Free The Last Living Slut by Roxana Shirazi

because it had such a low ceiling. I hated that I couldn’t speak English very well. And I hated being alone without my family and friends. Jacket potatoes and silence gagged me.
    At school I was known as the silent, smelly Paki and bullied with much glee and fanfare. “Fuckin’ Paki, she ain’t no Brit! Skin is brown and she smells like shit,” sang a gang of girls. My cheeks flamed with embarrassment.
    The constant taunts and bullying made me so anxious that I started involuntarily peeing myself as I entered the school doors. Droplets of pee trickled down into my underpants, and I would tighten my muscles to block the flow. Then I became the pathetic sheep-girl with the pain lodged in her throat, eyes buried deep in the ground as I entered the classroom of two dozen eleven-year-olds.
    The first few weeks of class weren’t too bad because I didn’t understand all the words flung at me. But because of that, it turned physical. The three main girls who hacked at me with their venom-sopped words were named Sally, Michelle, and Jessica. Their eyes, slick and quick, would twinkle as they’d walk toward me, chanting racist slurs, cricket bats at the ready.
    I responded by burying myself deeper in my favorite books, like Tom Sawyer and The Prince and the Pauper , which I read in Iranian. I lost myself in their adventures and fantasized about running away with Huckleberry Finn, whom I felt would make a wild and exciting boyfriend. Oh, how I longed to be naughty—to play games with my cousins and knock on neighbors’ doors and run away. I wanted to eat ash-e reshteh and see my mummy and friends and family. I just wanted to be home and be myself, the naughty show-off who had many friends and was adored.
    One day I opened my desk to find steamy chunks of dog shit next to my beloved Tom Sawyer. My book was ruined; my desk stank. All because I was different.
    I learned a lot of English very quickly in those first few months at Long Acre—because I had to. Dairy Milk quickly became my favorite chocolate bar, Wham! my favorite pop group. Between lessons I wrote letters to my mum on red paper, enclosing little trinkets from England: hair clips for my little sister and cartoon stickers for my brother.
    18 August 1984
    Dear Ma,
    Hello. I hope you are completely well and my brother and sister also. How is dad? I am really missing you. I wish you were here. Mum, you don’t know how many different types of toys there are here and what beautiful toys they are. Everywhere you go there are toys and clothes. Clothes that a person wouldn’t even dream of. There is a doll here called Barbie and she has everything, lots of shoes, clothes, makeup table, lipstick, eye shadow, kitchen, car, wardrobe, a husband. I wish you were here so you could buy me things that I want. The clothes are very, very beautiful here. The shoes shimmer with beauty. There are lots of beautiful things here but only the rich can buy them. The rich areas are really nice but the rest of the areas are so bad. For example, there are gangs of children who go around stealing and smashing car windows and no one says anything. I live in a really poor area. But at school I am learning the piano. I see mums holding their kids’ hands and I wish you were here. I am really upset that you’re not here.
    Some of the men here have tattoos on their arms and wear earrings and their hair is long and messy. It looks horrible.
    Write Back Soon,
    Your daughter
    In the five months I attended Long Acre, I was allowed to visit Manchester only twice. What I saw darkened my spirit further: My grandmother’s life now consisted of sitting alone in her flat between frequent hospital visits. From a sunny laughter-filled home brimming with loved ones where she tended to the fruit trees in her garden, to sitting in a high-rise flat watching the clouds—it was too much to bear. I didn’t understand why we had come to England. The bullying at school made me miserable, and my grandmother’s life