Let it begin in Brooklyn, in Brighton Beach where the sidewalks swell and
split from the weight of people and vegetable stands. Where the rumble of
the elevated trains intrude on conversations and steal the best pieces of
gossip. Where the Pakistani specialty shops corner themselves on Emmons
Avenue, intimidated by the seagulls that reign over the beach. Where the
under of the boardwalk has been filled, so that crime can be pushed out by
grains of sand.
Where the streets huddle into one another. Where mothers call for Ali, or
Igor, or Billy to come home. Where high school girls in heavy make-up and
permed hair smoke Newports and hang out by corner Te-Amo stores to gossip.
Where neighbors whisper, "The Russians are taking over," as they point to
colorful Russian flyers.
We Afghans are too small in number to take part in back-talk and too new to
claim the streets. Overwhelmed by the Babel of Brooklyn, we have resigned
ourselves to one building on Neptune Avenue. Mothers decorate the four
floors with prayers in ornate calligraphy. Walls are spotted with our
elementary school projects of tempera paint and raw noodles. The walls
belong to children and blessings. Fathers work late and smoke cherry tobacco
on the roof. Black tea and lawn furniture bring the men face to face with a
sky mute with midnight. We peek at our fathers from the fire escape. For
another night, we have slipped past our bedtimes like water through combs.
Fathers are rare and keep to themselves. In the day, we are in the world of
mothers. But all of our spines, including the building's, belong to the
fathers.