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At the airport

At the airport I roll my bags, having packed my America in, enough of it to last. I know that when I hit the Athens air full of fat sounds and large gestures I will succumb to your grin, to your parents' accepting welcome and expectation. I will bring my language to your family's children in the country of fathers with dark eyes and heavy hands waving the white handkerchief like a banner. I will watch my hands alternately on the long handle of the bríki as I raise the bitter liquid to the top, a froth of sweetness capping my success. And your parents will taste it and you will taste it and finally I, all alone, will taste it and sink in the white-walled room of our concrete house, where the breeze will take lavender from the mountain and carry it to me, where the sun will lay its hand on my cheek as I hang the clothes, handling the rusting clothespins on the lines you strung over the balcony just far enough so that the towels would not slap the pocked rails. And then I will 2 frontiers/2006/vol. 27, no. 2 toss the bucket of soap water down http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Frontiers: A Journal of Women Studies University of Nebraska Press

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Publisher
University of Nebraska Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2006 by Frontiers Editorial Collective.
ISSN
1536-0334
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

I roll my bags, having packed my America in, enough of it to last. I know that when I hit the Athens air full of fat sounds and large gestures I will succumb to your grin, to your parents' accepting welcome and expectation. I will bring my language to your family's children in the country of fathers with dark eyes and heavy hands waving the white handkerchief like a banner. I will watch my hands alternately on the long handle of the bríki as I raise the bitter liquid to the top, a froth of sweetness capping my success. And your parents will taste it and you will taste it and finally I, all alone, will taste it and sink in the white-walled room of our concrete house, where the breeze will take lavender from the mountain and carry it to me, where the sun will lay its hand on my cheek as I hang the clothes, handling the rusting clothespins on the lines you strung over the balcony just far enough so that the towels would not slap the pocked rails. And then I will 2 frontiers/2006/vol. 27, no. 2 toss the bucket of soap water down

Journal

Frontiers: A Journal of Women StudiesUniversity of Nebraska Press

Published: Jan 17, 2006

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