Here are excerpts from “A Season for Building Houses,” a new anthology of stories, poems and reflections by young Maine immigrants who participated in The Telling Room’s Young Writers and Leaders program.
From “Cairo Kid” by Ibrahim Shkara
I met my friend Ali at a place where we felt not on Earth,
weightless when we jumped into the pool
where hours and hours felt like one moment.
Two bodies, one brain—
he made me feel safe and strong.
I knew him more than I knew myself.
Two friends growing up together in an ancient place;
without warning we started to grow apart.
I have always known you to be strong and never fall down.
When you do, you get up, stronger than ever.
Is it when people stop helping each other?
Always remember how beautiful you are,
even if you can’t see,
like a butterfly who can’t see how beautiful she is.
It’s true, when you drink from the Nile River
you will come back again.
Remember, you will be the first and the last home
I will ever have.
I still think about Ali,
even with five thousand miles between us.
I would tell him I am taking school seriously now,
playing sports, living the right way.
I would tell him I can see again.
From “I Started to Explain” by Richard Akera
What is a home? A home is where beautiful things will happen. Wonderful things will happen. But a home is also that place where we get bad news: someone got shot, someone is ill, someone is paralyzed. It, she, he … is sick, dying, dead. Sometimes when bad things happen we start to ask ourselves why things happen as they do. You know, Why? Why? Why? No answer for that. And sometimes we even go further, as I did, and put all the blame on the Creator — our Heavenly Father.
My name is Akera. I was born and raised at a camp in Uganda, a foreign land. I have never been to my homeland before, which is in southern Sudan. I find that so painful. When people talk about how beautiful it is … I’ve never seen the Nile River flow long, meandering through the mountains.
Growing up I thought a home was this place where my family and I lived — in the camp. It was overpopulated. People were fighting, stealing, and starving. We lived in a building built with grass on the top and mud on the side with no door or window in it. Some were so close that they even touched.
But when we moved here, I became fully aware of what a home really meant to me. It doesn’t really matter where you live or where you sleep. It doesn’t matter which direction your door faces. What really matters is the people in that home.
A home is those you love. A home is the people who love you as you are. A home is the people who will always be there for you. A home is the people who will never judge you. A home is the people who will always hold your hand when you fall down. When you need their help they will always be there by your side.
“My Grandmother” by Maryama Abdi
My grandmother still lives in Somalia. Sometimes I call her.
I love my grandmother. I was the closest person to her.
She used to take care of me. I was born on our way to Kenya,
at the border when my mother went into labor with me.
But when we came to America, there was no place for her here.
I wanted to stay with her but she said I had to go
with my mother, that she was too old to take care of me.
She went back to Somalia.
You always believe in me, you always tell me,
“Don’t let yourself down. No matter what.”
You ask me how things are going,
I always say things are fine and going well.
But I never tell you the truth of how things are really going with me.
I don’t want to break your heart. Still, you know
I am living a life that is not comfortable without you in it.
I know you are far away but your love keeps me safe
and gives me peace. And I wish you were here with me.
You would say, “Keep focused on your education,
Don’t mess up your life.” You would tell me, “I am waiting for you.”
My dream is to build a mosque for you in Kismayo.
But I have to finish my education, and get a good job.
I have to have a plan,
I have to work hard, to achieve my goals.
We came to America for the opportunities,
for the free education.
It will be arduous.
I am an immigrant, I am a Muslim,
I am a woman and I have dark skin. I am no fool.
I know it will be hard but I will make my dream come true.
I will make your dreams come true, Grandmother.
My family knows how hard I have to work,
how hard it will be to achieve my goals.
But they came to America so I could do this.