The screen always turns on during dinner when I can’t slip into my familiar room and the smell of good food covers up the urge for mama to buy the next ticket home. I am forced to watch different faces I used to know with his prominent baldness, her deep smile lines, and always a pair of dark eyes reminiscent of mine, slowly become old and repeat that I should come home. Out of habit I always smile, nod, then reassure, Soon. They will forever see my crying face at the airport, with braided pigtails, and an unwillingness to move. But they don’t remember hands waving goodbye, my too tired mama reaching out to grab my hand, and my older sister by her side, scared and confused. They couldn’t have seen blurry faces letting me go turning into an orange sunset above the clouds, into the warmth of mama’s lap, into waking up in New York City with colorful people moving at every pace and infinitely tall buildings. Lost through the screen is me, here, at home. Doris Chen '19 (BHSEC Queens)
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He looks wary, The cloth around my head I am attacking him with cotton Made from the blood, sweat, and tears of my African brothers and sisters Sold by the tired ladies just trying to make a living on the streets of Jackson Heights He looks scared, The Arabic I speak. I am attacking him with words. Learned from my crying mother wishing her daughter would learn her mother tongue Forced upon me by the Saturday classes, where I was the youngest in the class He glances over to see my phone screen The music I listen to, I am attacking him by being American Playing is a bland song that charted the Top 50 last week Put on specifically to prove I am just like him. He shakes his head The reading I need to finish Thick, dense pages of difficult comprehension Put on full display for him to see He is scared. Of a young teenager Just trying to get to school Scared of me. On the 7 local train, Where I have sat next to a man Who I am scared of. Anonymous '21 (BHSEC Queens)
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