42. THEIR GENERATION

SADIA found a way to see her younger sisters: Ralya brought them to her house on Jay Street, which she rented from her mother, and Sadia visited them there.

“My mother doesn’t want them to see me,” Sadia explained.

She felt particularly close to Zamzam, now a tall, thin 13-year-old. “She’s the sweetest one in the family,” Sadia said. But she knew how to stick up for herself. Recently another sister, who had just bought expensive makeup, teased Zamzam about having the darkest skin in the family.

“I don’t need makeup for my beautiful Black skin,” Zamzam said, and walked away.

Sadia no longer saw her younger sisters as so different from her: “They think for themselves,” she said. “They uncover their hair, wear what they want, listen to what they want.”

“But it’s not just them,” she added. “It’s their generation. Their American generation.”

At home, Mana was still in charge—yet things were shifting.

Their mother was working full time at Walmart, after giving birth to her 13th child. On a Friday afternoon, Mana assigned her siblings the formidable task of cleaning the whole house.

She promised: If they did a good job, she would take them to a fair in Utica.

This was a big treat. They had all gone last year and loved it—no ride was too scary for the older kids. Mana had already bought the tickets, which were expensive.

But they would have to hurry. It was already late afternoon, and the fair closed at 8 p.m.

“They suck at cleaning,” Mana said matter-of-factly.

The kids were making a racket on the second floor. She yelled up at them, “No clothes or garbage on the floor!”

Picking up Luqman, her new baby brother, she kissed his cheeks, then tickled him under his arms; he giggled wildly. Mana mentioned Sadia’s pregnancy: “I’m happy for her.”

Mana had always thought she would be the one with kids and that Sadia would not. “It turned out the opposite,” she said quietly.

As always, Mana was wearing a headscarf and long skirt; the word Love ran down the sleeves of her blue jacket.

Like a queen, Mana has her methods of control.

She rewards those who are good, with candy from Walmart. Those who misbehave get ignored. This works, she said, “because they all want my attention.”

In high school, “I worked all the time,” she said, referring to running the household with Ralya. When their two little brothers were diagnosed with lead poisoning, she and Ralya dealt with the doctors and got the boys into Head Start and a special tutoring program.

There was no fun, no outlet: “I didn’t have a cell phone or tablet, like my younger sisters do.”

Now it is her turn: She expects to be waited on.

“The children wake me exactly at 9:30, when I need to get up for work,” she said. “They lay out my clothes, bring me food and water. And they clean my room.”

Halima, 14, approached Mana.

I had never seen Halima without a hijab: Her waist-length hair was in a hundred tiny braids, some twisted into an elaborate knot on top of her head, some raining down. Instead of her usual long skirt, she wore tight jeans, torn at the knees.

“Ma’am,” she said, smiling but cautious, “The fair will be over soon. Can we finish when we get back?”

“Ma’am!” Mana mimicked her, annoyed. “No, you have to finish now. Let’s see what you’ve done.”

Halima followed her upstairs. Mana swept past her 5-year-old brother in the hallway, gathering trash—old candy wrappers and a penny—into a garbage bag. Her 2-year-old sister stood watching him, transfixed.

Mana headed into her bedroom. It was large and sunlit, one of the nicest rooms in the house.

She stared at her double bed with its pretty floral quilt. And at the large pile of clothing in a corner.

“You didn’t change the sheets?” she asked, furious. “You didn’t put away my clothes?”

“It’s too much work,” Halima said. “Can’t we do it later?”

“It’s too much work?” Mana said, her voice rising. “Should I add more?”

“We’re always working!” Zamzam said, appearing with a broom. She also was without a hijab, her hair in braids. She looked like an American teenager in a long-sleeved black racing shirt and jeans.

“I pay for the Wi-Fi!” Mana said. “You want me to cut the Wi-Fi?”

“Not the Wi-Fi,” Halima said quickly, looking devastated. “We’ll do it.”

Twenty minutes later, on her way downstairs, Halima smiled and flashed a peace sign at Mana.

The gesture puzzled and aggravated Mana. “Oh, is that what people do now?” she said.

But then they were all downstairs, excitedly putting on sneakers. And they were one organism again.

It was lightly raining outside. The older children helped the younger ones pull on jackets. One of the boys wrapped a plastic bag around himself. Abdiwle—now a 6-year-old with a shy smile—left his pink stuffed bunny by the door.

Mana was as excited as the kids. She shepherded the youngest into the car, strapped the baby into his car seat, and waved to the others standing on the steps. They would walk the half mile to the fair, which was next to the Utica Zoo.

“They’re precious to me,” Mana said, glancing at the young ones in the back seat.

It was a gray day, and the fair was in its last hours. But there were still dozens of kids lining up to go on rides, many from large refugee families. A Dominican mother carried a big red panda she had won. A Vietnamese woman ran after her two grandchildren.

Ralya showed up, delighting her siblings. She was majestic in a long, purple patterned dress. Like her younger sisters, her hair was uncovered and twisted into long braids. She entered fully into the spirit of the fair: She paid $5 and tossed three balls into a bucket, trying to win a big, plush bear. Each one hit its mark—but then popped out. She was disappointed; they were superballs, with too much oomph to stay put.

Then she and Halima went on Avengers, a neon-blue roller coaster that rocketed to the side, then circled like a moon.

When the ride finally stopped, Halima hit the ground exhilarated, but unsteady. Ralya looked refreshed.

Mana did not go on any rides; the baby was strapped to her back. But her face—framed by her brown head wrap—was joyous and unburdened.

Laughing, she watched her siblings go on ride after ride. She threw her arms up; she called out to them. She took pictures with her cell phone. Disembarking, the younger ones ran to her, clutching her long skirt.

At that moment, it felt like Mana—adored and feared—would rule the house forever. The older girls were changing; they would grow up and be replaced by the younger ones. But Mana would somehow stay put.

Nobody could have guessed that in just months, Mana, 26, would remarry. Zahara arranged it; she knew the young man’s mother from the refugee camp. He was 22 years old—and Mana liked him very much.

The teenagers buzzed around Mana before wandering off.

Zamzam ran into a classmate, a short Vietnamese boy with glasses, and gave him a hug. He came up to her chest. “That’s my best friend,” she said.

The light was fading. Soon their mother would be home from work. And Mana would leave for the night shift.

Mana gave a signal: Like a flock of birds, the 11 siblings started heading out.