i.

twenty seven

i return

to the house

at the corner I grew up in

weeds too high to mow

down next to the papaya tree waits

abbu’s gray toyota pickup

he’s dead for eight

years i wanted to step

through the front door

right foot first always you taught me

the way of the Prophet.

ii. 

fourteen i run

into my room no

lock on my door can’t stop

the umbrella you slam on to my

eyes blue lashes clumped too

hard to separate rape and

consensual sex no

one taught you the difference

my honor’s lost you say

now i am trash.

iii.

eight

you stand i stand

feet to feet

a part of Allah we wrap

tuck pin my hair in bright yellow red green

cotton hug my skin

warm from your touch.

iv.

two

too small to climb

up you hold me from falling

down i flip through these photos

show you smile laugh

your fingertip kisses

stain my fat cheeks

pink.

 v.

can’t count all the years

of distance from america to bangladesh

you pour dal over my rice

steams my face your hands

small worn damaged 

scrub floors till the dirt

browns the cloth

my hands soft and privileged

american child i know

the servants the lush fabrics the mansion

you left behind for

eight-fifty an hour at

gas stations for my american life i know

this struggle this work

is this when you forget

to love me.

vi.

years of threats

my obedience for your love

came with limits

i broke when i married my Bilal

you promised i would become a prostitute

on the streets i wonder

how paradise is at your  

feet step on my husband’s islam

too black for Allah you yell

not the way of the Prophet

you forget

my need for a mother

i become an orphan

follow onto his footsteps.

vii.

my unborn daughter

can’t protect you at every

corner you can always

turn to me i promise

i wait i wait i wait

for your hands to reach mine

and i will reach back.

I am a Bengali (almost American) Muslim woman born in Saudi Arabia and grew up in Los Angeles. Although I have been writing poetry since age 10, my passion and talent truly evolved in college at UC Berkeley in June Jordan’s Poetry for the People. I prefer poetry over fictional writing or prose because it's natural for me to write what I know. Growing up in the Valley of Los Angeles I didn’t have any Bengali or Muslim friends. As the youngest of three, my parents pushed education on me as soon as we immigrated to America when I was 4. Growing up I struggled with my identity.  In elementary school I wanted to be white because all of my friends were white and my mom made me feel as though my skin was too dark. In junior high, I went through a "chola" phase when I made Black and Latino friends. In high school, I began discovering who I truly was. At age 27, the discovery of my various identities; American, Bengali, Muslim, woman, artist, medical student, wife, and daughter has yet to end. Like many of my work, this piece is inspired by my mother. My uncles say I look just like her and my husband, hearing only stories of my mother, swears I act like her. My mother always made sure I had food, clothes, and any other materials I needed. From age 8, she assured me that I will always have this basic sustenance as long as I obeyed everything she said. The consequence, she would leave me in the streets of LA and move back to Bangladesh. This was tested when I brought home my first black friend resulting in her locking me in the house. My father protected me from my mother's irrationalities. My mother taught me how to pray and fast and my father taught me how to truly follow the essence of Islam. When I was 19 and my father passed away, my mother’s actions became even more troubling. She disowned me for marrying an African-American Muslim man at 20, and we haven't really talked since then. I tried to rebuild our relationship, but she refuses to accept me for who I am. Anytime I meet other Southeast Asians, they say, "Your parents must me so proud, married to a Muslim and becoming a doctor!" It's hard to tell them that my father is dead and my mother has forgotten my existence. This recent piece is a beginning of a new identity to add to my list, a woman without a mother and one day being a mother to my own daughter.