-tәl\

Definition of SETTLE

: to end (something, such as an argument) by reaching an agreement

: to make a final decision about (something)

: to move to a place and make it your home

My mother

laughs on the phone

and tells the mother of my mother

how well we are settling.

But Nana doesn’t see

what I do.

Ammi’s eyes still aren’t smiling

when she laughs,

and her eye circles run deep.

Nana doesn’t see

Ammi braiding her hair

with one hand

twirl bend loop

or

biting her nails

into crescents—

something she only does

when she’s nervous.

Settled is

when your roots are strong

and spread out every which way

like that tree—oak?

in the hotel parking lot.

(I don’t know

my American trees yet.)

Settled is

when it’s hard to pull you up,

when it’s easier just to leave you

exactly

how

you

are.

I am

dandelion fluff

ready to float

away.

If I could,

I would

float all the way back home.

I don’t even need a breeze.

My roots are anything but settled.

Nurah Haqq

I used to be light

and free

before we moved.

My name means

“light” in Arabic and Urdu,

but I do not feel light or free

anymore.

I feel heavy,

even though

I will probably be the

lightest

in my class,

with maybe the

darkest skin color.

So much for light.

My Mother

Wears a hijab

neatly pinned

around her face.

Wears a hijab

because she is Muslim,

not because she is Pakistani.

Yet even when

she does wear jeans

and lightly lines her eyes with

L’Oréal instead of kajal,

I doubt they are lined

with American hope.

Before the move,

it felt like my mother was in color.

Bold.

Now she’s in black and white.

Faded.

Her movements are smaller,

her smiles zipped.

Her “back home” accent is turned down,

like volume on a knob.

What more will she lose?

Language Barrier

But your English is so good . . .

is what we hear.

Yet

from the car,

when we order food

from McDonald’s

fast

the way it’s done in America

fast

they don’t understand us.

So we learn

fast

to stop saying water

with a soft t—

instead with a hard d.

A hardness new to us.

But old to Americans.

We learn fast.

We learn

the supermarket is a grocery store.

A dustbin is a trash can.

A trolley is a shopping cart.

We learn to move quickly in line,

not linger.

We learn to not expect tea and snacks

everywhere we go.