Student Spectrums

I remember the exact moment my life changed, as if my prayers had been answered. It was at the dinner table. The aroma of the spices and rice filled the room. My little sister was talking too much, like always, and I was barely listening, scrolling through my thoughts more than anything else. Everything felt so normal, so normal that I didn’t realize my dad’s jaw dropped as he read a letter he had earlier received.

“I got the job,” my dad said.

I looked up, not fully comprehending what I had just heard. What job? I quickly thought. He had been applying for many jobs all over the world for the past few months. I initially came to the conclusion that my dad was joking just to get everyone to talk, as my dad loved to make everyone laugh and interact.

“In Britain.”

That’s when everything stopped.

My sister went quiet. My mom froze, her hand still midair. And me, I choked. Actually choked. The food caught in my throat like my body was trying to reject the words before my brain could even understand them.

“Britain?” I managed, my voice coming out shaky.

He nodded, like it was real. Like the decision had already been made.

I remember staring at him, waiting for him to laugh, to say he was joking, to take it back. But he didn’t. He just sat there, looking proud, yet a little scared.

That’s when I realized he wasn’t asking.

We were leaving.

The words hung in the air like they didn’t belong in our house.

“No Baba,” I said before I even thought about it. My chair scraped the floor as I stood up. “We can’t just leave.”

My dad looked at me, calm in a way that made me even more upset. “We are leaving,” he repeated.

“But what about everything here?” My voice got louder. “The farm, my friends, school, this is our home.”

For a second, something flickered in his face. Not anger. Something closer to patience.

He stood up slowly, like he had already had this conversation in his head, waiting for it to be said.

“These people,” he said quietly, “they will not be with you your whole life.”

I frowned. “What does that even mean, Baba?”

“It means life doesn’t stay in one place,” he said. “And when new opportunities open for you, you take them. All of them.”

I wanted to argue again. I wanted to say that I didn’t care about opportunities if it meant losing everything I knew.

But he didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. He just looked at me like this was already decided. And somehow, that made it even worse.

That was five weeks ago.

And now here I am, sitting in the backseat driving to the airport. I stare outside the window trying to memorize every route, knowing this will all become a lost memory one day. I try to memorize everything: the way the trees lean slightly to one side, the store on the corner, the path that leads to our farm. I’ve walked that path so many times I could probably do it with my eyes closed, but now it feels strange, like it already belongs to someone else.

The roads feel different when you’re leaving them.

My little sister is asleep next to me, her head resting against my shoulder. She doesn’t fully understand it yet. To her, this is an adventure. A plane ride. A new place.

I wish I could see it like that.

Up front, my parents are quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet, but the kind of quiet where everything that needs to be said has already been said, or couldn’t be said.

A sudden wave of sadness flows through me. This is all. I may never come back. The place I love the most is not my home anymore, and that’s what hurts the most.

I’ve never been on a plane before. Never even driven out of the country. And I don’t know anything about Britain. Like at all. All I know is what I learned in textbooks, how they conquered different areas. No one ever said, “I want to go to Britain,” the way they said “America.” And yet here we are, leaving behind everything for a place I don’t even understand.

The airport is louder than I expected.

“Stay here near me,” my mom says, glancing back every few seconds.

I nod even though I wasn’t planning on going anywhere. My dad walks ahead of us, holding the tickets, moving with a kind of confidence I don’t understand. Like he belongs here already.

I wonder if that’s what I’m supposed to become.

On the plane, I get a window seat. I thought I would be excited, but as the plane started moving, my chest tightened instead.

This is it. There’s no turning back after this. As the plane lifts off the ground, I look down. Everything gets smaller: the houses, the roads, the fields, the life I knew. I press my hand against the window. It doesn’t feel real. It feels like I’m watching someone else leave.

As soon as I land, I notice the shift in weather. It is so gloomy and depressing here. How was I supposed to get used to this? Where’s the sun, the heat on your back, the kids’ laughter, the cows mooing? Everything is missing.

Instead, I am greeted with graffiti on walls, trash in corners, and men and women smoking everywhere. The disappointment creeps in. But then I stop myself. No. This is more than what we had. This is still an opportunity.

The first day of school comes too fast. I stand outside the building, staring at the entrance as students walk past me like this is just another normal day. For them, it is. For me, it feels like stepping into a completely different world. I take a deep breath and walk in.

Inside, everything feels louder again, faster. People talking, laughing, moving like they all belong here. Except me. I don’t. Not yet.

“Name?” the teacher asks when I finally reach the front.

I open my mouth. Say it. Say your name.

“Jouri.”

But she pauses.

“Can you repeat that?”

I say it again, slower this time. “Jouri.” She tries. I can tell she does. But it comes out wrong. Not completely wrong. Just… not my way.

She hesitates for a second, then smiles plainly. “Do you have a nickname? Something easier?”

Something easier.

The words sit heavy on my chest. I think about correcting her. I think about insisting. But instead, I nod.

“You can call me Joy.”

Joy. Where did that name even come from?

“Joy works perfectly fine,” she says with a smile. “Do you know where you’re heading today?”

“No,” I whisper.

“That’s alright,” she replies, already turning to grab a paper from her desk. “Here’s your schedule. You’ll start with English, room 204. Just follow the signs.”

I nod, taking the paper from her, but I barely look at it.

Joy. The name echoes in my head again, louder this time. It is supposed to make things easier. Easier for them.

But standing there, holding a schedule with a name that doesn’t feel like mine, I realize it doesn’t make anything easier at all.

If anything, it makes everything feel further away.

I spend the rest of the day pretending. Pretending I understand everything. Pretending I am not lost every time someone speaks too fast. Pretending that “Joy” doesn’t feel like a costume I have to wear just to get through the day.

A few people say it.

“Joy, is the seat taken?”

“Joy, what class do you have next?”

Each time, it takes me a second to realize they are talking to me. Each time, it feels wrong. By the time I get home, my head is pounding.

My mom is in the kitchen. “How was school?” she asks, like it is a normal question with a normal answer.

“It was fine,” I say automatically.

She looks at me for a second longer than usual. “Did they say your name right?”

I hesitate, then shake my head. “No.”

“What did you do?”

I stare down at my hands. “I told them to call me Joy.” The word feels heavier now.

My mom doesn’t say anything right away. She just sighs softly and turns back to what she is doing.

“That’s not your name,” she says.

“I know,” I snap, a little too quickly. “But it’s easier.”

“For who?” she asks.

I don’t answer. Because I know the truth. Not for me.

The next morning, I sit outside the school again, my hands gripping the straps of my bag. I can hear students laughing inside, the same as yesterday. Nothing has changed. Except maybe me.

When I walk into class, the teacher smiles.

“Good morning, Joy.”

For a second I almost nod. Almost. But then I stop.

“It’s not Joy,” I say.

My voice is loud, but I don’t shake this time. She looks surprised.

“Oh, what would you prefer?”

I take a breath and repeat my name.

“Jouri.”

She repeats it, slower this time. “Juuuryy.” Close enough.

I nod and take my seat. It still feels unfamiliar. Everything does. But for the first time, I don’t feel like I have to mask who I really am just to belong.