"Daughters of" & "And sometimes, you are home." by Rebecca Romani

Daughters of

We are the daughters

Of sons of fathers from another land.

We are the daughters of babbas who see in us

the shadows of their mothers

Of papas who see in us

The youth of cousins

Long left somewhere else.

Of babbos who raise us in the margins

Of what we might have been had none of them left,

Or crossed time zones,

Or borders,

Or languages.

We are called honey, mija, bimba, habibti

Our names are translations,

We come subtitled.

Our lives are simultaneous interpretations,

Aquifers of words running away together.

We marry boys who come from outside in,

Sons of daughters of fathers from this land.

Or another.

And together, we make a third

And send messages back and forth

In boats made of

Pasta,

Tortillas,

Hobs

Or

Nothing

But

Words.

And sometimes, you are home.

When you first came in the room,

There was the oddest shock of recognition.

Not from daydreams.

Not from photos sent and studied,

Not from missives back and forth through DM,

But something in just the very way you WERE…

A beautiful, composed stillness, with something coiled beneath it.

When we stood to greet each other, there it was again…

As if to say hello, remember me?

I saw you startle for a moment, as if you felt it too,

Something from before we were ourselves in our present forms.

And when you kissed my cheek and held my hand ever so briefly,

I suddenly knew what it was….

It felt like home….

And I hope you felt it, too.

Welcome home, we have been waiting for you,

It’s nice to have you back…

A note from the author: I am a Californian born arts journalist who teaches film and media studies at several colleges in San Diego. My personal writing and arts projects focus on language, identity, and belonging. I have lived in EUrope, Morocco and the US, and work on projects about North Africa and curate art shows with artists of Latino and/or Middle Eastern origin.