By Shoilee Mandal

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A poem about the process of creating a community & finding a place to belong after fleeing a familiar land.

I. ROOTING

little dolls made of mud, sand dusting against their skin,
crafted by working hands with dull nails, covered in the dirt
of a village made fully by the people, for the people, full of 
fingerprints of artistry; i watch as they make their way through
into every little detail, molded by war’s trauma, yet the
delicacy of authenticity; villages made on the backbone of
creation, a small world, yet so full of story, waiting to be let out;
you sit under a roof made of tin, surrounded by mud walls,
two braids in your hair, dust wandering through your feet, 
watching your sister needle through your colorful quilts,
your mother press her hands into a clay wheel,
your father reel a fishing rod into your green lake;
you sit in your world, wondering how big you’ll make it.

II. FLEEING

you once thought that in a city two-hundred miles away,
you’d find the most modern life there is; the thought of
eight-thousand miles, eleven hours – never even came upon you,
yet you carried a baby twenty-four hours through the sky;
ambition and dreams, the two of you seeking “liberty,” 
i stare at your pictures, hugging and crying goodbye,
sparks of excitement to finally hit the airport;
your eyes open to an american sky, greeted by, 
people who make this a so-called, melting pot; you wander through
a world of unfamiliarity, your tongue slipping, the world 
no longer made of what it once was; you’re plucking your head of grays,
searching for the few black hairs; i watch as you try,
to pull the eight-thousand miles into your new city; 
i watch you try making this place my loving home, 
after leaving your heart in yours.

III. BUILDING

you carve out a little circle, to find your place, your people;
hundreds of others, just as you, come to find their place, 
a place where the tongue can rest freely, and come to life 
without knots and tangles; hundreds of others, who were wandering
through the melting pot, trying to find a place to sink;
you start to bring back the little heart of your land, 
onto a land of all the little worlds; after scattering 
yourself through unfamiliarity, you make this little circle, 
of people to let you know you’re not that far, 
to make the clocks feel merged, even when you came here to find a new life.

IV. PRESERVING

i wander through our streets today, as if i’m in the world you once lived in,
to know you both made it here, translating your lives,
through oceans of unspoken languages; to know my tongue 
merges the two worlds, freely with you, freely with your foreigners;
i trot through our american terrain with those who brought your world back; 
your little mud dolls, are now replicated in the cornershop of our block,
as if the dirt made its way to our arms, thousands of miles away;
the vibrant crimson in loops, forest green accompanying it, 
walls decorated by the art of culture’s vision; you watch
as brushstrokes paint joy on the faces of those who came
for freedom and for life, waving their flag of a green layer,
centered red blood; our flag waves, even oceans away,
we’re here, with our entirety, background following along.

V. LEARNING

you firmly grasp the body of a pen, boldly swimming 
through the english alphabet, yet gasping for air; you teach me
to write in all capitals, screaming on the paper, giving me my voice
in a language your hand cramps in; i watch as the pen leads the way
when you’re spilling out your mother tongue; a line striking the top,
squiggles and dots, triangles and arcs that i’m learning to grasp;
i enter the land you tried bringing here, and realize where the scraps came from;
walking barefoot through the mud like you once did, my toes
flooded with memory; colors making their way on the body of a rickshaw,
the same patterns i lay on my canvas, preserving the travel 
through your roads in my world full of cars;
each pair of eyes, trusting you and me; this is where it came from,
what you brought to me, to learn and to love.

VI. CALLING HOME

i wander back into this small world you’ve made me, 
even living in this big city, full of other worlds; yet it feels
that in this bubble, you and everyone, bringing together your home;
these people are my people, however far i go, a home lives here; 
no matter where, you’ve built your home for me here; as i wonder
where your blood has gone, i recall that you haven’t let it slip;
i wander through our streets one night, to see a street sign,
reading, “little bangladesh,” and i simply walk by;
that’s what it’s been this whole time, a little piece of your home 
that you and everyone have laid out here for me and for the 
childish glee trailing; no matter how far i go,
you’ve built a home for me, here, even in our land of a melting pot.

Process

This poem was inspired by the implementation of “Little Bangladesh Avenue” in Queens, New York in February of 2022. Growing up in this community, I was constantly surrounded by my culture and the hard work of hundreds of immigrants striving to find their place in an unfamiliar country. Before the sign was put up, I still thought of the neighborhood as a little Bangladesh, but seeing this group of people claim a place in this big city was truly a moment of pride and a feeling of belonging. Taking the risk of leaving a place one grew up in and became accustomed to is never easy; immigration is full of challenges and sacrifices. From the child of immigrants, this poem is an acknowledgment and an appreciation for every sacrifice and moment that brought me, and an entire generation, together through cultural perseverance.