Today I thought I'd just post on something which I once thought was merely a subjective observation, but which after a recent visit to my parents, I now know to be fact. And that is:
Iraqi people take forever to say goodbye.
Please note this if you ever find yourself speaking to one on the phone, or standing next to one at a social gathering.
You can't just simply say 'goodbye....well you can. But there are stages.
STAGE I is where you stand up, thus signifying the end of the gathering. Then one by one, everyone else stands up.
In STAGE II you go for the hug or handshake of the host or the most important person in the room (sometimes one and the same.) This is where you say how great it was to see everyone. How the dinner was the most delicious food you’ve ever tasted. Where do you find the time? Etc. etc. The rest of the group must then follow suit. When EVERYONE has completed that activity, the group migrates slowly to the door.
You have now moved to STAGE III.
This is where -- if you're lucky, you make your way out, smiling and waving, get into your car and drive away.
If this is you: CONGRATULATIONS, MAZALTOV, MABROOK and GOOD ON YA! You have managed to say goodbye in less than ten minutes. You must be REALLY skilled at this. That, or you are in fact an Iraqi imposter operating amidst a group of other imposters...Let's assume the former.
If, on the other hand you choose to really do it right, you will linger with the group at the door and make small talk -- perhaps things you didn't touch on during the gathering. Such as, how your eldest son is doing at school, and does he really like the fencing club he belongs to. Or, whether your cousin's youngest daughter will ever stop playing tennis on her roommate's Wii, long enough to start looking for a husband.
Those kids of questions.
This goes on for six more minutes. Then come the actual goodbyes:
"Goodbye sweetheart we hope to see you very soon!"
“Yes, sweetheart we must do this again very soon”
“Very soon. Give your mother my best”
“I will, dear. You give your daughter a hug for me, and tell her to eat while she’s at college. She doesn’t need to lose weight from stress.“
“By the way, did you hear about Yasmeen’s son’s fiancé? She was getting too fat so she had that operation where they put the band in your stomach…”
…..you get the point.
Which brings me to my own method of saying goodbye.
I’m actually downright perfunctory in my style. I've been accused of being rude at times. One time, a woman told me that she turned away for one second and then turned back to find me gone and only a spinning chair left in my wake. To be fair, this person was my boss and I was in fact at work eight hours longer than I had wanted to be on that particular day...but I digress.
My goodbye usually takes less than two seconds.
"Bye.”
It’s clean.
Short.
To the point.
Ends with a pleasant ‘eee’ sound if you choose to draw it out…
I’m quite happy with it.
It's easy to say goodbye when you're face to face. You can drop a few visual clues, such as looking at your watch or slinging your purse over your shoulder. On the phone it's a bit more challenging. Usually you have to do the "Soooo anyway" business. This is pretty universal. I believe Ellen DeGeneres did a routine about it.
Which is why I won't. She's funnier than me.
Suffice it to say, it’s a transition out of your conversation and off the phone.
As in "Soooo anyway, I better get off the phone." Or "Sooo anyway, I've got tons of ironing to do tonight." Or "Sooo anyway...my cat seems to have started a small fire in my sock drawer." That last one was made up -- I don't have a sock drawer.
……….
Sooo anyway, before this starts to ramble too much I will end this entry.
Goodbye. Thanks for reading.
As always, thoughts and comments are welcome.**
**(I had to add that last part in order not to be too perfunctory)
Too Much Hair to Manage
Thanksgiving at the Beker home has never been traditional.
One can say my family doesn't fall into the category of 'TRADITIONAL' in any sense of the word. For instance, mom likes to host Thanksgiving on Friday, instead of Thursday. This, she says, allows my relatives to fly in on Thursday when flights are cheaper and less packed. And what difference does it make anyway when it's all about the whole family together?
But when my dad announces on this particular Friday morning that he needs to get his hair cut. Well this just isn't acceptable to mom.
"Why are you always cutting your hair? No one cuts their hair more than you! Not even Sami!"
"I have too much hair to manage!" he bellows back.
Keep in mind this is an 80-year old man we're talking about. Not something you'd normally hear from this age group. He makes a point by mussing up his hair, which creates a nice, silver mohawk on top of his head.
"You have no idea how hard it is to handle my hair. I put so much mousse in it and it is still unmanageable!"
(.... umm yes, my dad uses mousse, It's why I never need to bring hair product with me when I visit)
"Why didn't you take care of this yesterday?" she asks.
"Well yesterday was Thanksgiving. Everything was closed.” he counters, with a self-satisfied nod.
At this point, I'm thinking Mom might just bite that bullet and host Thanksgiving on its regular day, if only because my dad can't run off anywhere.
"Oh and I'm going to the Post Office after to drop some letters, " he adds.
...Oh yeah, that's another hobby of my dad. Besides managing his hair, he LOVES mail. He loves to walk to the community mailbox at the end of the block. He loves to buy stamps. He even loves getting bills!
"You and your mail! Why don't I fix you a plate that you can enjoy at the mailbox by yourself?"
"Well that would be nice, I'm sure the mailman has not eaten yet today."
"The mailman! You are worrying about the mailman?"
At this point, I jump in with "Dad, the mailman's fine. I'm sure he ate yesterday when it was thanksgiving for him."
Probably not the best thing to say at this point, but luckily she is too focused on my dad to care.
They go back and forth, with their bickering until he informs her that the barber only has limited hours today due to the holiday and he really has to go.
So he goes.
And she simmers for a bit.
But then she smiles and says; "Well at least he has hair to manage."
I smile. She's right. Not traditional in the least. But I'm perfectly fine with that.
Hope you are all having a great thanksgiving weekend with your families. Traditional or not.
One can say my family doesn't fall into the category of 'TRADITIONAL' in any sense of the word. For instance, mom likes to host Thanksgiving on Friday, instead of Thursday. This, she says, allows my relatives to fly in on Thursday when flights are cheaper and less packed. And what difference does it make anyway when it's all about the whole family together?
But when my dad announces on this particular Friday morning that he needs to get his hair cut. Well this just isn't acceptable to mom.
"Why are you always cutting your hair? No one cuts their hair more than you! Not even Sami!"
"I have too much hair to manage!" he bellows back.
Keep in mind this is an 80-year old man we're talking about. Not something you'd normally hear from this age group. He makes a point by mussing up his hair, which creates a nice, silver mohawk on top of his head.
"You have no idea how hard it is to handle my hair. I put so much mousse in it and it is still unmanageable!"
(.... umm yes, my dad uses mousse, It's why I never need to bring hair product with me when I visit)
"Why didn't you take care of this yesterday?" she asks.
"Well yesterday was Thanksgiving. Everything was closed.” he counters, with a self-satisfied nod.
At this point, I'm thinking Mom might just bite that bullet and host Thanksgiving on its regular day, if only because my dad can't run off anywhere.
"Oh and I'm going to the Post Office after to drop some letters, " he adds.
...Oh yeah, that's another hobby of my dad. Besides managing his hair, he LOVES mail. He loves to walk to the community mailbox at the end of the block. He loves to buy stamps. He even loves getting bills!
"You and your mail! Why don't I fix you a plate that you can enjoy at the mailbox by yourself?"
"Well that would be nice, I'm sure the mailman has not eaten yet today."
"The mailman! You are worrying about the mailman?"
At this point, I jump in with "Dad, the mailman's fine. I'm sure he ate yesterday when it was thanksgiving for him."
Probably not the best thing to say at this point, but luckily she is too focused on my dad to care.
They go back and forth, with their bickering until he informs her that the barber only has limited hours today due to the holiday and he really has to go.
So he goes.
And she simmers for a bit.
But then she smiles and says; "Well at least he has hair to manage."
I smile. She's right. Not traditional in the least. But I'm perfectly fine with that.
Hope you are all having a great thanksgiving weekend with your families. Traditional or not.
We've all been there
My cousin Amira is the subject of today's entry.
One day following an afternoon of shopping in Los Angeles, where she lives, she came upon a homeless woman who I'll call Lucille. Lucille smiled, said 'hello' and asked for money for food. Amira immediately reached in her wallet and, not finding anything smaller, handed her a ten dollar bill. A passerby who had witnessed this transaction casually said "Well that's very nice of you."
That's when things got awkward.
Racking her brain, trying to think of a suitable response, Amira stammered a bit until she settled on the following gem: "Well, we've all been there."
The stranger smiled politely.
Lucille smiled politely.
Amira cringed as she got in her car.
"Was that terribly stupid of me?" She later asked me.
"To tell a homeless person you'd been in her shoes when you haven't?"
"Her name was Lucille..."
"What did you do next?"
"I got into my car."
Mind you, her 'car' is a BMW SUV. So basically Lucille and the stranger were both left marvelling at this rags-to-riches success story: One day you're on the streets, and the next driving a BMW! --- I'll quickly add in Amira's defense that she bought it used and after much research into a safe vehicle.
We both laughed at the absurdity of the situation.
"Why would you even say anything like that?"
"...I didn't know what else to say!"
'How about nothing? Just smile and go about your business?'
She shrugged in response.
In hindsight she realizes that what she meant to say was 'We COULD all be there,' instead of 'We HAVE all been there' but she got flustered.
And then I realized. Amira wasn't being cavalier. She was just completely awkward because unwanted attention was called to her.
You see, Amira doesn't like to be complimented. Here she was; minding her own business, doing a good deed, when out of nowhere this stranger came and complimented her! What's a gal to do, except stammer and look for the first thing to take the focus off herself? Which in Amira's case, was to establish some sort of camaraderie with Lucille.
Sound far fetched? Maybe. But I too suffer from this malady.
In fact, it's one of the many things which bonds Amira and I, besides mothers who are sisters. Neither of us can really take a compliment. We actually hate it. And in that, we betray our Iraqi roots.
Compliments on what either of us are wearing are often met with the following response: "Thanks...this skirt hides a a multitude of sins." The complimenter then feels obligated to mention that there are no 'sins' to be seen. And then either of us has to protest a little that 'yes there are sins' lest the complimenter think we are fishing for more compliments and....oh this scenario drags on.
For years, there wasn't a picture taken of us that didn't have a piece of spinach or parsley placed deliberately so as to dissuade any comments from our mothers' friends of "Oh look how pretty your daughters are!" Of course we had another motive for doing this - as many of these woman were trawling for a wife for their sons who shared the trait of having too much hair growing out of their nostrils and not enough on their head... But that's another entry and I digress...
I might get angry emails after saying this, but in general, most Iraqis love being the center of attention. And if one doesn't share this desire, then one is not true to their roots. It's as simple as drinking Leban, talking with your hands, or taking forever to say goodbye to someone when you're on the phone with them. Traits shared by authentic Iraqis.
Amira and I might not be authentic Iraqis. We did both grow up in the Midwestern United States where it's not customary to call attention to yourself. Or perhaps we are just two very introverted gals who don't like the spotlight in even the smallest way.
Either way, I told Amira not to worry about her little snafu.
After all we've all been there in some form or another...haven't we?
One day following an afternoon of shopping in Los Angeles, where she lives, she came upon a homeless woman who I'll call Lucille. Lucille smiled, said 'hello' and asked for money for food. Amira immediately reached in her wallet and, not finding anything smaller, handed her a ten dollar bill. A passerby who had witnessed this transaction casually said "Well that's very nice of you."
That's when things got awkward.
Racking her brain, trying to think of a suitable response, Amira stammered a bit until she settled on the following gem: "Well, we've all been there."
The stranger smiled politely.
Lucille smiled politely.
Amira cringed as she got in her car.
"Was that terribly stupid of me?" She later asked me.
"To tell a homeless person you'd been in her shoes when you haven't?"
"Her name was Lucille..."
"What did you do next?"
"I got into my car."
Mind you, her 'car' is a BMW SUV. So basically Lucille and the stranger were both left marvelling at this rags-to-riches success story: One day you're on the streets, and the next driving a BMW! --- I'll quickly add in Amira's defense that she bought it used and after much research into a safe vehicle.
We both laughed at the absurdity of the situation.
"Why would you even say anything like that?"
"...I didn't know what else to say!"
'How about nothing? Just smile and go about your business?'
She shrugged in response.
In hindsight she realizes that what she meant to say was 'We COULD all be there,' instead of 'We HAVE all been there' but she got flustered.
And then I realized. Amira wasn't being cavalier. She was just completely awkward because unwanted attention was called to her.
You see, Amira doesn't like to be complimented. Here she was; minding her own business, doing a good deed, when out of nowhere this stranger came and complimented her! What's a gal to do, except stammer and look for the first thing to take the focus off herself? Which in Amira's case, was to establish some sort of camaraderie with Lucille.
Sound far fetched? Maybe. But I too suffer from this malady.
In fact, it's one of the many things which bonds Amira and I, besides mothers who are sisters. Neither of us can really take a compliment. We actually hate it. And in that, we betray our Iraqi roots.
Compliments on what either of us are wearing are often met with the following response: "Thanks...this skirt hides a a multitude of sins." The complimenter then feels obligated to mention that there are no 'sins' to be seen. And then either of us has to protest a little that 'yes there are sins' lest the complimenter think we are fishing for more compliments and....oh this scenario drags on.
For years, there wasn't a picture taken of us that didn't have a piece of spinach or parsley placed deliberately so as to dissuade any comments from our mothers' friends of "Oh look how pretty your daughters are!" Of course we had another motive for doing this - as many of these woman were trawling for a wife for their sons who shared the trait of having too much hair growing out of their nostrils and not enough on their head... But that's another entry and I digress...
I might get angry emails after saying this, but in general, most Iraqis love being the center of attention. And if one doesn't share this desire, then one is not true to their roots. It's as simple as drinking Leban, talking with your hands, or taking forever to say goodbye to someone when you're on the phone with them. Traits shared by authentic Iraqis.
Amira and I might not be authentic Iraqis. We did both grow up in the Midwestern United States where it's not customary to call attention to yourself. Or perhaps we are just two very introverted gals who don't like the spotlight in even the smallest way.
Either way, I told Amira not to worry about her little snafu.
After all we've all been there in some form or another...haven't we?
Aloha means 'The sign' in Arabic
Recently Layth and I took my parents to Hawaii.
It has always been my mother's dream to go there, ever since she was a child in Iraq. She and her siblings would watch two types of films. The first were Westerns and the second were Elvis Presley films. These pretty much informed her idea of America when she was young. In her mind, the country was one vast landscape where handsome, rugged cowboys fought bad guys, rescued beautiful but helpless women, and rode strong white horses into bars where they listened to the hip-shaking music of rockabilly guys wearing leather jackets.
Just what you would expect a hybrid of those two genres to yield.
She tells a story about how when she first arrived to the States. She and Dad drove cross country, stopping at Knott's Berry Farm in California, and seeing some guy dressed as a Native American (yes, yes I'm using the PC term here even though this took place forty years ago.) Anyway, it was just a costume, but Mom was so moved that she went up to him with tears of empathy about how his land was taken and he was subsequently displaced, and oh how she understood his situation.
My dad had to firmly but gently pull her away from the 'Native' American.
So she loved Westerns, but equally she was fascinated with Hawaii. It was a paradise you read about in books and saw in movies, such as those Elvis Presley films. In fact, to go back to her vision of America - you've got the cowboys fighting bad guys and saving the frontier. But if you went 20 miles West, you'd find Elvis Presley singing to Ann Margret on a beach blanket.
So, this brings me back to my point.
Hawaii. Maui. 2009. Many, many years after she'd decided she wanted to visit there she was. Mom was in heaven. The sounds of the ocean, the sun, the fresh air...Heaven.
My dad, also enjoyed the trip. But for him it was more of a history and etymology lesson.
Dad was convinced that the Hawaiian language had its roots in Arabic.
Yep. We would drive by and every sign or name he saw, he would repeat out loud and explain how that word sounded EXACTLY like its Arabic counterpart. It reminded me of that film where the woman's father thinks the Greeks invented everything.
For example. ALOHA. A - lo- ha.
Well Dad decided that it was the equivalent of the Arabic way of saying AL - LOWHA (with a heavy H sound) which means The Sign.
..okay.... but Aloha in Hawaiian means Hello. And The Sign in Arabic has nothing to do with that.
"Well when you tell someone hello, you are giving them a sign."
Oh yeah, of what?
"That you want to talk to them - that you want to greet them!" he would say calmly, but clearly not understanding why I wasn't grasping this simple concept.
Riiiiight....
"Take also for example Makena Beach."
Ooh yes, let's go there and watch the sunset!
"...Makena comes from the Arabic word for 'place' which is MA-KAHN. See what I mean? When you say let us go to the beach, you are going to a place. Hence the name Makena."
At this point I began to fear that dad had too much sun. We tried to bring him inside, but it only encouraged him. He found an Atlas at the hotel sundries store, and sat on the couch in the lobby with a frothy pineapple drink with an umbrella in it. He sipped away as he flipped through the pages, muttering to himself about this word and that.
"See even Maui! MAH-WEE also means the color blue, and look at all the blue ocean around us! It is so perfect!" He paused, taking in the magnitude of this discovery. Then another sip of his drink and he resumed his flip, flip, flipping.
"Rand McNally! The maker of this map!"
What about it? Don't tell me they are--
"--Arabic. Yes!"
Really, Dad? McNally? I think that might hail from a little further west...like Ireland...
"No look here, it is plain as day. McNally is a shortened version of MA-KAHN ALI. Ali's Place!"
...umm
"This fellow Rand must have gone to Ali's place to draw up these maps!"
Head spinning, I looked around for Layth, but he'd gone back to the room with mom. I found them there later watching an old Western on television --which must be some sort of head trip for her.
I announced to Layth that perhaps for next year's vacation we should go somewhere with less fodder for Dad's etymological Arab-ization. After a moment's thought, Layth suggested Spain.
Yes! I nodded in oblivious agreement, Dad could not possibly find any Arabic connections there.
...and then it dawned on me...
I'll let you know how it goes next year.
It has always been my mother's dream to go there, ever since she was a child in Iraq. She and her siblings would watch two types of films. The first were Westerns and the second were Elvis Presley films. These pretty much informed her idea of America when she was young. In her mind, the country was one vast landscape where handsome, rugged cowboys fought bad guys, rescued beautiful but helpless women, and rode strong white horses into bars where they listened to the hip-shaking music of rockabilly guys wearing leather jackets.
Just what you would expect a hybrid of those two genres to yield.
She tells a story about how when she first arrived to the States. She and Dad drove cross country, stopping at Knott's Berry Farm in California, and seeing some guy dressed as a Native American (yes, yes I'm using the PC term here even though this took place forty years ago.) Anyway, it was just a costume, but Mom was so moved that she went up to him with tears of empathy about how his land was taken and he was subsequently displaced, and oh how she understood his situation.
My dad had to firmly but gently pull her away from the 'Native' American.
So she loved Westerns, but equally she was fascinated with Hawaii. It was a paradise you read about in books and saw in movies, such as those Elvis Presley films. In fact, to go back to her vision of America - you've got the cowboys fighting bad guys and saving the frontier. But if you went 20 miles West, you'd find Elvis Presley singing to Ann Margret on a beach blanket.
So, this brings me back to my point.
Hawaii. Maui. 2009. Many, many years after she'd decided she wanted to visit there she was. Mom was in heaven. The sounds of the ocean, the sun, the fresh air...Heaven.
My dad, also enjoyed the trip. But for him it was more of a history and etymology lesson.
Dad was convinced that the Hawaiian language had its roots in Arabic.
Yep. We would drive by and every sign or name he saw, he would repeat out loud and explain how that word sounded EXACTLY like its Arabic counterpart. It reminded me of that film where the woman's father thinks the Greeks invented everything.
For example. ALOHA. A - lo- ha.
Well Dad decided that it was the equivalent of the Arabic way of saying AL - LOWHA (with a heavy H sound) which means The Sign.
..okay.... but Aloha in Hawaiian means Hello. And The Sign in Arabic has nothing to do with that.
"Well when you tell someone hello, you are giving them a sign."
Oh yeah, of what?
"That you want to talk to them - that you want to greet them!" he would say calmly, but clearly not understanding why I wasn't grasping this simple concept.
Riiiiight....
"Take also for example Makena Beach."
Ooh yes, let's go there and watch the sunset!
"...Makena comes from the Arabic word for 'place' which is MA-KAHN. See what I mean? When you say let us go to the beach, you are going to a place. Hence the name Makena."
At this point I began to fear that dad had too much sun. We tried to bring him inside, but it only encouraged him. He found an Atlas at the hotel sundries store, and sat on the couch in the lobby with a frothy pineapple drink with an umbrella in it. He sipped away as he flipped through the pages, muttering to himself about this word and that.
"See even Maui! MAH-WEE also means the color blue, and look at all the blue ocean around us! It is so perfect!" He paused, taking in the magnitude of this discovery. Then another sip of his drink and he resumed his flip, flip, flipping.
"Rand McNally! The maker of this map!"
What about it? Don't tell me they are--
"--Arabic. Yes!"
Really, Dad? McNally? I think that might hail from a little further west...like Ireland...
"No look here, it is plain as day. McNally is a shortened version of MA-KAHN ALI. Ali's Place!"
...umm
"This fellow Rand must have gone to Ali's place to draw up these maps!"
Head spinning, I looked around for Layth, but he'd gone back to the room with mom. I found them there later watching an old Western on television --which must be some sort of head trip for her.
I announced to Layth that perhaps for next year's vacation we should go somewhere with less fodder for Dad's etymological Arab-ization. After a moment's thought, Layth suggested Spain.
Yes! I nodded in oblivious agreement, Dad could not possibly find any Arabic connections there.
...and then it dawned on me...
I'll let you know how it goes next year.
Much Making
So now you know - the concept of dating didn't exist when I was a teenager - at least not for my parents. Actually, it doesnt really exist in the Arabic culture. Not even for the purpose of finding a husband.
"GAWD! NO DATING!" you might exclaim.
"WELL HOW THE HELL ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO FIND A HUSBAND!? THROUGH SOME SORT OF ARCHAIC METHOD OF ARRANGED MARRIAGE WHERE THE WOMAN DOESN'T EVEN SEE THE MAN. LIKE IN THOSE PLACES WHERE PEOPLE STILL LIVE IN TENTS AND RIDE CAMELS?---OH SORRY.."
No no. Don't apologize.
There is a truth to that. At least what you may have seen on television.
And though I'm sure there are still areas in the world where bride and groom don't see each other until the wedding, or marry someone they have chosen for them, without getting much say in the matter, for the most part it's not like that.
It's more advanced. A screening process. (You know, like Match.com or eharmony)
The suitors must fit certain criteria - good education, good family, no history of shenanigans involving goats which might plague him - and you - for years.
That last thing doesn't happen very often, but it did happen to someone my mom knows back in Basra, so she always uses it as an example.
In its simplest form, it's match making...or as my mother pronounces it 'MUCHMAKING,' (the way she says her long A sounds less like 'ah' and more like 'uh.') So yeah - matchmaking.
You don't have to pick anyone you don't like.
I'm not defending it- I'm just giving you the backstory. For the record, I'm not much of a fan of Much Making. But anyway...
When I turned 19, Mom decided that it was time to explore the pool of eligible men in hopes of finding me a husband. It didn't matter that just a year ago, I was considered too young to date. Now suddenly I stood on the precipice of spinsterhood, unless I considered the list of ...ahem...eligible bachelors.
Picture this:
A photo of a man with thick glasses and uni-brow, stares at us - not even attempting to smile.
My mother studies it with the scrutiny of a cartographer checking the accuracy of their work.
"This one is studying to be a doctor. He is the brother of your cousin’s Podiatrist. Are you interested in meeting him?"
I should tell you that at this point I am very busy doing what someone of my age typically does: lounging comfortably on my bed, flipping through People Magazine and listening to Nirvana on my walkman.
I don't have energy for one more task. And I don't try to find the energy either.
So I barely look up when my mother holds out the photo, from the huge stack she is flipping through.
"No he's out. Too serious." she tosses the photo aside and continues flipping.
She stops again. "This one is an engineer"
Again, she holds the photo out to me. Again, I ignore it.
And yet again, Mom yanks it back.
"No...not enough hair on his head and too much coming out of his shirt collar..."
Flip. Flip. Flip.
"Oh! How about this one?"
She shoves the photo on top of my magazine.
I startle because I wasn't expecting to see a HUGE--
"he could get that mole removed. Or at least trim the hair in it."
We both stare at the photo for a moment, mesmerized. Then finally Mom breaks the spell by tossing it aside.
"No, probably too much work."
I tolerated these sessions for the most part, by ignoring them. But after a while Mom crossed the line.
Like the time I was in English Lit class just waiting for the lunch bell to ring.
I opened my binder and a LARGE PHOTO fell at the feet of Misty McCallister, the schools's resident Perfect Blond.
Misty picked it up. It was a picture of a nondescript Arab guy. Plain. Bland. Generic. On his face was a yellow post-it note. which read, "What do you think about this guy?"
Misty, in her loudest voice turned to me and said."You dropped your mail-order boyfriend."
This of course prompted jeers and laughter. And for the rest of the week - I was known as " Desperately Seeking" Or DS for short. Nevermind that it was not a particularly clever name - it got the point across.
In my anger, I stuck that photo under the visor of my mom's car - and I drew devil's horns on him and in big block letters wrote "STOP RUINING MY LIFE!"
The trouble was, it dropped into Mom's lap as she was backing out of the driveway and startled her so bad that she backed into my Dad's parked car. And I got grounded for a month. Which I guess is fair.
Everyone's okay though.
...And the 'Much Making' attempts did end.
"GAWD! NO DATING!" you might exclaim.
"WELL HOW THE HELL ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO FIND A HUSBAND!? THROUGH SOME SORT OF ARCHAIC METHOD OF ARRANGED MARRIAGE WHERE THE WOMAN DOESN'T EVEN SEE THE MAN. LIKE IN THOSE PLACES WHERE PEOPLE STILL LIVE IN TENTS AND RIDE CAMELS?---OH SORRY.."
No no. Don't apologize.
There is a truth to that. At least what you may have seen on television.
And though I'm sure there are still areas in the world where bride and groom don't see each other until the wedding, or marry someone they have chosen for them, without getting much say in the matter, for the most part it's not like that.
It's more advanced. A screening process. (You know, like Match.com or eharmony)
The suitors must fit certain criteria - good education, good family, no history of shenanigans involving goats which might plague him - and you - for years.
That last thing doesn't happen very often, but it did happen to someone my mom knows back in Basra, so she always uses it as an example.
In its simplest form, it's match making...or as my mother pronounces it 'MUCHMAKING,' (the way she says her long A sounds less like 'ah' and more like 'uh.') So yeah - matchmaking.
You don't have to pick anyone you don't like.
I'm not defending it- I'm just giving you the backstory. For the record, I'm not much of a fan of Much Making. But anyway...
When I turned 19, Mom decided that it was time to explore the pool of eligible men in hopes of finding me a husband. It didn't matter that just a year ago, I was considered too young to date. Now suddenly I stood on the precipice of spinsterhood, unless I considered the list of ...ahem...eligible bachelors.
Picture this:
A photo of a man with thick glasses and uni-brow, stares at us - not even attempting to smile.
My mother studies it with the scrutiny of a cartographer checking the accuracy of their work.
"This one is studying to be a doctor. He is the brother of your cousin’s Podiatrist. Are you interested in meeting him?"
I should tell you that at this point I am very busy doing what someone of my age typically does: lounging comfortably on my bed, flipping through People Magazine and listening to Nirvana on my walkman.
I don't have energy for one more task. And I don't try to find the energy either.
So I barely look up when my mother holds out the photo, from the huge stack she is flipping through.
"No he's out. Too serious." she tosses the photo aside and continues flipping.
She stops again. "This one is an engineer"
Again, she holds the photo out to me. Again, I ignore it.
And yet again, Mom yanks it back.
"No...not enough hair on his head and too much coming out of his shirt collar..."
Flip. Flip. Flip.
"Oh! How about this one?"
She shoves the photo on top of my magazine.
I startle because I wasn't expecting to see a HUGE--
"he could get that mole removed. Or at least trim the hair in it."
We both stare at the photo for a moment, mesmerized. Then finally Mom breaks the spell by tossing it aside.
"No, probably too much work."
I tolerated these sessions for the most part, by ignoring them. But after a while Mom crossed the line.
Like the time I was in English Lit class just waiting for the lunch bell to ring.
I opened my binder and a LARGE PHOTO fell at the feet of Misty McCallister, the schools's resident Perfect Blond.
Misty picked it up. It was a picture of a nondescript Arab guy. Plain. Bland. Generic. On his face was a yellow post-it note. which read, "What do you think about this guy?"
Misty, in her loudest voice turned to me and said."You dropped your mail-order boyfriend."
This of course prompted jeers and laughter. And for the rest of the week - I was known as " Desperately Seeking" Or DS for short. Nevermind that it was not a particularly clever name - it got the point across.
In my anger, I stuck that photo under the visor of my mom's car - and I drew devil's horns on him and in big block letters wrote "STOP RUINING MY LIFE!"
The trouble was, it dropped into Mom's lap as she was backing out of the driveway and startled her so bad that she backed into my Dad's parked car. And I got grounded for a month. Which I guess is fair.
Everyone's okay though.
...And the 'Much Making' attempts did end.
The Lunch Date
So my mother loves America.
Everything about it. If not for her accent, she could be mistaken for an average Mid-Western American woman. She has her hair cut in a Jackie-O-type do. And though she usually dresses in slacks or skirts, she loves to throw on a denim jacket to make it more casual.
Recently she's taken to using slang - actually both my parents are guilty of this.
If you've ever met my mother you may have heard her say the following:
CHECK THIS! (translation= Check this out!)
I told you how she likes to add extra syllables to words. Well she makes up for it by sometimes removing words from phrases.
And if she gets worked up about something and Dad wants her to relax, he'll tell her so in the following manner:
CHILL UP! (translation = Chill Out)
I give them leeway because they are trying to balance two cultures - even more than I am. It's hard to pick up as an adult and move to a new country. Look how it affected me, and I only had four years to worry about. They had 28 plus years. You can imagine the compromises and the struggle to maintain your tradition and culture, while at the same time living in a modern time and place.
They did their best to assimilate and give me the life of a normal American girl.
I had ballet lessons.
I went to sleepaway camp.
I was a girl scout.
I delivered newspapers.
I went to school dances (chaperoned, mind you.)
As I got older I got to go to Rock Concerts.
I went to parties (chaperoned...well most of them were)
I hung out with boys in a group.
I just couldn't hang out with them one on one.
I was not allowed to date.
Anything that resembled a one-on-one encounter with a member of the opposite sex was not allowed.
When I was 16, I worked as a lifeguard at the neighborhood pool. Though my father wasn't too keen on the idea that I'd literally be up on a pedestal in my bathing suit so men could ogle me, the fact that I was potentially saving lives by preventing drownings resonated with him more.
So he gave me his blessing.
And I embarked on what still is now my favorite job. I got to hang out in the sun, get a tan, swim and I got paid for it!
My dad also discovered he liked going to the pool. He would show up every day with a pharmacy textbook. Like my mother, he too was a pharmacist. So he'd bring his Principles of Pharmacokinetics tome, along with his purple beach towel and stake his claim - far enough from me so as not to embarrass me, but close enough to have a clear vantage point in case some male gave me too much attention. Luckily Dad's surveillance only lasted a couple of weeks. The sun started giving him headaches and he got bored.
Anyway, that summer I met my first crush. Well my first teenage crush ( I had a crush on a boy named Theodore in 2nd grade, which I'll tell you about later...)
His name was Kevin. Kevin Bartlett He was cute!
He looked like a young Timothy Hutton.
And he had the cutest mullet.
He managed the concession stand at the pool and at first he didn't seem to notice I existed. He was quiet and smart - always reading books on historical figures. I think he wanted to work in the CIA or something. I wonder if he ever did....
I spent half the summer ordering nachos and pizzas and popcorn at the stand, trying to make conversation and look cute and whatever it took to get him to find me interesting. But still he didn't seem to bite.
Until the last week of summer.
All the kids had started school and so the pool was relatively empty. We amused ourselves by making water balloons and hurling them at each other and by throwing each other in the pool when that person least expected it. Well one day Kevin was part of the festivities. And without saying anything he picked me up and threw me into the pool. And I knew!
He loved me! He absolutely loved me.
I was in!
We made small talk about nothing and everything. He went to a private high school across town but was staying with his mom for the summer (parents were divorced.)
Blah, blah, blah - this stuff was interesting to me, but probably boring to you so I'll skip over it.
Anyway, because I didn't have a car yet, I called my dad and told him that I was going to get a ride from a friend - which he was happy about because he was listening to some soccer game on the radio and didn't want to be interrupted. And then I asked Mike if he wouldn't mind dropping me off. Which he did - giving me 14 precious more minutes with him til he reached my house.
I said goodbye as cute as I could and went inside.
And I was walking on air.
Not long after that, as I was taking a shower I heard the doorbell ring, and my father go to answer it. I heard him exchange a few words with whoever it was, and then he shut the door. I didn't think anything of it, until Dad told me who it was. I'll give you the script form of what happened so you can really live it.
DOORBELL RINGS
DAD opens it to reveal KEVIN standing there.
KEVIN: Hi, Mr. Beker. Is Sami home?
DAD (peering over his glasses) Yes.
KEVIN: Well I was wondering if she wanted to go out for lunch or something.
DAD: No, she doesn't.
KEVIN: ..but can you ask her?
DAD: No. Son, you go and enjoy your lunch, okay? She cannot join you.
Dad turns and shuts the door, leaving Kevin standing shaken on the porch.
Dejected he walks away.
Two moments later, I, in sweatpants and wet hair, fling open the door to catch him, but it's too late.
Dad told me later that he didn't like the idea of a the boy assuming he could just come over and that I be ready for him.
I saw Kevin the pool the next day and tried to explain, but he seemed more interested in his book on the American Civil War.
The next summer I was excited to see that Kevin was working at the pool again, this time as a lifeguard. I could redeem myself! But sadly, he decided a week before that to travel with his Dad to Brazil for the summer.
Everything about it. If not for her accent, she could be mistaken for an average Mid-Western American woman. She has her hair cut in a Jackie-O-type do. And though she usually dresses in slacks or skirts, she loves to throw on a denim jacket to make it more casual.
Recently she's taken to using slang - actually both my parents are guilty of this.
If you've ever met my mother you may have heard her say the following:
CHECK THIS! (translation= Check this out!)
I told you how she likes to add extra syllables to words. Well she makes up for it by sometimes removing words from phrases.
And if she gets worked up about something and Dad wants her to relax, he'll tell her so in the following manner:
CHILL UP! (translation = Chill Out)
I give them leeway because they are trying to balance two cultures - even more than I am. It's hard to pick up as an adult and move to a new country. Look how it affected me, and I only had four years to worry about. They had 28 plus years. You can imagine the compromises and the struggle to maintain your tradition and culture, while at the same time living in a modern time and place.
They did their best to assimilate and give me the life of a normal American girl.
I had ballet lessons.
I went to sleepaway camp.
I was a girl scout.
I delivered newspapers.
I went to school dances (chaperoned, mind you.)
As I got older I got to go to Rock Concerts.
I went to parties (chaperoned...well most of them were)
I hung out with boys in a group.
I just couldn't hang out with them one on one.
I was not allowed to date.
Anything that resembled a one-on-one encounter with a member of the opposite sex was not allowed.
When I was 16, I worked as a lifeguard at the neighborhood pool. Though my father wasn't too keen on the idea that I'd literally be up on a pedestal in my bathing suit so men could ogle me, the fact that I was potentially saving lives by preventing drownings resonated with him more.
So he gave me his blessing.
And I embarked on what still is now my favorite job. I got to hang out in the sun, get a tan, swim and I got paid for it!
My dad also discovered he liked going to the pool. He would show up every day with a pharmacy textbook. Like my mother, he too was a pharmacist. So he'd bring his Principles of Pharmacokinetics tome, along with his purple beach towel and stake his claim - far enough from me so as not to embarrass me, but close enough to have a clear vantage point in case some male gave me too much attention. Luckily Dad's surveillance only lasted a couple of weeks. The sun started giving him headaches and he got bored.
Anyway, that summer I met my first crush. Well my first teenage crush ( I had a crush on a boy named Theodore in 2nd grade, which I'll tell you about later...)
His name was Kevin. Kevin Bartlett He was cute!
He looked like a young Timothy Hutton.
And he had the cutest mullet.
He managed the concession stand at the pool and at first he didn't seem to notice I existed. He was quiet and smart - always reading books on historical figures. I think he wanted to work in the CIA or something. I wonder if he ever did....
I spent half the summer ordering nachos and pizzas and popcorn at the stand, trying to make conversation and look cute and whatever it took to get him to find me interesting. But still he didn't seem to bite.
Until the last week of summer.
All the kids had started school and so the pool was relatively empty. We amused ourselves by making water balloons and hurling them at each other and by throwing each other in the pool when that person least expected it. Well one day Kevin was part of the festivities. And without saying anything he picked me up and threw me into the pool. And I knew!
He loved me! He absolutely loved me.
I was in!
We made small talk about nothing and everything. He went to a private high school across town but was staying with his mom for the summer (parents were divorced.)
Blah, blah, blah - this stuff was interesting to me, but probably boring to you so I'll skip over it.
Anyway, because I didn't have a car yet, I called my dad and told him that I was going to get a ride from a friend - which he was happy about because he was listening to some soccer game on the radio and didn't want to be interrupted. And then I asked Mike if he wouldn't mind dropping me off. Which he did - giving me 14 precious more minutes with him til he reached my house.
I said goodbye as cute as I could and went inside.
And I was walking on air.
Not long after that, as I was taking a shower I heard the doorbell ring, and my father go to answer it. I heard him exchange a few words with whoever it was, and then he shut the door. I didn't think anything of it, until Dad told me who it was. I'll give you the script form of what happened so you can really live it.
DOORBELL RINGS
DAD opens it to reveal KEVIN standing there.
KEVIN: Hi, Mr. Beker. Is Sami home?
DAD (peering over his glasses) Yes.
KEVIN: Well I was wondering if she wanted to go out for lunch or something.
DAD: No, she doesn't.
KEVIN: ..but can you ask her?
DAD: No. Son, you go and enjoy your lunch, okay? She cannot join you.
Dad turns and shuts the door, leaving Kevin standing shaken on the porch.
Dejected he walks away.
Two moments later, I, in sweatpants and wet hair, fling open the door to catch him, but it's too late.
Dad told me later that he didn't like the idea of a the boy assuming he could just come over and that I be ready for him.
I saw Kevin the pool the next day and tried to explain, but he seemed more interested in his book on the American Civil War.
The next summer I was excited to see that Kevin was working at the pool again, this time as a lifeguard. I could redeem myself! But sadly, he decided a week before that to travel with his Dad to Brazil for the summer.
America, the wan dar fool
My mother loves America.
Shortly after we arrived, she discovered something really 'wan -dar-fool.' Wan-dar-fool.
(My mom has a strong accent and she tends to draw syllables out - and sometimes even add extra ones -- like when she says 'TEST-ID-A-TUBE" instead of TEST TUBE. And she's a pharmacist so she says that word alot...
But anyway, back to WAN-DAR-FOOL.)
She discovered the concept of dropping by your neighbor's house to borrow a cup of sugar.
In case you're not familiar with this concept let me explain.
It's when your neighbor --usually a woman --comes over with the purpose of borrowing a cup of sugar --or two eggs or whatever you might need for the recipe you were making -- whereupon the visit rapidly degenerates into a social call where you chit-chat about everything from macrame plant hangers - remember, it was the 70's - to your husband's snoring, to whether it was acceptable to fry up bologna and serve it on bread as dinner when you hadn't had time to grocery shop and needed a meal for the kids. (In the 70's the answer was yes.)
In Iraq it was customary to talk for an hour at the front door when leaving someone's house. This after having spent several hours together over dinner and dessert, discussing politics, cooking, fashion - you name it. I think my mother saved the best part of her conversations to the very end. "Habeebty! Thank you very much for your hospitality! I hope to return it one day soon. By the way, did you hear about Jaffar's sisters's son's dentist? He's thinking about starting a construction business!" and the conversation would continue on. One time, we stayed so long on someone's porch, they invited us back inside for breakfast. In truth, it was Ramadan and parties tended to start late at night and go into the wee hours of the morning and the sun was starting to rise...but you get the point.
So back here in Columbus, Ohio, a tradition was born. Whenever the ladies in the neighborhood wanted to get together, they'd do it under the guise of 'Dropping by for sugar.'
Just for the record, my father never could understand why all the women of the neighborhood couldn't keep their pantries properly stocked.
My mother never told him otherwise.
Wan--dar-fool.
Shortly after we arrived, she discovered something really 'wan -dar-fool.' Wan-dar-fool.
(My mom has a strong accent and she tends to draw syllables out - and sometimes even add extra ones -- like when she says 'TEST-ID-A-TUBE" instead of TEST TUBE. And she's a pharmacist so she says that word alot...
But anyway, back to WAN-DAR-FOOL.)
She discovered the concept of dropping by your neighbor's house to borrow a cup of sugar.
In case you're not familiar with this concept let me explain.
It's when your neighbor --usually a woman --comes over with the purpose of borrowing a cup of sugar --or two eggs or whatever you might need for the recipe you were making -- whereupon the visit rapidly degenerates into a social call where you chit-chat about everything from macrame plant hangers - remember, it was the 70's - to your husband's snoring, to whether it was acceptable to fry up bologna and serve it on bread as dinner when you hadn't had time to grocery shop and needed a meal for the kids. (In the 70's the answer was yes.)
In Iraq it was customary to talk for an hour at the front door when leaving someone's house. This after having spent several hours together over dinner and dessert, discussing politics, cooking, fashion - you name it. I think my mother saved the best part of her conversations to the very end. "Habeebty! Thank you very much for your hospitality! I hope to return it one day soon. By the way, did you hear about Jaffar's sisters's son's dentist? He's thinking about starting a construction business!" and the conversation would continue on. One time, we stayed so long on someone's porch, they invited us back inside for breakfast. In truth, it was Ramadan and parties tended to start late at night and go into the wee hours of the morning and the sun was starting to rise...but you get the point.
So back here in Columbus, Ohio, a tradition was born. Whenever the ladies in the neighborhood wanted to get together, they'd do it under the guise of 'Dropping by for sugar.'
Just for the record, my father never could understand why all the women of the neighborhood couldn't keep their pantries properly stocked.
My mother never told him otherwise.
Wan--dar-fool.
My trouble with men
My trouble with men began at an early age.
Age 6 to be exact.
Kindergarten.
I know what you’re thinking… “Six years old and you’re only in kindergarten?!”
Well, remember when I told you I came to the States when I was four years old? I only spoke Arabic, and had to learn English, which put me behind a bit.
(It’s okay, later on I ended up skipping from Fourth to Fifth grade in the middle of the year, so it all evened out in the end.)
But I started school later than most kids. It could also be due to the fact that I fainted at my kindergarten entrance exam and the counselor told my parents I wasn’t emotionally ready to attend.
No joke!
This ‘exam’ consisted of putting blocks of various shapes and sizes into their corresponding pegs. I think I took too long, or put the square into the circle peg, or drew too many birds in the sky on a piece of paper – which apparently is a sign of emotional disturbance in children…
The point is, the counselor decided I had a problem (these days they call them ‘issues’, but back then they were good-old-fashioned problems) and she recommended that I wait a year before matriculating into kindergarten.
CUT TO:
KINDERGARTEN
Here I am, Six years old and a bit taller than the other kids. I’m politely sitting at my desk, when this kid named Adam, with a big afro of curly red hair, rushes up to me.
ADAM: Hi Sami.
SAMI: Hi Adam.
He awkwardly holds out a wad of paper.
ADAM: I got you something. Uh...it's from my collection. It's brand new.
He stands there long enough to see me unwrap the paper to find a GLEAMING SHINY QUARTER from that year. 1979. Did I mention it's really shiny?
Adam looks as if he's about to say something, but decides against it and chooses instead to run away in the opposite direction from which he came.
I spend the rest of the day admiring the quarter, which finds a prominent place on my desk.
Then I go home and proudly show it to my mother....
MY MOTHER: You can not take this!
Disgustedly, she holds the quarter between her thumb and forefinger as far away from her as she can.
MY MOTHER: This is how it starts. Next thing he's going to think he owns you!
My father walks in the room.
MY MOTHER (still): Brahim, talk to your daughter. A boy gave her this!
She shoves the quarter in his face. He puts on his glasses and studies it.
MY FATHER: Does he think you're cheap?
My mother looks at me satisfied.
MY FATHER: He should have given you a silver dollar!
She snatches the quarter out of his hand.
MY MOTHER: That's a good way to set an example.
She turns to me.
MY MOTHER: Never ever let a man buy you with gifts, Samira. You give this back to him and tell him you are not for sale! That is how you get a man to respect you.
The next day in Kindergarten, I see Adam.
We are standing face-to-face...or in our case, his face to my 2nd shirt button.
I can only imagine what disadvantage this puts him in as I deliver the following news:
ME: Adam, I can't take this money from you because you're a boy and I'm not for sale!
Once again Adam looks as if he's about to say something, but once again he decides against it, choosing instead to run away....but not before bursting into tears first.
So now, nearly thirty years later - Can I say that my experience with men has improved all that much? Well, I still love a shiny new quarter...
Age 6 to be exact.
Kindergarten.
I know what you’re thinking… “Six years old and you’re only in kindergarten?!”
Well, remember when I told you I came to the States when I was four years old? I only spoke Arabic, and had to learn English, which put me behind a bit.
(It’s okay, later on I ended up skipping from Fourth to Fifth grade in the middle of the year, so it all evened out in the end.)
But I started school later than most kids. It could also be due to the fact that I fainted at my kindergarten entrance exam and the counselor told my parents I wasn’t emotionally ready to attend.
No joke!
This ‘exam’ consisted of putting blocks of various shapes and sizes into their corresponding pegs. I think I took too long, or put the square into the circle peg, or drew too many birds in the sky on a piece of paper – which apparently is a sign of emotional disturbance in children…
The point is, the counselor decided I had a problem (these days they call them ‘issues’, but back then they were good-old-fashioned problems) and she recommended that I wait a year before matriculating into kindergarten.
CUT TO:
KINDERGARTEN
Here I am, Six years old and a bit taller than the other kids. I’m politely sitting at my desk, when this kid named Adam, with a big afro of curly red hair, rushes up to me.
ADAM: Hi Sami.
SAMI: Hi Adam.
He awkwardly holds out a wad of paper.
ADAM: I got you something. Uh...it's from my collection. It's brand new.
He stands there long enough to see me unwrap the paper to find a GLEAMING SHINY QUARTER from that year. 1979. Did I mention it's really shiny?
Adam looks as if he's about to say something, but decides against it and chooses instead to run away in the opposite direction from which he came.
I spend the rest of the day admiring the quarter, which finds a prominent place on my desk.
Then I go home and proudly show it to my mother....
MY MOTHER: You can not take this!
Disgustedly, she holds the quarter between her thumb and forefinger as far away from her as she can.
MY MOTHER: This is how it starts. Next thing he's going to think he owns you!
My father walks in the room.
MY MOTHER (still): Brahim, talk to your daughter. A boy gave her this!
She shoves the quarter in his face. He puts on his glasses and studies it.
MY FATHER: Does he think you're cheap?
My mother looks at me satisfied.
MY FATHER: He should have given you a silver dollar!
She snatches the quarter out of his hand.
MY MOTHER: That's a good way to set an example.
She turns to me.
MY MOTHER: Never ever let a man buy you with gifts, Samira. You give this back to him and tell him you are not for sale! That is how you get a man to respect you.
The next day in Kindergarten, I see Adam.
We are standing face-to-face...or in our case, his face to my 2nd shirt button.
I can only imagine what disadvantage this puts him in as I deliver the following news:
ME: Adam, I can't take this money from you because you're a boy and I'm not for sale!
Once again Adam looks as if he's about to say something, but once again he decides against it, choosing instead to run away....but not before bursting into tears first.
So now, nearly thirty years later - Can I say that my experience with men has improved all that much? Well, I still love a shiny new quarter...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
