-The Half Of It -

"You know some Mexicans put our national anthem in Spanish and actually changed the words." I looked up from the letter I was reading, confused. I hadn't heard of this happening and the way she brought it up, it's as if she was saying, "You know those people you always stick up for, well now they're changing your national anthem!"
I don't remember what I said. She asked me if I had any opinion on the matter, and since I hadn't read the news story and had just come back from NYC the other day loaded down with articles on Immigrants' rights, I figured there wasn't anything I could say that she would want to hear. But there were words.
And then I went to my room.
And then she came to my room.

This is when it happens. I am closing my eyes and willing myself back to India. Focusing hard on the images which are soaked in India .. Red dirt, the landing above the kitchen, The Kitchen itself, Big Jyamma's eyes, Lakama's hand on my wrist, Manjula's fingers intertwined with mine.. And I can't hear Mom any more, now, I can hear flutes, folk songs, horns honking, cows mooing, festival music...
And that is when it stopped. I left her talking about how the United States is going to become a Third World Country and I go downstairs, dialed some numbers that have been in my phone for awhile, and crouched down on the ground and cried silent cries.

So Bushman Ave isn't much of a home, but it's my home with my room which I am determined to make a home. I don't have a room anywhere else. I don't have a space all my own where I can move the furniture around and hang up cardboard signs.

I feel as if someone put me here. As if a giant hand picked me up in India, my shirt pinched between its thumb and forefinger, and sat me down in New Jersey.