though our new surroundings inside our apartment looked great and were soothing, an unspoken sadness weighed heavy on our hearts. More than anything, we knew not to speak on any of it. It was as if just a simple mention of what was actually happening in our lives would bring the ceiling crashing down onto our heads.
After our telephone was installed, I would see Umma pick up the receiver and, one by one, dial several long-distance phone numbers. The only thing was, there would never be a conversation, only her gripping the telephone and sittingsilently and waiting and eventually hanging up and saying nothing to me of what was going on. In her room she would be writing furiously. She would stop the instant I appeared. She would put her papers to the side or in a drawer and not speak on it. I was not concerned about the content of her writings. It was only her I was concerned about, her feelings and exactly how to make a true smile spread across her face again as it always had back home.
Very soon Umma confided to me that she would have to find a job. At the same time, she wanted to sign me up to start in an American school. But she also realized that she could not do both. She needed me to help her search for a job. She needed me to speak English to them and translate their English back to her.
I was against the idea of her working while carrying my sister. I felt my father would not like it either. But if she was going to be traveling outside to meet potential employers, I was definitely going along with her. So when she was six and a half months pregnant, I found a job for Umma working at a fabric factory, a building located inside a group of warehouses where women, most of them foreign, worked on industrial machines lined up in rows.
I spoke to the manager there who offered Umma parttime work due to her pregnancy, at three dollars per hour. He said if Umma was good, she could be bumped up to full time after she gave birth. I liked that there were mostly women working there on the floor where all the sewing was being done. I did not like that all the bosses were men. Back home, Umma’s clothing business was run, from top to bottom, exclusively by African women.
The best part about the Russian-born Israelis who ran the factory was that they didn’t make a big deal about Umma’s Islamic attire. And when I explained that Umma couldn’t speak English, one of the bosses asked, “Does this look like atalking place to you?” “Show up on time, work fast and work hard, that’s it,” the second boss chimed in.
So I escorted Umma to the factory each time she went, and picked her up at the end of every workday. We rode the trains together. At work and in public, she remained covered from head to toe, beneath a
hijab
and behind a
niqab
veil. No one could see her, except me. Her modest clothing gave me a chance to grow up without having to fight grown men all day, every day. Her modest clothing kept me from having to hurt anybody, especially on my Brooklyn block.
My sister Naja was born in a Brooklyn hospital that some fool had the good mind to name The Kings County Hospital, a place where no one was treated royal. Umma was left alone in a room lying down with impatient and unprofessional health-care workers, angry that she could not speak English and bent on keeping me, her translator, in a separate area. As I pressed them at the front desk to call the doctor, one nasty lady in a colorful medical jacket pointed her fat crooked finger at me and said, “Do you see all these people out here?” I did see them, tens of them lying on tables, some in rooms, others pushed against the walls and lined up in the hallways.
“Some of these people have been shot. Has your mother been shot?” she asked me with a monster mug face.
“No,
alhamdulillah,
” I answered, meaning, “No, Umma has not been shot, thank Allah.” Living in Brooklyn I had seen guns being aimed and triggers being pulled, and shots being fired, and gangsters
After our telephone was installed, I would see Umma pick up the receiver and, one by one, dial several long-distance phone numbers. The only thing was, there would never be a conversation, only her gripping the telephone and sittingsilently and waiting and eventually hanging up and saying nothing to me of what was going on. In her room she would be writing furiously. She would stop the instant I appeared. She would put her papers to the side or in a drawer and not speak on it. I was not concerned about the content of her writings. It was only her I was concerned about, her feelings and exactly how to make a true smile spread across her face again as it always had back home.
Very soon Umma confided to me that she would have to find a job. At the same time, she wanted to sign me up to start in an American school. But she also realized that she could not do both. She needed me to help her search for a job. She needed me to speak English to them and translate their English back to her.
I was against the idea of her working while carrying my sister. I felt my father would not like it either. But if she was going to be traveling outside to meet potential employers, I was definitely going along with her. So when she was six and a half months pregnant, I found a job for Umma working at a fabric factory, a building located inside a group of warehouses where women, most of them foreign, worked on industrial machines lined up in rows.
I spoke to the manager there who offered Umma parttime work due to her pregnancy, at three dollars per hour. He said if Umma was good, she could be bumped up to full time after she gave birth. I liked that there were mostly women working there on the floor where all the sewing was being done. I did not like that all the bosses were men. Back home, Umma’s clothing business was run, from top to bottom, exclusively by African women.
The best part about the Russian-born Israelis who ran the factory was that they didn’t make a big deal about Umma’s Islamic attire. And when I explained that Umma couldn’t speak English, one of the bosses asked, “Does this look like atalking place to you?” “Show up on time, work fast and work hard, that’s it,” the second boss chimed in.
So I escorted Umma to the factory each time she went, and picked her up at the end of every workday. We rode the trains together. At work and in public, she remained covered from head to toe, beneath a
hijab
and behind a
niqab
veil. No one could see her, except me. Her modest clothing gave me a chance to grow up without having to fight grown men all day, every day. Her modest clothing kept me from having to hurt anybody, especially on my Brooklyn block.
My sister Naja was born in a Brooklyn hospital that some fool had the good mind to name The Kings County Hospital, a place where no one was treated royal. Umma was left alone in a room lying down with impatient and unprofessional health-care workers, angry that she could not speak English and bent on keeping me, her translator, in a separate area. As I pressed them at the front desk to call the doctor, one nasty lady in a colorful medical jacket pointed her fat crooked finger at me and said, “Do you see all these people out here?” I did see them, tens of them lying on tables, some in rooms, others pushed against the walls and lined up in the hallways.
“Some of these people have been shot. Has your mother been shot?” she asked me with a monster mug face.
“No,
alhamdulillah,
” I answered, meaning, “No, Umma has not been shot, thank Allah.” Living in Brooklyn I had seen guns being aimed and triggers being pulled, and shots being fired, and gangsters
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