By Famya Faiz
The Admission came first in the Under 18 category in our Then & Now competition, judged by Sita Barachmari and Jane Farrell. They said of this poem:
This outstanding writing explores with great subtlety, authenticity and emotional power the theme what is lost in the translation of the self from the time before migration – Then – and the time after – Now. It calls on all the senses, and the details pack a punch. It is especially strong on voice and both judges felt that this poem could be a powerful one to publish and for English teachers to use in schools. Here is a hugely talented writer to look out for… her work shines in prose and verse.
the kettle hums in a language that
isn’t mine,
carrying tea that tastes
as foreign
on my tongue
as the second language
that resides there.
the smell of home
stuck in plastic containers –
a curry for sunday,
a feast for ghosts.
the first winter here,
i forgot how to breathe.
cold like that doesn’t exist where i’m from.
it stung my lungs, chapped my lips,
and i thought maybe the air was rejecting me too.
home is no longer that small apartment some 5000 miles away
that patch of square feet
my shoes have long outgrown.
home is now a postcode:
letters that feel as though they were lost in translation
on the flight here.
my name has been beaten down
until it bruises my tongue just to say it
but cutting off pieces
made it easier for others to swallow
so i answer to it;
dozens of names
none of them me.
teachers smile when they pronounce it ‘right,’
like i should be grateful for being seen correctly once a term.
sometimes i dream of going back.
but the house is gone,
the neighbors left,
the country changed
while i was away.
to return is to find
i belong even less
where i began.
i have learned to live with layers;
coats
scarves
gloves
and the heaviest,
grief,
the one that muffles my voice,
reminds me to translate myself before I speak.
language rubs against my mouth
like polished shoes one size too small;
a secondhand tongue that feels like
firsthand betrayal.
i rehearse borrowed phrases
but my accent makes them sound stolen.
when i speak – always with a pause –
two homes pull at my throat,
each wanting to be named,
each resenting when I choose the other.
immigrant is a word i wear like a badge,
but it cuts.
a border stitched into my skin,
a checkbox on forms that bleeds ink
every time someone asks
where i’m really from.
