Nasim's Journey

Nasim was always a little too early for everything. She woke up before the sun, fell asleep before the moon rose, ran before she walked, and was even born a week early. Some days it seemed as if she was running from the wind itself. Her mother joked that one day the wind would rob Nasim of everything she had and send her flying. She said it in the fluid motions of their family's sign language. A language that swayed like wheat fields and crackled like fire but never made a sound. Her blind father wasn't as grave about Nasim's early bird mischief but always teased her about her lack of rhythm. Where she had two left feet he glided through the world, snapping out counter-rhythms to hear where he went and placing his feet carefully through their family's fields. Dancing, music-making, and memorizing his way through life in perfect time.

But what Nasim lacked in rhythm she made up for in a talent for poetry. She, like so many Iranians before her, had a love for the act of stringing words together so they could fly. She'd spend her mornings reciting her favorite poets while helping her father in the fields and in the afternoons she'd write new ones while her mother cared for the household. And whenever she felt that curious sensation when words are placed just so - she'd take fight sleep to practice her poems on her hands and lips so that every stanza and line flew just right.

~

"Lookin' for a ride?" a sing-songy voice just barely audible above the roaring of an 18-wheeler called out to Nasim. She looked up from beside the sun-bleached road to the trucker. He had a full beard speckled with silver streaks, hooded eyes, and a heavy-set frame. He reached out a sweaty hand towards her which she gladly accepted. Under most circumstances, a novice hitchhiker would mention how unlikely it was to hear Appalachian mountain-talk so far out west but Nasim had spent enough time being the odd voice out to pick apart and examine his accent.

"Thanks," she responded with a tired huff as she took his hand and hoisted herself into the semi's rusty cabin. The inside was riddled with the tell-tale signs of a lonely long-haul trucker's life. A mattress and a blanket riddled with moth holes sat underneath a shelf with a boxy tv while raggedy clothing littered the floor. There were gray storm clouds gathering and thunder echoing above the golden plains ahead of the truck, "I wouldn't want to be waiting for a ride when the weather turned," she commented.

"That's right you wouldn't!" they didn't speak further for a few minutes while the trucker muttered swear words and tried to get the old vehicle up and running again. The engine whined and sputtered in protest as he tried the key twice, shifted gears three times, before finally getting it to work. He let out a small cheer when the truck started driving forward and gave a big grin to Nasim.

After taking a swig from a bottle of coke he asked her name. "It's Nasim" she replied. "Huh, my name ain't as pretty as that, just Bill for me. Where's it from?" his voice gently rolling up and down in pitch with each syllable. She liked the sound of it even if she wanted to roll her eyes at the variation on the "where are you from?" line. "It's Iranian, I'm from there," a bit of longing hitched in her throat as she said it. He smiled "I ain't met nobody from Iran before, but I like the way you talk with the accent and all. I'm from a small town in Appalachia, and I got made fun of for my accent when I went to them bigger schools, but it don't bother me now. You gotta be proud of your accent, proud of where you come from. Ya see we don't talk, we sang in the mountains, and ain't nobody quite like us" He continued to ramble on like that as words poured like water from his mouth Nasim quietly nodded along and settled in for the long-haul.

~

The fields were far too empty. Her father had died away two weeks ago and the world seemed as foreign now as it did the evening he left. There was no one dancing through the fields, carefully stepping between the tall wheat, or calling out to her. Now, Nasim and her mother tended the fields and signed silently to one another to distract from the pain. They daydreamed about swimming in the Persian Gulf, repeated old family jokes, discussed what Nasim learned at school or any other pointless thing to distract from the grief. The air tasted stale and time seemed to move slower than before.

Yet the world kept turning The seasons changed and they kept living. They tended the fields, ate their food, and Nasim practiced her poetry. And despite, or perhaps because of, her grief her poems became better.

She started to win awards and contests when she performed her poetry for her schoolmates and countrymen. She started to speak louder and more proudly in front of audiences. She transfixed listeners who didn't understand her family's secret language with her signing. She started to wonder more about the world beyond her small home. One day she looked around and realized she felt as empty as the fields and wondered if it was time to leave.

~

"Motherfucker." The semi's engine sputtered to a halt after about 30 minutes of Nasim and Bill riding together. "Hold on a moment," he told her. The weary trucker hopped out of the cab, clambered up the side of the engine hold, and popped open the hood. Nasim didn't know much about cars or trucks but figured the burning smell probably wasn't a good sign. It might've been for the best to put some distance between herself and the cab at that point but she simply let out a sigh.

"Well, God, if you want to take me to Baba now I guess that's alright." She said faintly to herself holding the gold Shabaz pendant around her neck. Despondency set in as something made the golden, American plains seem pale and pointless. What should have been a sublime journey reminiscent of Kerouac had turned into a flat, gray path filled with missteps, missed rides, and dashed hopes. In the sky and in her heart the rain began to fall.

~

Her first love had been an all-American boy. A protestant football player and economics major at Suffolk, a blonde-haired blue-eyed beauty. She was an Iranian transfer who wore a headscarf, talked with a thick accent, and had caramel skin and plain brown eyes. Indeed it was something approaching absurd to see the spitting image of their respective cultures laughing and holding hands. Kissing in between classes and sneaking out of bars for late-night fantasies.

They were madly in love. And madness never ends anywhere good.

Her first love had beat her. He was a fine piece of white porcelain holding burning hot water. Every bit of his perfect exterior shrunk away when the lights were off and they were alone. Every ounce of kindness and exceptionality would fall apart to reveal a battered and bruised man who decided instead of fighting his demons he would fight her. He'd scream at her, insult her accent and her clothes, curse her, and beat her, and when he regretted all that he'd show her all the love he could then stupor himself in alcohol to forget what he'd done.

For a time she put up with the abuse, assumed she deserved it or it wasn't his fault, but eventually she swallowed the bitter truth that she couldn't help him. He wasn't going to change and staying would only wind up with one or both of them dead.

So she broke it off, and in one final act of violence, he burned her poetry. He took her collections from the shelves and picked up her manuscripts from the table, placed them in the kitchen sink, lit a match, and watched it burn.

At that moment she wanted to scream and hurt him as he hurt her, but her mind locked into place. It was as if she had no mouth and no hands and all she could do was silently scream as every last feeling she had memorialized in verse turned into ash.

She quit her job that summer and hit the road.

~

It'd been almost an hour since the rain started falling and Bill was back in the car with Nasim. The two were passing a joint between them and waiting for the rain to stall so Bill could get back to work on the motor. They chatted about the road, national parks, hometowns, food, and, of course, weed. But when Nasim mentioned her family, blabberrmouth Bill went mute. So she passed the joint back to him and enjoyed a quiet moment staring out at the rain cascading down the window pane. That was when she noticed the most peculiar creature

Just beyond a small ridge in the land stood a white buffalo. The power such a rare animal commanded was palpable. In a dreamlike state, she opened the door and stepped out into the downpour. Rain droplets coated her leather jacket and grass seeds stuck to her boots as she treaded onto the plains.

"What're ya doin'? Bill said, his voice muffled by the rain. Nasim didn't hear. She was entranced by the white buffalo standing tall in the downpour. Bill repeated what he said, this time louder, and honked the horn. The buffalo then began stamping its hooves and sent a cloud of mist from its muzzle. Noticing its body language she turned halfway around to Bill and signed at him to stop speaking and follow her lead.

Bill didn't understand. So she slowed down her movements.

She raised her right middle finger to her lips and drew an arc with her left and closed it into a fist at the end, then brought both hands down to her heart, and then she released her arms and moved them up and down towards the distant buffalo with the left hand upturned beckoning the downturned right hand to follow.

Bill understood. And ever so hesitantly he stepped out of the cab and followed her into the rain.

The buffalo calmed down following Bill's silence and the two were able to approach ten more paces before stopping. They stood together - two insignificant people on some unnamed plain across from a remarkable creature. In its beady black eyes Nasim thought she saw a hint of sadness, perhaps some curiosity, and strength. For a moment the immigrant hitchhiker standing between an Appalachian hillbilly and an American icon felt what she hadn't felt since her father passed. She felt peace.

And just as quickly as it appeared, the albino buffalo left them.

Back in the semi's cabin, the two sat without speaking while the rain petered out. After a while, Bill simply said "I lost my daughter five years ago. They found her body somewhere out here in Wyoming." He chewed on his cheeks a bit and swallowed deeply before beginning to cry: grief finally caught up with the man who wouldn't stop driving.

She placed her hand on his, and that was enough.