15. GRADUATION

IT WAS CHAOTIC outside the Utica Memorial Auditorium.

Families—many carrying flowers and balloons—headed inside, toward the bleachers, to see their teenagers graduate. There were women in printed sundresses, their bare feet in thongs; men in T-shirts, shorts, and baseball caps; and hundreds of women in hijab and long, layered dresses in tangerine, fuchsia, lemon, cream, black, silver, and gold. Head wraps and shawls sparkled with tiny sequins.

Sadia—standing outside, surrounded by her sisters—was resplendent.

She had draped a tiara of crystals across her forehead and wrapped three leis around her neck. Under her graduation cap, she wore a bright red scarf. Her smile was wide: She had made it through the year. “I passed all my classes,” she said.

Her sisters were aglow, too: Aisha, 6, was in a beaded hijab and a dress of white tulle that looked like a miniature wedding gown. Halima, 11, was in pink from head to toe, her hijab embroidered with a swirl of sequins.

Mana—her thin face framed by a head scarf—looked tired but happy. She had recently gotten married. Her mother and new stepfather had arranged it; before the wedding Mana had never met the man, a 34-year-old Somali Bantu.

Asked about married life, Mana said, “Sometimes good, sometimes bad. He’s very good to me. But I’m not sure yet. I don’t really know him.”

Zahara was not there.

If Sadia was pained by this, she did not show it. She seemed content with her sisters, aunts, and cousins milling around her in the June sunshine.

She and her mother had hardly spoken the past year, since she had returned home.

Sadia was hurt by her mother’s response when she walked in the door: “She wouldn’t even hug me, or say, ‘Where were you? Where did you go?’ ”

“She was just annoyed by me.”

It was more complicated: “Of course, I was worried,” Zahara said, softly, when I asked about that time. “She’s my child.”

But she could not get over her anger at Sadia’s rebelliousness—and what she saw as her lack of respect. She felt Sadia had shamed her by running away.

Sadia went up to a woman holding a clipboard.

She returned, looking thunderstruck. “I don’t have my card.”

“What card?” one of her sisters asked.

“I don’t know.”

Sadia disappeared inside the auditorium, then came back, relieved, carrying a card with her name on it.

Her family streamed toward the bleachers, passing a mural depicting a giant-sized glass of Labatt beer; the auditorium is a sports and entertainment complex. They settled into a row toward the back, the youngest children sitting on laps.

Far below, the senior class of 2016—about 600 students—sat facing the stage. Students were seated in alphabetical order. Families strained to pick out their child.

Ambure. Sadia should have been toward the front. But even though the principal and students looked like toys, it was clear that Sadia—with her red head scarf—was not there.

The principal made his opening remarks, then introduced a couple of local dignitaries. But the sound system was not working well. Then the valedictorian, Kelly Fam, a young first-generation American woman, spoke; it was hard to hear her.

Suddenly, Sadia hurried onto the floor.

There was one chair open at the very back, and she took it: The principal called up each graduate, shook hands, then handed them a certificate. Sadia’s family listened attentively through the hundreds of names.

Sadia’s was the last to be called.

Afterward she stood, alone, near the parking lot. She was waiting to be picked up.

She was hazy about the glitch at the graduation ceremony. And she was vague about her plans—she thought she would probably babysit that summer and start MVCC in the fall.

One thing was certain: High school was over.