Tell me how a bird is free to fly Across lands near and far But when my people dare pass by You stop them, saying, “ ‘alien’, do not cross, because of documents which you lack”. A border you want, but money you don’t have. Forcing the free to do what you want, Against their wills, their wallets empty are. “Criminals, agh!” your arrogant self barks, “Send them back, send them all To the South, where they will rot!” But how will you embark- “They will! They’ll pay for it all!” Nieto disagrees, “we won’t pay for your wall!” A twitter fight soon starts, Will the North and the South ever make up Anonymous- Spring 2017 Issue
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Her fate would have been different with an elementary school education living in the same village and the same house she was birthed in to. Married at the age of 12 with the expectation to start a family married to a disgusting man boy in the village whose ambition is to eat his body weight in fat and sleep his life away. Sent away trading in childhood innocence to slave away by the hot stove subjected to molestation and legal rape. All she could think about with her elementary school knowledge why is the world so cruel? EM- Spring 2017 Issue
On the streets of Brighton Beach, When we swing from fire escapes and jump on the hoods of cars, We own the block through the force of our play And the clicking and clacking of our tongues. Ah! The power of ten children with their own language! It is enough. We are our own gang. Self-sufficient when we are not bound to school, We exist happily on fragmented languages. The bread crumb of slang from the many streets We grew up in: Kabul, Mazar, Jalalabad, Riyadh, Jeddah, and Brooklyn. Our language is the roof we carry over our heads – Even when we are separated into different classes at school. If only mothers would let us be! We’d rather stretch our weekends and wrap it across the belly of the year. We’d rather dangle out everyday on the fireescapes of the second-floor mosque, Spill the Khutba onto the sweating concrete by opening the windows wide. Then jump onto the sidewalk, align our velvet prayer mats next to parked cars and play Imam and Ummah as passerbys gawk at the magic of our “flying carpets” And at one five-year old brother Serious faced, hand over ear, Singing out the call to prayer with a sugarsweet throat. We quit school! We quit suspecting lunch-ladies of slipping in slivers of swine While we aren’t looking! We are willing to live within the bubble of cousins praying or gossiping In wild tongue flips as neighbor children stare in awe. When their mouths ache from the strain of our language, We blow kisses at them. We have won another battle of the streets, but still our mothers Want us to clean our rooms and fathers demand our report cards! What choice do we have? In the day, our mothers are the sun and at night our fathers. To mark the celestial transition, mothers set in the kitchen An hour before fathers come home. They hide behind the steam of cooking While we children stand in line with colorful plastic combs in hand – Waiting our turn by the only mirror we can reach on our own. Later, we visit them to approve us and prepare our welcome for fathers. Zohra Saed - Spring 2017 Issue
You asked me where I am from, And I came to a loss of words. Born abroad, raised here, Which land can I call my home? The land that birthed me, that raised my mother, and my father? Or the land that taught me, how to read and write. How to speak and how to fight. The land that taught me how to dream, And that anything is possible? Which land do I call my home? The land that I left? Or the one that wants me to leave? Sandra D'Silva- Spring 2017 Issue
Her status is on a piece of paper Her parents journey is her identity When the world is full of misunderstanding She becomes a target She wraps her head scarf Fueled with fire Enraged at her country With her father’s nation in her eyes EM- Spring 2017 Issue
For my Mother “Hope is patience with the lamp lit.” Tertullian The dark of night encases her smile That dangles off her lips Above the stroller beside her The curious moon echoes with a tilt Her hardy fingertips They have sewn and seen the stitches of tattered robes, raincoats and regret A lasting memory Hangs on breathlessly to the sandy dunes Her nails have become. A lonely street lamp burns light On to her lost figure But misses her frightened shadow that Races away from the clinging glow. Her eyes wandering to the vivid crimson of the stroller Carrying all but the infant she deserted on this boardwalk I’ll be back. Soon. But boarding the last ship, she knew those risky promises would go unfulfilled. Janice Huang ‘19- Spring 2017 Issue
It's stressful People just want a new life And a better life A safer life for them and their kids We are their safe haven Their dream And we are throwing them away New York is known for being a melting pot My friends are immigrants And they are working so hard to become citizens It's not their fault the government takes so long And they now have to live with stress of being deported They can't travel outside the U.S Can't see the worlds beauty How is that fair? They come here for freedom yet they are restricted. Their opportunities are minimized Their hope declining I don't want my friends to be pushed away As they are pushed away, I am pushed away and it is a chain reaction making everyone pushed away What's America without people What's America without love What's America without us? Anonymous- Spring 2017 Issue
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