The Pursuit of Excellence

Kow- Constantly Floating

Kow
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Constantly Floating
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"Sheeko, sheeko, sheeko xariir. . ."

Every night, when my mother would tell me Somali folktales, I made sure we had tea left over. Whenever I heard those words: sheeko, sheeko; sheeko xariir, I knew that it was going to be a good night.

Story, story, what's the story?

She always told me I'd get to listen to one under the stars with our neighbors, like she got to back in Somalia. She always told me that we'd go back home one day. That Finland wouldn't be our final stop. We'd go back as soon as it was safe.

We lived in a little apartment; just me and my mother. It got lonely often, as she had to go to work at multiple jobs, but I never let that keep me from studying. Every day she ordered me to study out of fear of becoming what she was.

The books had been worn down. The desk had deep scratches in it from the nights I spent frustrated at my lack of ability to understand what was going on in my mathematics classes.

But sometimes we would walk together on the snow dusted streets to adjust ourselves in the city we were living in. It was nice getting to spend some time with her.

"Go home, monkeys!"

"What did he say, Ayaan?"

"Nothing important," I replied, feeling a faint frown begin to grow on my face.

I had yet to see any immigrant be treated like humans. Especially if they were from Africa. I never spoke about it. My days were mostly silent because I was constantly, constantly thinking to myself.

Whenever my mother told me about how we'd go back, I'd always feel guilty. There was nothing in me longing to go to Somalia. But there was nothing in me longing to stay here. I was constantly floating in my mind, constantly thinking about where I truly belonged.

I was too foreign for Finland, but too westernized for Somalia. I didn't know what to do about it except just ignore it for the sake of my sanity.

I was nine at the time, and I would see girls my age playing together on the school grounds or walking around in the town square, having what I assumed to be a good time.

Watching them always made me curious.

The fact that I was constantly floating always stuck with me. I belonged neither here, nor there, and I had no group of friends to call my concrete family. I wandered often.

"Hoyo, I think we should get your medicine now." I spoke to her only in Somali, as it was the only language she could understand well. It was the language she grew up with. It was the language she told stories in, expressed her woes in, told jokes in.

We stood outside the pharmacy in the cold Finnish weather, as I waited for her answer.

"That's a good idea," she responded.

I went in the store, and she walked in after me, and I went up to the counter to ask for her prescription.

I was the liaison for Finland and my mother. I spoke the language she had more of a struggle in than escaping a war. And I had this job for as long as I could remember. But I had to sacrifice the fluidity I had in speaking my mother tongue for her to live a little better here.

My Somali was stilted. Awkward. I felt ashamed speaking it for the reason of being laughed at by my relatives. There were times I would pray in the night to have my language back, so I could keep my family close.

"Thank you for coming," the pharmacist said.

I simply nodded and handed my mother the paper bag, and saw an odd expression on her face.

It looked like a faint guilt took over her eyes, which I understood.

Sometimes I wondered if she felt guilty to have to compromise my natural upbringing to make our lives easier. I wondered if she ever regretted the days she would have me practice Finnish instead of playing with the kids in the school yard. Sometimes I feel like she did.

I remember she used to try practicing Finnish, until she gave up. She always spoke to her relatives in Somalia on the computer in beautiful Somali. Somali that was precise, articulate, and ridden with relief.

As I followed her home, I wondered if she was constantly floating, too.