substantial presence test
Abhirami S
‘you’ll go places,’ they said.
for 20 years,
she remained firmly grounded–
a buffalo-lifetime as they’d say
in her tongue–
in one city,
constantly dreaming
of distant, beckoning lands,
continuously building
her roots, her friends,
her life
in a place she called ‘home’.
‘you’ll go places,’ they said.
at 21,
feeling all grown-up
she packed her suitcases,
meticulously took note
of her Amma’s recipes,
and jumped on a plane
without a backward glance:
ready to fly,
feeling free
of curfews and customs,
to a place she called ‘away’.
‘you’ll go places,’ they said.
at 25,
airports were her friends:
frequented coffee hangouts
and familiar layouts
between destinations,
fifty-thousand miles flown
(more emissions
than many entire lifetimes)
jostling for legroom
in jam-packed planes,
arguing with her mother
that flying is safer
than driving.
‘you’ll go places,’ they said.
at 30,
she shivered to get out of bed,
chilblains on her feet
the cold numbing her fingers,
she dressed in layers,
resisting the nostalgia
of the sweltering heat
that she'd curse unrestrained
never imagining
what a thousand fewer hours of sunshine
could do to her psyche.
‘a global citizen,’ they say.
at 35,
belonging everywhere
and nowhere at once
no stranger, almost a prisoner
to long-distance conversations,
why is it always dosa, not dosai?
she wonders,
dutifully celebrating
every festival from her childhood,
earnestly speaking
every word she can still say right.
‘where are you from?’ –
as she learns to teach her child
a response to this conundrum,
to operate as a trilingual family,
trying not to worry
how long he will speak his mother tongue,
trying to understand
why that even seems to matter,
she whispers, almost a prayer,
‘wherever you go,
stay rooted, my love,
in a place you can call home’.
for 20 years,
she remained firmly grounded–
a buffalo-lifetime as they’d say
in her tongue–
in one city,
constantly dreaming
of distant, beckoning lands,
continuously building
her roots, her friends,
her life
in a place she called ‘home’.
‘you’ll go places,’ they said.
at 21,
feeling all grown-up
she packed her suitcases,
meticulously took note
of her Amma’s recipes,
and jumped on a plane
without a backward glance:
ready to fly,
feeling free
of curfews and customs,
to a place she called ‘away’.
‘you’ll go places,’ they said.
at 25,
airports were her friends:
frequented coffee hangouts
and familiar layouts
between destinations,
fifty-thousand miles flown
(more emissions
than many entire lifetimes)
jostling for legroom
in jam-packed planes,
arguing with her mother
that flying is safer
than driving.
‘you’ll go places,’ they said.
at 30,
she shivered to get out of bed,
chilblains on her feet
the cold numbing her fingers,
she dressed in layers,
resisting the nostalgia
of the sweltering heat
that she'd curse unrestrained
never imagining
what a thousand fewer hours of sunshine
could do to her psyche.
‘a global citizen,’ they say.
at 35,
belonging everywhere
and nowhere at once
no stranger, almost a prisoner
to long-distance conversations,
why is it always dosa, not dosai?
she wonders,
dutifully celebrating
every festival from her childhood,
earnestly speaking
every word she can still say right.
‘where are you from?’ –
as she learns to teach her child
a response to this conundrum,
to operate as a trilingual family,
trying not to worry
how long he will speak his mother tongue,
trying to understand
why that even seems to matter,
she whispers, almost a prayer,
‘wherever you go,
stay rooted, my love,
in a place you can call home’.
Abhirami S grew up in Tamil Nadu and breathes and writes on the unceded land of the Coast Salish peoples. She thinks she wasn't techno-optimist enough to belong in Silicon Valley and feels she isn’t bohemian enough to belong in literary journals.
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