Transported, transformed

She stared intently at Nabil's face and saw it transform into that of a headstrong young boy, adamant to maintain who he thought he was.

Simultaneously, she saw the streets of late 1800's Manhattan, saw the signs that said,

"No Irish need apply."

She couldn't remove her eyes from his face; she didn't want to miss this frightening and magical transformation. She watched his twenty seven years melt away to eight, and then she was there. She heard it-- "dirty Amazigh"-- screamed at her, clearly.
She squeezed her little brother's hand as she lead him through the filthy streets of the Five Points, and felt the spit of those bigoted demons burn her skirts. She walked as fast as she could, away from the taunts of the Arabic-speaking monsters, as swiftly as her feet would carry her away from the ugly Natives.

And the worlds converged, inseparable.

The names were different, but the characters and the hate the same. She wiped away tears as she screamed and insisted on speaking to her Amazigh grandmother in her grandmother's own tongue, as she scooped up her three year old brother to calm him--to make him stop wailing--after he had been kicked by an American boy.

She saw tattooed chins, thought them lovely, desired one, she was already fourteen, she knew she'd have one soon, she'd be a woman; heard the beat of the bodhran and felt her feet begin to dance. Jolted back to the classroom, she forced her feet to sit still.

And then it was over.

"How was Arabic class today?", Nabil asked.

"Fine."