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...