The narrator of this passage from a novel is Nasarian, a woman who was born in Kenya and now lives in New York City. (1) Looking at her makes me remember. (2) I can almost feel the heat rising, riding the backs of broken cobblestones, gray and scraped smooth by a ceaseless parade of tired, black, sandaled feet. (3) But that was far away and long ago. (4) Here, this woman peers almost timidly around the curving, splintered wood of the brownstone door, blinking furiously now as the wind and rain whip her face. (5) I stare, and a sudden longing whistles through my mind, dancing around me on each restless gust of cold, wet wind that slams into my chest as I walk down 132nd Street in Harlem. (6) Harlem. (7) So far from my home. (8) So far from the endless Kenyan plains that I still dream about each night. (9) The rain pelts my face, and I shiver as it shimmies down my neck and creeps underneath the thick, scratchy collar of my coat. (10) I cannot stop staring into this woman's face, this African mother draped from brow to ankle in gold and wind-crushed linen. (11) As she descends the stairs, the rain seems to disappear around her. (12) Now that she has committed herself, she does not blink or falter. (13) If anything, the rain has become a tightly woven fruit basket bearing down on the crown of her head, under which her pride demands that she stand erect. (14) The only concession she gives is to pull her head wrap up out of the folds of her long, dark cloak and clutch it tightly underneath her chin. (15) The scarf is a replica of the same gilded hijab my mother wore as a child, long before she became my mother. (16) I know this because it is the outfit that she chooses when she comes to me at night in my dreams. (17) This woman looks nothing like my mother, yet somehow my heart tells me that they are almost exactly the same. (18) She tucks her curling braids underneath the edges of the wrap, attempting to cover the wildness embroidered in her hair. (19) I don't understand why, modesty is no kin to women like her. (20) She cannot help but walk like a mountain's peak through the raunchy streets of Harlem, wearing her continent on the high bridge of her nose, with the valleys curving round like clattering rings into her nostrils. (21) Her exposed heels are lined with the deep furrows of an elephant's trunk. (22) She wears sandals in the November cold, in the hard, trash-swilling rain because the thirsty leather straps remind her of deserts and home (at least that's why I do so).

The narrator of this passage from a novel is Nasarian, a woman who was born in Kenya and now lives in New York City. (1) Looking at her makes me remember. (2) I can almost feel the heat rising, riding the backs of broken cobblestones, gray and scraped smooth by a ceaseless parade of tired, black, sandaled feet. (3) But that was far away and long ago. (4) Here, this woman peers almost timidly around the curving, splintered wood of the brownstone door, blinking furiously now as the wind and rain whip her face. (5) I stare, and a sudden longing whistles through my mind, dancing around me on each restless gust of cold, wet wind that slams into my chest as I walk down 132nd Street in Harlem. (6) Harlem. (7) So far from my home. (8) So far from the endless Kenyan plains that I still dream about each night. (9) The rain pelts my face, and I shiver as it shimmies down my neck and creeps underneath the thick, scratchy collar of my coat. (10) I cannot stop staring into this woman's face, this African mother draped from brow to ankle in gold and wind-crushed linen. (11) As she descends the stairs, the rain seems to disappear around her. (12) Now that she has committed herself, she does not blink or falter. (13) If anything, the rain has become a tightly woven fruit basket bearing down on the crown of her head, under which her pride demands that she stand erect. (14) The only concession she gives is to pull her head wrap up out of the folds of her long, dark cloak and clutch it tightly underneath her chin. (15) The scarf is a replica of the same gilded hijab my mother wore as a child, long before she became my mother. (16) I know this because it is the outfit that she chooses when she comes to me at night in my dreams. (17) This woman looks nothing like my mother, yet somehow my heart tells me that they are almost exactly the same. (18) She tucks her curling braids underneath the edges of the wrap, attempting to cover the wildness embroidered in her hair. (19) I don't understand why, modesty is no kin to women like her. (20) She cannot help but walk like a mountain's peak through the raunchy streets of Harlem, wearing her continent on the high bridge of her nose, with the valleys curving round like clattering rings into her nostrils. (21) Her exposed heels are lined with the deep furrows of an elephant's trunk. (22) She wears sandals in the November cold, in the hard, trash-swilling rain because the thirsty leather straps remind her of deserts and home (at least that's why I do so).

The narrator of this passage from a novel is Nasarian, a woman who was born in Kenya and now lives in New York City. (1) Looking at her makes me remember. (2) I can almost feel the heat rising, riding the backs of broken cobblestones, gray and scraped smooth by a ceaseless parade of tired, black, sandaled feet. (3) But that was far away and long ago. (4) Here, this woman peers almost timidly around the curving, splintered wood of the brownstone door, blinking furiously now as the wind and rain whip her face. (5) I stare, and a sudden longing whistles through my mind, dancing around me on each restless gust of cold, wet wind that slams into my chest as I walk down 132nd Street in Harlem. (6) Harlem. (7) So far from my home. (8) So far from the endless Kenyan plains that I still dream about each night. (9) The rain pelts my face, and I shiver as it shimmies down my neck and creeps underneath the thick, scratchy collar of my coat. (10) I cannot stop staring into this woman's face, this African mother draped from brow to ankle in gold and wind-crushed linen. (11) As she descends the stairs, the rain seems to disappear around her. (12) Now that she has committed herself, she does not blink or falter. (13) If anything, the rain has become a tightly woven fruit basket bearing down on the crown of her head, under which her pride demands that she stand erect. (14) The only concession she gives is to pull her head wrap up out of the folds of her long, dark cloak and clutch it tightly underneath her chin. (15) The scarf is a replica of the same gilded hijab my mother wore as a child, long before she became my mother. (16) I know this because it is the outfit that she chooses when she comes to me at night in my dreams. (17) This woman looks nothing like my mother, yet somehow my heart tells me that they are almost exactly the same. (18) She tucks her curling braids underneath the edges of the wrap, attempting to cover the wildness embroidered in her hair. (19) I don't understand why, modesty is no kin to women like her. (20) She cannot help but walk like a mountain's peak through the raunchy streets of Harlem, wearing her continent on the high bridge of her nose, with the valleys curving round like clattering rings into her nostrils. (21) Her exposed heels are lined with the deep furrows of an elephant's trunk. (22) She wears sandals in the November cold, in the hard, trash-swilling rain because the thirsty leather straps remind her of deserts and home (at least that's why I do so).

The narrator of this passage from a novel is Nasarian, a woman who was born in Kenya and now lives in New York City. (1) Looking at her makes me remember. (2) I can almost feel the heat rising, riding the backs of broken cobblestones, gray and scraped smooth by a ceaseless parade of tired, black, sandaled feet. (3) But that was far away and long ago. (4) Here, this woman peers almost timidly around the curving, splintered wood of the brownstone door, blinking furiously now as the wind and rain whip her face. (5) I stare, and a sudden longing whistles through my mind, dancing around me on each restless gust of cold, wet wind that slams into my chest as I walk down 132nd Street in Harlem. (6) Harlem. (7) So far from my home. (8) So far from the endless Kenyan plains that I still dream about each night. (9) The rain pelts my face, and I shiver as it shimmies down my neck and creeps underneath the thick, scratchy collar of my coat. (10) I cannot stop staring into this woman's face, this African mother draped from brow to ankle in gold and wind-crushed linen. (11) As she descends the stairs, the rain seems to disappear around her. (12) Now that she has committed herself, she does not blink or falter. (13) If anything, the rain has become a tightly woven fruit basket bearing down on the crown of her head, under which her pride demands that she stand erect. (14) The only concession she gives is to pull her head wrap up out of the folds of her long, dark cloak and clutch it tightly underneath her chin. (15) The scarf is a replica of the same gilded hijab my mother wore as a child, long before she became my mother. (16) I know this because it is the outfit that she chooses when she comes to me at night in my dreams. (17) This woman looks nothing like my mother, yet somehow my heart tells me that they are almost exactly the same. (18) She tucks her curling braids underneath the edges of the wrap, attempting to cover the wildness embroidered in her hair. (19) I don't understand why, modesty is no kin to women like her. (20) She cannot help but walk like a mountain's peak through the raunchy streets of Harlem, wearing her continent on the high bridge of her nose, with the valleys curving round like clattering rings into her nostrils. (21) Her exposed heels are lined with the deep furrows of an elephant's trunk. (22) She wears sandals in the November cold, in the hard, trash-swilling rain because the thirsty leather straps remind her of deserts and home (at least that's why I do so).