“She’s not home from college yet. Please read them to me. It says here ann-an-re-re-port. That is important.”
“Annual report,” I say in a huff. I sit down next to him and go through the pamphlet. Half an hour later Shereen arrives home, crashing down on the couch.
“I’m so tired!” she exclaims, rubbing her eyes. “But guess what I got you, Jamilah?”
“What?”
“A friend of mine just got back from Egypt. She brought along a whole stack of new CDs. Ihab Towfeek, Amr Diab, Nancy Agram. All their new albums.”
My eyes light up in excitement. “Wow!”
“I borrowed them from her. Do you have a burner at school? You can take them with you tomorrow. Just make sure you bring them back.”
“Don’t you have a burner at the university? I’d rather not take them to school.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d never hear the end of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s woggy music.”
“Jamilah!” my dad cries. “You are not to use that racist word in this house. Do you understand?”
I look at him in surprise. “All I meant was that in my school you only announce your background if you’re prepared to deal with people calling you a wog.”
“The word wog might not necessarily carry with it the negative connotations we traditionally associate with it,” Shereen says in a tone that would put Lisa Simpson to shame.
“There is no excuse to use such a word. It is an insult, even as a joke.”
“Seriously, Dad,” Shereen argues. “In America the n-word in rap and hip-hop culture has metamorphosed.” Shereen is oblivious to my dad’s fallen jaw. “Contrary to the traditional derogatory meaning of the word, rappers and hip-hoppers use the word as a term of endearment. Wog has undergone the same transformation. I’m not saying I justify its use—I abhor typecasting individuals and creating social cleavages based on ethnicity, religion, or race—but I can understand how—”
“Shereen,” my dad interrupts in an impatient tone, spit flying off the tongue as the Arabic words shoot out of his mouth, “I haven’t understood one word you are saying. Do you try to make me feel embarrassed that I don’t understand all this university language you keep using?”
I resist a grin as I watch Dad’s radar move from me to Shereen.
“Of course not, Dad,” Shereen says, looking wounded. “I would never try to embarrass you. I’m just trying to explain—”
“Then go invest in an English to Arabic dictionary, spend two weeks in your room translating that speech you just subjected me to, and come back and we’ll talk about it. Although I have no idea what this rip and hippy-hoppy music has to do with my youngest daughter using the word wog so casually!”
“But, Dad, you can’t deny it. We are wogs,” I say.
“No, we are not! When I came to this country people would call you a wog and spit at you! It is offensive. You are an Australian, not a wog.”
“Well, Dad, most people don’t think that way. At my school if you speak two languages or have dark skin or don’t celebrate Christmas, you’re never really accepted as an equal. That’s why keeping a low profile is the best option.”
My dad almost falls off his chair. “You should be proud of who you are, Jamilah! You can be Australian and still have your heritage and religion. They are not at war with each other. Why is this life always like a battlefield for you? You are Australian and Lebanese and Muslim. They go together, Jamilah.”
“Sure thing, Dad,” I say halfheartedly.
“You were born here. You were raised here. I am the immigrant. And yet I feel more comfortable with my identity than you do!” He shakes his head in disbelief. “My struggles should not be endured by my children. That means we have not progressed. We have gone nowhere and learned nothing. There’s something very wrong with that.”
It’s one of the rare occasions in my life that I can see that my dad has a point.
13
WE’RE AT AUNT Sowsan’s house for dinner tonight. Aunt Sowsan is older than my dad by six minutes. She acts as though this gives her a license to boss him around. She tortures him with lectures about watching what he eats, keeping up with his exercises for the arthritis in his knee, quitting smoking, and cutting back on his intake of makhalil (spicy pickled cucumber, radish, onion, and carrot) because of his blood pressure.
Aunt Sowsan is married to Amo (Uncle) Ameen. They don’t have any children. Maybe that’s why she pours such lavish affection on Shereen, Bilal, and me. She’s always coming over and cooking us surprise meals. She remembers each of our birthdays, spoils us with presents at Eid, and stopped us from fading away after Mom died.
As for Amo Ameen, he doesn’t say much about anything at all. In the face of Aunt Sowsan’s loud, bossy, and controlling personality, he doesn’t stand a chance. Amo Ameen is placid and inconspicuous and is content to smoke his argeela—his water pipe—read his newspaper, and eat a bag of pumpkin seeds after dinner.
I’m sprawled on the couch, the top button of my jeans undone, as I try to draw in oxygen after savoring the delights of stuffed cabbage leaves, roast chicken, and creamy potato bake (Aunt Sowsan apologetically claims that she was too tired to cook up a real feast tonight).
Amo Ameen and Dad are sipping mint tea, chewing on pumpkin seeds, and discussing New South Wales politics. Boring.
Shereen is sitting at the dinner table poring over a pile of photo albums.
Bilal has decided to grace us with his presence for a change. He doesn’t really like family get-togethers, but the prospect of so much delicious food is sometimes too strong a temptation to resist. Plus, he has a soft spot for Aunt Sowsan. She can be pretty cool and easy to talk to—the complete opposite of my dad.
“So how many hearts have you broken since I last saw you?” she teases Bilal as she hands him a cup of tea and takes a seat next to me on the sofa.
He grins at her cheekily. “Oh, only about ten, and there’s one in the lifeline.”
“Pipeline, you intellectual vacuum,” I scoff.
“Boofhead,” he says, and I throw a cushion at him and stick out my tongue.
Aunt Sowsan laughs and draws me to her chest, engulfing me in a hug.
“I can’t see why you should be asking him about his girlfriends as though it’s the most acceptable thing in the world,” I say, pouting. “If I so much as received an innocent, friendly telephone call from a guy, Dad would ground me for life!”
“It’s called a double standard, Jamilah,” Shereen says without looking up from the photo album.
My dad, who hears me use the words “telephone call” and “guy” in the same sentence, has suddenly lost the urge to talk about Labor backbenchers. “Huh? What’s this I hear? Who’s calling who?”
“Nothing, Hakim,” Aunt Sowsan scolds. “Nobody invited you into this conversation.”
“Did you hear that, Ameen?” my dad says. “My sister is telling me to be quiet in front of my own children.”
“You’re right, Shereen,” Aunt Sowsan says. “We’re taught to apply the same rules to men and women, but unfortunately that’s not how the world works.”
“You’re telling me,” I mutter.
“We live in a patriarchal community,” Shereen says, “which finds it convenient to manipulate the sacred text to satisfy the male ego.”
For once, I’m on Shereen’s side. Bilal, of course, isn’t batting for our team.
“Another simple thought flash from our lovely sister,” he says, rolling his eyes at her. He looks to me for support but it doesn’t take him a second to figure out I’m not impressed either.
“I’m only joking, Bilal,” Aunt Sowsan says. “If I knew you were serious, I would personally show each and every one of your girlfriends the photo I have of you as a toddler running around the house with nothing but a plastic bowl on your head!”
He grins. “So what? I was as sexy then as I am now.”
I groan.
“Shereen has a point, though,” Aunt Sowsan says. “If you look around the world there are so many societies in which Muslim women are oppressed. The Koran has been manipulated and abused to exploit women.”
“Do not blame the Koran, Sowsan,” my father says.
“I’m not blaming the Koran, Hakim,” Aunt Sowsan says. “I’m blaming men. If they were faithful to the Koran we wouldn’t see such oppression. But there are men who find it useful to misread, misquote, and take things out of context to deny women their God-given rights.”
“Do you want to know what the problem is?” I ask.
My dad smiles. “Tell us, Professor Jamilah.”
“Our community always focuses on female behavior. Guys get away with defying the rules and they’re always forgiven. You pretend not to know that Bilal has girlfriends and that he drinks and parties.”
“Hey, don’t pick on me!” Bilal says.
“Well, it’s true. You’re openly proud of it. It’s hypocritical.”
“Don’t be rude, Jamilah,” my dad says.
“But Dad! You can’t even accept me having friends who are guys, and yet Bilal has girls calling him all the time. And you can bet your life they’re not talking about human rights or social welfare policies.”
“In every society, eastern or western, a man’s fall from grace is different from a woman’s. That’s just a fact of life. I’m trying to protect you because you’re more precious.”
“You’re equating friendship with the opposite sex to falling from grace?”
“No. But our community can be harsh, Jamilah. People talk, and they talk cruelly. We have to live with that.”
“Who cares what people say? If I’m not doing anything wrong, why should I care?”
My dad sits up higher in his chair, his face reddening as he gets more agitated. “Because, like it or not, gossip can ruin people. Look at Bilal here. Already people are talking about his hopeless future and how no girl will want to marry him.”
“My future is not hopeless!” Bilal says, angry now. “I’ve told you a million times, I want to be a mechanic.”
My dad waves his hand dismissively. “Son, that is not a career! That is a teenage pastime. People see that I have a PhD but my son plays with cars.”
“He’s good at what he does, Dad,” Shereen says.
“You are in no position to defend him, Shereen,” my father says. “Where is your future? You scored the highest in your senior year examinations of all our friends’ children. And yet you choose to do an arts degree. You could have done law or medicine. People ask me if you want to be a painter!”
“Dad! They’re hopeless! An arts degree is a humanities degree.”
“But where will it lead you? All you are interested in doing is organizing protests. There is no future in that.” My dad tugs at his mustache, clearly tense. “People think you are a radical! An extremist! That is not a light sentence in today’s climate, Shereen!”
“Calm down, Hakim,” Aunt Sowsan says gently. “Do not worry yourself over what Joseph and Yunus and Amina say. They will always talk. They are bored and stupid.”
My father isn’t convinced. “None of you understand that our family is under the microscope. Ever since Najah died people have been watching to see if I will do a good job, what will become of my children. I have every right to care!”
Shereen, Bilal, and I don’t respond. We stare at the floor, taken aback by our father’s outburst.
Aunt Sowsan clears her throat and then says: “Hakim, you know that Najah would be proud of the job you have done in raising her children.”
My dad cuts her off. “Enough!” he says, raising his palm in the air. “I think we have talked about this topic enough. Let us talk about something else.” Then suddenly he loses steam and seems to deflate in his chair. He sighs heavily, picks up his cup of tea, and asks Amo Ameen to raise the volume on the eight o’clock news.
14
From:
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[email protected] Have you ever been to Lebanon? What’s it like?
From:
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[email protected] I was only seven so I don’t remember much. I can remember that my grandma had a huge pile of Mars bars in her refrigerator and boxes of Kellogg’s cornflakes, which she had bought at a ridiculously expensive price just so we’d feel at home.
So what are you like at school? Are you popular? An introvert or an extrovert? Are you a teacher’s pet?
From:
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[email protected] Popularity is relative. I’m not trying to be pretentious, but that’s the way I see it. You can be popular among a group of computer nerds but unpopular among the jocks. Last year a chubby kid, Daniel, was getting picked on by this jerk in my class during a volleyball match. Daniel’s pretty overweight and he can’t reach the ball to save his life. It pissed me off, though, because he’s a really decent guy. Wicked sense of humor, smart as anything. The jerk—his name was Bobby—made Jessica Simpson look like Einstein. So I tripped Bobby and he fell flat on his face. Sealed my unpopularity with Bobby, cemented my popularity with Daniel.
Moral of the story: If you’re going to trip somebody, make sure you can outrun them when they manage to get up again. I earned myself a pretty good punch in the gut for that!
From:
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[email protected] Ohhh, I’ve got myself a hero for an e-mail buddy. So you’re sweet as pie and can’t run. Where have you been all my life, John?!
From:
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[email protected] So how about you? Do people lay the red carpet out for you at school, or do you spend each night agonizing over who you’ll sit next to in class tomorrow?
From:
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[email protected] Seeing as you’re totally anonymous to me, it can’t hurt to tell you that nobody at my school knows about my background. That’s why I’m not known as Jamilah at school. I anglicize my name. And dye my hair.
From:
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[email protected] I don’t understand the anglicizing the name/dyeing hair thing. Explain.
From:
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[email protected] What if I told you I want to be a pilot when I grow up?
From:
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[email protected] I’d call the Intelligence services.
From:
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[email protected] You’re just playing along with me. What would you really think?
From:
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[email protected] Female pilots are sexy.
From:
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[email protected] Oh, shut up.
From:
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[email protected] So you live two lives?
From:
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[email protected] Pretty much. To everybody at school I have no cultural or religious baggage. I wish I could be me but I’m too scared.
I’ve learned to adapt, like a chameleon changing its color to blend with its environment. That chameleon’s got the right attitude. Stick out and you’ve got no chance of survival.
From:
[email protected] To: Ten_Things_I_Hate_Abou
[email protected] Doesn’t pretending to be half an identity irritate you?
From:
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[email protected] OK, I’m ready to share my list with you now.
TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT ME
I was born and raised in Oz but people still assume I was born under a camel in a cave in a desert in the Middle East to parents who belong to a tribe with Osama bin Laden’s genealogy.
As a Lebanese Muslim, we’re only always randomly held up at airports (it’s randomly happened to my dad and me every single time we’ve flown to Perth to visit my uncle).
The only introduction most people have to my LM culture is through headlines about terrorists under pictures of men with unibrows, missing teeth, back hair, and guns.
I want the right to apply for a pilot’s license or own fertilizer or have a non-mainstream opinion without being blacklisted. (This is all theoretical. I actually want to be a dentist or elementary school teacher when I grow up.)
I’m one person at school and another person at home (the kind of split personality that would make a Gemini look stable).
I’m pathetic enough to be embarrassed to be seen with my sister at school because she wears the hijab.
A charter of curfew rights is stuck on our fridge door.
I’m treated differently from my brother.
I’m attracted to a jerk at school because I want to be popular.
I have brown hair, brown eyes, brown skin, and curly hair. Totally boring.
So to answer your question: Yes, pretending to be half an identity irritates me A LOT.
From:
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[email protected] This is what I have to say about your Ten Things.
You’re setting yourself up for disaster. Sooner or later the curfew rules and taxi license and hijab and bleached hair and bilingualism are going to reveal themselves. They’re going to crumple up at your feet and your friends will demand an explanation.