How My Brother Abdul

When Abdul stands up straight, he is he taller than Dad but broader. Both have bushy eyebrows and a tendency to repeat things when they think others are not listening. When I told my Mom I would grow as big and strong as Dad, she told me women shouldn’t dream about things like that.

‘We carry too much on our shoulders to grow like boys.’

So when Dad got his new job in Texas, we decided to visit. We can’t move there, just yet. Abdul said his life was here, and they always do as he wishes. I didn’t remember being on a plane, but I was not born here. Oh but to be up, up in a plane, where dreams and clouds come from; to look out and to see everything. I wanted to go see Dad right away, but no. No, Mom liked Abdul’s teachers that year. They understand family, she said. They knew what it was like for us.

We take a cab to the airport. Abdul goes on and on about all the things he wants to do in Texas. ‘The Lone Star State isn’t ready for me,’ he says in that way that boys do.

Mom adds to his list, pointing to his chest, the emblem of a school there. Life would move there. Dad already told us all about the perfect place, and when Mom heard that, she laughed. She said it was probably over an all-night store. As we got out of the cab, he has this wrinkle where his back pressed against the leather.

‘Hot in there,’ he says.

The security line rolls out before us as airline staff extend temporary borders to accommodate everyone. It’s hard to stand in a line that no one wants to be in. I shift my weight too much for Mom; her hand moves my shoulder to stand me still. Maybe it is getting warm. I start feeling ill. Abdul says it first. He doesn’t feel too good. The stain on Abdul’s back grows, stretching between his shoulder blades. It looks like a bird taking off. He asks Mom if she has something to drink, but she find nothing in her bag.

Everything winds around us. I can’t see either end of the line. Minutes, step. Minutes, step. It is easy to see no progress here. We limp, just ahead of our baggage. He wishes we were on the plane already. Mom says he’s just nervous. He’s just like our father.

‘Stop being a baby,’ I say.

‘Hush,’ Mom says. ‘Everyone is afraid of flying.’

Airport staff in blue Polos mill around the only open spot in the whole airport. They say the same thing over and over, their eyes deadened. ‘Please pull out all computers. Be prepared to take off your shoes and put everything into a gray container. Please pull out—’

A man dressed like Dad—ties with jackets that match pants—points to the line, then at us. A blue shirted employee asks to see IDs and boarding passes. We are near the front. Abdul asks what is happening. Hardly looking, at him or his license, he asks Abdul to follow him. He says Abdul would take part of a random screening.

‘I’m his mother,’ she says. It sounds like begging to me.

Mom grabs her bag and me and follows. The man in the tie waves us on, so we cut through the line in the wrong direction.

The stain on my brother’s back branches to his armpits and starts dripping down his sides. He looks everywhere. He calls for Mom. Mom yells again to the blue shirt, but lacks the words she wanted to say in English, so she starts in Arabic. It doesn’t help, so I translate what I could. Abdul, always the listener, walks without being pulled. Mom’s hand around my wrist is so tight, I thought she would pull my hand off.

We walk into a division of the larger room, split off by fabric lined dividers and curtains. The back of my brother’s shirt is a darker piece of black, like when you peel back the sheath on a crayon to show how dark the color before the tip faded from use. The man in the tie asks Abdul to step behind one of the curtains. We could see Abdul’s feet from beneath the curtain. The blue shirted man looks in our bags. Mom says nothing. And behind the curtain, Abdul take off his shirt, of some college we were to see, and is asked about his citizenship.

At some point, everyone put on these black latex gloves, making their fingers seem leggy. Like spiders, they search. Everything is out in front of us: clothes, gifts, books for school. My brother’s laptop is inspected. More questions. They ask about people I know nothing of. I am told to put it all back in again. Refill the suitcases. They thank us; give us time to repack, tell Abdul to dress. They stand watch the entire time. They tell Mom to take off the scarf.

Mom’s hair is so light, almost blonde in these American summers. I always wanted her hair, instead of the thick hair of my father. When I told my friends I was from Afghanistan, they were surprised. Our skin isn’t so olive, our eyes not as dark as the people on their TVs. A secret kept under her scarf. She stands straight up and moves to back to line. My brother’s shirt clings to him. He looks half as full with the fabric hanging to his skin, instead of how the shirt billowed, like a flag always full of wind. He looks nothing like our Dad. He shivers from putting on the damp shirt in the now cool air. Mom looks past the men who tell us to go through the security check again. ‘Everyone needs to do it,’ the staff says.