Mama and Baba. That’s what I called them. Always. That’s how I texted them. Even how I left voice mail messages, because my parents are very old-fashioned and wanted me to call them on the actual phone if I was going to be late coming home from the makerspace. I didn’t always like calling them Mama and Baba, because when I started school, no one else called their parents that. For everyone else it was pretty much Mom and Dad.
It made my cheeks burn when a boy named David made fun of my lunch in second grade. I always brought lunch from home, and for Eid my mom made dolma mahshi—one of my favorites. He turned up his nose at the smell of the onions and meat that was coming from the small thermos my mom had given me. I tried to turn away, but he wouldn’t leave me alone. Why doesn’t your ma-ma give you normal food for lunch so you don’t smell up the whole classroom? he’d asked, saying mama in a baby voice. Other kids around us giggled and pointed fingers. The teacher told him to stop, but from then on, I mostly stopped talking about Mama and Baba in class or with the other kids, or I found ways to avoid saying those words.
It made me a little sad. I didn’t want to let the other kids wash all my own words out of my mouth, but I didn’t know what else to do.