Ten Things I Hate About Me
Page 11
To: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
No. Anyway, I’d be dead meat if my dad ever found out.
From: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
To: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
Are you serious? Like those honor killings you hear about?
From: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
To: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
No, you space cadet. Sheesh, this is why I hate opening up to people about my family! Can’t I be metaphorical without having my dad equated to a Taliban warlord?
From: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
To: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
Deep breaths. Think nice thoughts. A bunch of red roses. Chocolate with hazelnut centers. You can do this. You can calm down. Just focus.
From: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
To: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
If I didn’t like you so much I’d stop talking to you for that.
So do you have a girlfriend?
From: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
To: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
We broke up. We didn’t have much in common. I couldn’t talk to her. Sometimes you just want somebody to laugh with and open up to.
From: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
To: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
Tell me about it.
From: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
To: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
I have to go, Jamilah. My mom needs help opening a can of tuna. She can defend an armed robber in a court of law but she has difficulties figuring out a can opener.
24
I STEP OUT OF the house this morning to catch the bus to school. It’s the beginning of April and the autumn breeze is sweet and warm and puts a smile on my face. There is a direct correlation between the weather and my moods. That’s just the type of person I am. When it’s hot and sticky and I’m trying to survive Sydney’s notorious summer humidity, I am grumpy and irritable until somebody throws me into a swimming pool. When the sky is overcast and gloomy there aren’t enough jelly-filled Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the world to pick me up. I thrive on sunny days and the smell of freshly cut grass and the scent of jasmine bushes. That probably explains why my dad and I fight more in winter than we do in spring. Actually, that probably has more to do with the fact that there’s no daylight savings in winter, so my sunset curfew is pushed forward and I generally have to be home before the contestants have been introduced on The Price Is Right.
How sad.
It’s the end of first-semester break and as I walk to the bus stop enjoying the rays of sun hugging and tickling my body, I find myself wondering whether I have been overreacting to not being allowed to go to the formal.
Then again, this is high school. The system is designed to sort out the cool from the uncool, the strong from the weak, the smart from the dumb. We’re not protected by political correctness or common decency in high school. If you’re a guy and you’re not so good at shooting hoops or kicking a soccer ball, you’re a loser. Nobody even flickers an eyelash. If you’re a girl who doesn’t go out with guys and has never been kissed, you’re frigid. If you get good grades and know how to string an essay together, you’re a nerd.
So if your dad doesn’t let you go to the formal, where does that leave you?
Am I overreacting? Who am I kidding? I’ve been way too relaxed about this until now.
So I find the time during class to write a letter to my dad. When I go home that night I proofread it and fiddle with it until I feel it’s just right. I wait for him to go to sleep and then leave it in an envelope on the jar of coffee for him to read in the morning.
It goes like this:
Dear Dad/Baba/The Man I Look Up to in My Life,
I have it on good authority that you were young once. I know I tell you that I don’t believe it and that Tete gave birth to an ancient fossil, but that’s just a joke, OK? I really do appreciate that you, too, were a teenager a long, long time ago and also knew what it felt like to want to fit in with your fellow colleagues in the student body of the educational establishment at which you were sent to learn and grow by your parents.
Well, DITTO (that means “same here” in case you’ve forgotten the line in the movie Ghost starring Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, the guy you think looks like Uncle Hisham, which I’ve never quite understood but, well, everyone’s entitled to their own opinion).
I am nearly sixteen years old and very VERY responsible and reliable and mature and trustworthy with good morals and strong beliefs. I am learning in debate class at school that every prepo proposition statement should be backed up with an example, so I shall provide you with some examples in support of my very VERY convincing argument.
I have never been suspended or expelled from school.
I always return DVDs to the store on time.
I rarely lose my house keys.
I always buy a train ticket even when I know I’m going to a station where there are no inspectors.
I cry at all the Quit Smoking commercials and am happy to say that they have deterred me.
I also cry at all the “If you drink then drive you’re an idiot” commercials and am happy to say that I have never, and will never, enter a car with a driver who is over the limit.
Or has had any alcohol at all.
Or may have contemplated having alcohol and getting behind the wheel.
I am completely opposed to premarital relationships and always refrün from any flirtatious or suggestive conversations with the opposite sex to protect my modesty. I try not to laugh at boys’ jokes because it might encourage them and send them the wrong message. I am conscious of how I behave in front of boys and always make sure to wear the proper undergarments underneath my thick top during gym.
I enjoy madrasa tons and tons. I am grateful to have the opportunity to be bilingual.
Those are only a small number of examples, Dad. Please consider them. Please let me go to my formal. If you refuse I will never know happiness or joy or popularity at school again. This could affect my academic performance and mean I end up failing my subjects and never gaining the grades or confidence to get a high score and a Ph.D. in your footsteps.
So PLEASE let me go to my formal.
PLEASE.
Sincerely,
Jamilah
Who inherited your eyes but not your nose (thank God, huh?! ha-ha)
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I receive three text messages from my dad during school the next day. I’m impressed. He isn’t the best when it comes to sending texts. I allow myself to believe, for a fleeting moment, that if he’s put in the effort he must have good news.
My heart pounds as I open each one.
Text message 1: Th2nk you for yor swit letTTer Jamilah. I will kipe it alwAyS. But the answa IS
Linked text message 2: sTill no. You wil understand one da
Linked text message 3: Y
And that’s it. For a measly seventy-five cents my father has officially sealed my fate and declared my life well and truly over.
25
From: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
To: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
Here are the latest developments in my life.
I’m not allowed to go to the formal.
The band I play in at madrasa has been hired to perform.
My dad says I can play in the band but I’ll have to leave early.
Here’s the thing, John.
If I leave early I’ll be a loser.
If I play in the band I’ll be exposing myself. Off comes the disguise. In comes the girl who hid her identity behind a web of lies and deceit.
I have now seriously developed catagelophobia (fear of being ridiculed) and allodoxaphobia (fear of opinions). I need professional help. A
lternatively, I could do with some catastrophic weather conditions on the date of the formal, leading to its cancellation.
From: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
To: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
Jamilah/She Who Holds Two Names: I learned something on Google today. It is impossible to lick your elbow, and 23% of all photocopier faults worldwide are caused by people sitting on them and photocopying their butts.
Why am I telling you this?
Because you should be exerting your efforts and energy into surfing the Net to arm yourself with useless but interesting information, NOT spending your time nurturing your catagelophobia. You need an antidote. I’ve been in the lab and boiled one up for you.
ANTIDOTE TO CATAGELOPHOBIA
Also works for allodoxaphobia and other fear-of-whatpeople-might-say/think related conditions
You need to stop worrying about how other people judge you.
You need to trust that your friends will respect you for who you are. But they’ll never do that if you don’t respect yourself first.
It’s clear that you don’t respect yourself and that is disturbing because you are poetry + music + funny + caring = worth it (and that’s not only in the L’Oreal hair-dye commercial kind of way).
You need to know that there are more than ten things you should LOVE (or at least like—small steps) about yourself.
If you take one thing out of our e-mails, take that.
From: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
To: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
I wish friends like you came in person.
I’ve been working at McDonald’s for several weeks now, Mondays and Wednesdays, and loving every minute of it. I know it’s just a part-time job. That it’s no big deal in the wider scheme of things. I’m basically serving fries and bur gers, scrubbing disgusting grease stains out of appliances, mopping floors, and stacking napkins.
But it’s a small taste of independence and I’m happy to scrape solidified lard out of a fry machine if it means extending my curfew, earning my own money, and having some time outside the house.
I’m on my half-hour break. I’m sitting outside with a drink and burger when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and am startled to see Timothy grinning down at me.
“Great uniform,” he says, looking me up and down.
“Attractive, isn’t it…What are you doing here?”
He props himself up on the table so that his legs are dangling beside mine, looks at me, and shrugs his shoulders. “My grandma’s cooking dinner tonight. Chops and mashed potatoes. She undercooks the chops. I can’t stand that. I like my meat to make a thud if it were to hit the ground. So I thought I’d go for the healthier alternative. I only live a couple of blocks away.”
I laugh. “Why don’t you just get off your butt and cook the chops yourself? That way you can overcook them the way you want.”
“That would take effort. I’m not into effort.”
“My sympathies.”
“Thanks.”
“To your grandma.”
He chuckles. “Clever jerk.”
“Very polite.”
“Politeness is just a fake front for people who don’t have the guts to speak their mind.”
I laugh. “Oh, Timothy, that’s just so contrived. Are you trying to be philosophical or something?”
“I figure if I say something profound, I’ll earn myself a free order of nuggets.” He smiles. “So you live around here too?”
“Yeah, about ten minutes away. You live with your grandma, right?”
“Yeah. And my mom.”
“So why’d you move from the North Shore to Guildford? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“My parents divorced.” He suddenly seems distracted and jumps off the table. “Well, I’m off to get some food,” he says, taking out his wallet. “Enjoy your break. I’ll catch you at school tomorrow.”
When I get home tonight, I e-mail John.
From: Ten_Things_I_Hate_About_Me@intermail.com
To: Rage_Against_The_Machine@intermail.com
The strangest thing happened today. One of the guys in my class came to my work. And I have no idea why. Have I ever told you about Timothy?
I receive an e-mail back. Only it tells me that John has blocked me from his e-mail account. Yes. That’s right. Blocked me. He has officially told me to piss off in cyber language. Why? What on earth have I done to deserve being equated to spam mail? Maybe I bored him to death. All that identity talk and baklava background made him crazy. Whatever the reason, all I want to know is one thing: Just who can I count as a friend now?
26
“WHAT DO YOU mean you don’t want to play?”
Mustafa is pacing up and down in front of me, hands flying, trying to come to terms with my announcement that I don’t want to play at my formal. Samira and Hasan are sitting on their desks, staring at me in disbelief.
“My dad won’t let me go. If I play in the band, I can’t stay. I have to leave with you guys. It’s just too humiliating.”
“If admitting that you have to leave early is freaking you out so much, make something up!” Samira says. “Tell your friends that you’ve got to get home early because there’s a gas leak!”
“If I play in the band there will be consequences for me.”
“Like what, man?” Hasan asks.
“Yeah, like what?” Mustafa echoes.
“It’s long and complicated and moronic. It’s gotten completely out of hand. Even if I wanted to change things, I couldn’t do it without messing things up between me and my friends. Let alone the rest of my class.”
Mustafa stands in front of me and stares at me closely. “What are you talking about? You’re not making any sense.”
I sigh. “Look, don’t worry about the details. I’m not in. You can still play without me.”
I don’t let them argue with me.
“Can I persuade you to change your mind?”
“Nope. Sorry, Miss Sajda.”
She cups her chin in her hand and leans on the desk. “What are you afraid of?”
I take a slow breath. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Do you think I came to this country wrapping myself in the Lebanese flag and proudly walking down the street?”
“Well, yeah. You always seem so comfortable with being Lebanese.”
“It’s been a long struggle to accept myself, Jamilah. I’ll tell you something. I immigrated to Sydney with my ex- husband when I was twenty-seven years old. Saed would come home from work depressed. People called him names, teased his accent, put down his religion. He was desperate to fit in as an Australian. So he disconnected us from family and community. He insisted that we imitate, not integrate. I was cut off from a support network. Every night Saed would go to the local pub with his co-workers. Having a beer with them made him Aussie, he thought. We no longer ate dinner together. That used to be a sacred ritual for us back home. He came home tipsy, sometimes drunk. He lost the respect of Lebanese-Australians and Anglo-Australians, the people he tried so hard to impress. He thought he had made true friends. But I know they ridiculed him behind his back. So he gained nothing.”
She stops and her face is suddenly animated. She rubs her hands together, grinning wildly at me. “Big family dinners and a million conversations around the dinner table! Thick Arabic ahwa boiled on a coal barbecue and drunk with syrupy baklava and konefa. Drinking it over stories about back home when we played on snowcapped mountains after school and spent our weekends swimming in the Mediterranean. Picking warak ayneb from the pot while nobody’s looking and scooping hummus into fresh loaves of bread and letting it melt in your mouth! The darabuka and oud and tabla hypnotizing your hips into dancing around the living room with your cousins and aunts. A community of aunts and uncles and cousins, even when they’re not blood relations.”
I giggle. “Sounds familiar.”
“But wait, Jamilah. Look closer
. The family dinner is in the backyard of your suburban Sydney home. The Arabic coffee is being boiled over a barbecue you bought from Bunnings. The warak ayneb is homegrown and the hummus is from the local supermarket. The boys and girls experiment with their parents’ instruments while Aussie TV shows play in the background. That’s your Australian landscape, Jamilah.”
“Even so, I can’t let it spill beyond my driveway. Because no matter how much I love it, what does it have to do with reality?”
“It’s your reality!”
“But out there, in the real world, at train stations and on the radio and on the streets and in the stores, I’ve only ever felt that my heritage is something to be ashamed of.”
“How can you say that, Jamilah?”
“How can I not? You remember, don’t you? When those teenage boys gang-raped girls in Sydney, it was the boys’ Lebanese-Muslim background that was put on trial. I went to school and I watched Peter Clarkson cross-examine Ahmed for a crime he did not commit. I read headlines describing the crimes as ‘Middle Eastern rape.’ I’ve never heard of Anglo burglary or Caucasian murder. If an Anglo-Australian commits a crime, the only descriptions we get are the color of his clothes and hair.”
“I know, Jamilah. And it angers me too. But I won’t give in.”
She doesn’t realize that I already have. I remember too well the way kids would tease me in elementary school when my mom packed me Lebanese bread and labne for lunch. I see how people respond to Shereen when she walks around wearing her hijab. Like she might have a bomb hitched under her skirt.
I remember my mom trying to fit in with the other mothers at my elementary school. It was the fifth-grade food fair and my mom came along to the mothers’ meeting and made arrangements to cook something for me to contribute. My mom slaved in the kitchen for a day, making trays of tra ditional Lebanese food. I brought it along to share with the class and the kids just laughed at me. They had their Vegemite and cheese sandwiches and chocolate wafers and white bread. I had kebabs and kofta and tabouli and pastries. Some of the other mothers laughed. I could smell their condescension. It smacked my nose like milk gone sour.