tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-47588545288375259032024-03-13T15:47:44.052-06:00Blog of an American Muslim GirlUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger33125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-79746291156910879872016-11-25T16:18:00.001-06:002016-11-25T16:39:53.967-06:00Redemption<br />
The rays of the morning sunlight shine through the curtains of my bedroom window and spill across in front of me where I sit on the carpeted floor. I lean my head against the wall and try to block out the throbbing pain in my temples.<br />
<br />
I can hear the sounds of pots and pans in the kitchen through the closed door. I dread facing my parents again and decide to stay in my bedroom. A small hope emerges within me, telling me that Ammi will come to get me for breakfast.<br />
<br />
Just as the thought occurs in my head, I hear my parents' voices. <br />
<br />
"She can come down. She's not a young child." Ammi's voice rings loud and clear, while Abba's is too soft for me to discern the words. "She can starve herself if she wants to. I'm not spoon feeding her." The harsh words slice through me and I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the tears.<br />
<br />
It seems like hours have passed before I finally hear a knock on my door. I get up too quickly, the room spinning around me and blackness threatening to envelope me. I manage to open the door before sitting down again but my heart drops to see that it isn't Ammi.<br />
<br />
<br />
Humza walks in, bringing me a cup of chai and biscuits. I feel ashamed in front of him too. I should be the role model, setting a good example for him. But here I am, paving the way for him to disobey our parents too.<br />
<br />
He sits down next to me, crossing his legs. "Eat," he commands, motioning his hands towards the food. "Abba told me to bring this for you."<br />
<br />
My heart yearns for my father. I can't forget the fact that it isn't Ammi who sent it, yet it's still her that made the food. What would I do to get back the love and trust of my parents again? Was being with Tariq worth of all this? I suddenly feel like a prisoner in my own home, within the confines of my bedroom. <br />
<br />
"I've never seen them so upset," Humza says quietly. "But, I'm sure they'll get over it," he quickly adds when he sees my reaction. <br />
<br />
I shake my head. I know he is trying to appease me, but I know what I've done and there is nothing to hide now.<br />
<br />
"What did they say," I ask, half afraid of the answer. I sip the warm chai and it soothes my throat. <br />
<br />
<br />
Humza shrugs. "Not much." He leans his head forward even though it's only two of us in the room and says in a whisper, "I think Abba was mentioning something about talking to Tariq's parents though."<br />
<br />
My hands shake and I barely manage to put the cup down before it spills on the carpet. Dread fills me up and my heart races just thinking of what Abba would possibly want to say to Tariq's parents. I don't even know them that well and have no idea how they would react to this situation. I can only imagine them being defensive. Or...would Abba talk to them about something else? The thought of marriage slips into my mind and I shudder.<br />
<br />
"Did Abba say what he wanted to talk about?" I ask Humza, again afraid of the answer.<br />
<br />
He shrugs again, then switches the subject. "Why aren't you coming down anyway? You can't stay here in your room forever."<br />
<br />
I lean against the wall and sigh. "You're right," I say with my eyes closed. I had to let go of my stubbornness. Ammi wasn't going to come get me like a small child, telling me it's okay and that she forgives me. I would have to go and ask her myself again. And I have to find out what Abba is up to. <br />
<br />
I finish my breakfast, wash myself, and hurry downstairs. To my dismay, I see Abba is on the phone when I take the dishes from my breakfast to the kitchen. Panic grips me. Is he talking to Tariq's parents? Had other people found out? Is it a family member calling to divulge in the gossip?<br />
<br />
But Abba has already hung up the phone by the time I arrive in the living room. He turns around and looks at me where I stand by the door frame.<br />
<br />
"Come sit down." He doesn't sound angry but I hint a sense of frustration in his voice.<br />
<br />
<i>Where is Ammi? </i>I sit down across from Abba, just like last evening. It's not any easier and the pain in my temples continues to throb and I feel a sudden fatigue all over my body as I sink in the couch.<br />
<br />
I know I should let him speak first but I'm impatient. "Did someone call?" I ask eagerly.<br />
<br />
Abba can probably see the worry in my eyes because he says, "No one knows anything."<br />
<br />
I sigh with relief. <i> But what about contacting Tariq's parents? </i>I wonder. <br />
<br />
Abba sits a bit straighter, a sign that he's going to start a serious conversation. "We all have choices, Iman. Sometimes we make the right ones. Sometimes we don't."<br />
<br />
I swallow, my eyes glued to the floor. I don't want to cry again so I avoid meeting Abba's eyes.<br />
<br />
"I can't force you to make a choice, Iman. You're grown up now and no matter what I or your mother tells you, the choice is still yours." His voice sounds sad and the tears threaten to spill out. I want to be young again, the little girl who got yelled out for getting her dress dirty from playing at the park. But Abba isn't even yelling at me. I realize in that moment I don't deserve the kindness he is showing me.<br />
<br />
"But still, rules are rules." I look up to see Ammi standing, her arms crossed across her chest. I spoke too soon. Ammi wouldn't be so forgiving.<br />
<br />
"You will <i>not </i>talk to him ever again. Do you understand me?" She doesn't sit, which makes her even more threatening. Her presence fills the entire room.<br />
<br />
"I asked you a question, Iman," she says sternly.<br />
<br />
"I was talking to her," Abba speaks up on my defense.<br />
<br />
"I know what you were telling her. I'm not going to dismiss this like it was nothing."<br />
<br />
"I am not either but there is a way to talk--"<br />
<br />
"Please," I say a little too loudly, getting their attention. "Don't fight." The words seem silly. I was the cause of their fight for the entire night, I'm sure. <br />
<br />
Abba sighs heavily and then stands up. "I'll let you two have your...talk then."<br />
<br />
Maybe that wasn't actually the best idea. I look again towards Ammi and see an anger in her eyes that I dread.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry," I say because I don't know what else to tell her.<br />
<br />
She shakes her head, now sitting down where Abba was. For a moment I think she'll say the words I so badly want to hear. But she doesn't.<br />
<br />
"You're not going to talk to him, Iman. And if I ever find out that you do, I <i>swear </i>I will remove you from that school that second," she says firmly.<br />
<br />
Now it's my turn to shake my head. I cover my face with my hands, finally letting go of the tears. How am I supposed to do this? How could I face Tariq every day at school and forget all those feelings and memories we shared, or worse yet, pretend like he didn't even exist?<br />
<br />
"From now on, I will be checking all your phone messages and call log. And you can also delete that Facebook account of yours. You come straight home after your last class - no more after school activities. And you tell me where you need to go - there is no need for you to have a car anyway."<br />
<br />
The list keeps going on and on and my whole body shakes as I continue to cry. If this isn't cruelty, what else could it be?<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I splash cold water onto my face and it burns my eyes. To think that I have to go back to school in one day makes it unbearable. I look wretched, a mess and even if I hide most of my face with my hijab, I can barely think coherently enough to get through a whole day of classes. Not to mention, facing Tariq. Just thinking of him makes my heart ache.<br />
<br />
My cell phone rings where I left it on my bed after Ammi returned it to me. "Remember, I can take this back anytime," she warned. I wanted to tell her I didn't want it then. I didn't want her favors and it wouldn't really be a favor anyway with all my privacy gone. But I took it silently and left.<br />
<br />
I'm afraid of who is calling. I'm not ready to speak to anyone about this. And Ammi had already blocked Tariq's number from my phone so it couldn't be him either.<br />
<br />
Mariyam.<br />
<br />
<i>Oh no</i>. She must know then. Did everyone?<br />
<br />
At first, I don't pick up, pressing the side button to mute the sound. And then a voicemail.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey Iman. Just wanted to check up on you and see how you're doing. Give me a call when you get a chance!</i><br />
<br />
How can her voice sound so chirpy and pleasant? But of course she would. She has a husband she loves, I think bitterly.<br />
<i> </i><br />
I end up calling her after 15 minutes only because I feel suffocated and I don't know what else to do. I can always cut the phone call if I don't think it's going in the right direction.<br />
<br />
"Hey, salaam!" Mariyam says. Again that chirpy voice, but it's refreshing after these past two days of misery. "How are you?"<br />
<br />
I never thought I would hate those words so much. "I'm not okay," I croak. And then everything spills out. I don't pause until the very end, where I tell her of the punishment Ammi has ordered for me.<br />
<br />
"I'm proud of you Iman for telling me all of this," she says and pauses for a moment. "It's not easy." Being proud is the last thing I feel right now. But I'm eager to hear the rest of her response.<br />
<br />
<br />
"About your parents--it's going to take a while for them to forgive you, Iman. They need some time."<br />
<br />
"I don't know if I can even forgive myself." I think of everything I've lost.<br />
<br />
"You will. And you can find comfort knowing that Allah forgives you, too."<br />
<br />
I swallow. <i>Has He?</i> I think. <i> Have You forgiven me? </i>I silently stare up at the ceiling of my bedroom.<br />
<br />
"Iman, this is hard. And yes, you are responsible for what happened and I'm not undermining that. But at the same time, I don't blame you either."<br />
<br />
"You don't?" I ask, feeling strangely alarmed and touched at the same time.<br />
<br />
"Being a teenager in the environment that we live in is super hard, Iman. You had good intentions the last time you encountered him. But emotions get in the way."<br />
<br />
"Yeah." There is no denying that.<br />
<br />
"Can I come over this evening and take you out for dinner?" Mariyam asks.<br />
<br />
I'm touched by her offer. "You better ask Ammi," I say. Another blessing I wasn't grateful enough to realize I had.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry, I'm pretty good at convincing her," she laughs. "I'll see you soon, Iman."<br />
<br />
"See you," I say. It's not until I hear my stomach growling under my shirt that I realize how hungry I am.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
There have been very few instances I've seen Ammi cry. She's not the type to cry in front of everyone.<br />
<br />
I am frustrated with my feelings. I'm so angry and upset at her for her long list of punishments for me. But at the same time, seeing tears in her eyes - the fact that I'm the cause of her sadness and pain makes me hate myself. <br />
<br />
"It's good to know you at least feel comfortable sharing everything with Mariyam," she says, folding the laundry in her room. I don't miss the hurt in her voice and how she subtly wipes her tears, pretending like she's lightly scratching her skin instead.<br />
<br />
I don't say anything. She is the one who called me to her room, giving me permission to go have dinner with Mariyam. I guess Mariyam was convincing enough all right. <br />
<br />
"You think I'm cruel," she says suddenty. I try to swallow away the guilt. "Maybe you'll understand one day." The tears fall onto Abba's pants as she folds them neatly.<br />
<br />
I don't know what happens in that moment but I walk over and embrace my mother, forcing her to hug me back. "I'm sorry," I say over and over gain, my voice muffled against her shoulder. She pulls me away, meeting my eyes.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry I'm not the good daughter you hoped I would be," I say, remembering what she had said about me to Ameera Khala.<br />
<br />
She cradles my face with her hands. I can feel the roughness of her skin, years of hard work, of raising me and Humza.<br />
<br />
<br />
"You have no idea, you can't even imagine, Iman how much you mean to me," she whispers. The tears continue to glimmer in her eyes. "I don't want to see you hurt. I don't want to see you used and thrown away by someone. Iman."<br />
<br />
I can't imagine Tariq that way and I refuse to. But as a mother speaking to her daughter, I can understand what she means.<br />
<br />
"You're special, Iman. And you don't need a boy out there to tell you that."<br />
<br />
I nod and somehow I'm able to smile for the first time that day. But it only lasts a moment before Ammi turns away and goes back to folding the laundry.<br />
<br />
I know that things between me and my mother are not the same as before. But one thing I do know is that I am going to keep fighting and take every step I can to regain her love and trust.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-1533948477368676122015-05-09T21:46:00.000-05:002015-05-09T22:15:03.240-05:00BrokenThey say when you break your parent's trust one time, you can never regain it again. I desperately hope that that isn't true...and I feel that it isn't fair, either. A person should be given another chance. We all make mistakes. We all deserve a second chance.<br />
<br />
But how can I?<br />
<br />
The silence is killing me. It fills up the living room and swarms around me and up to my neck, choking me. I wish someone would say something, anything.<br />
<br />
I cannot meet my father's gaze. He sits across from me, his head bent forward a little and he is rubbing his hands together like he does not know what to do with them. Ammi is pacing around the room, placing the palm of her hand on her forehead as if she is hitting herself. Humza has slept over at a cousin's house so even he can't break the silence.<br />
<br />
I can't take it anymore so I get up from my seat. "I'm...really sorry." My voice comes out cracked. "Abba. Ammi. I mean it. It's not what you think--"<br />
<br />
"What you think? <i>What we think?</i>" Ammi repeats. "For Allah's sake, Iman. You didn't think once about the fact that you are involving yourself with a <i>boy</i>?"<br />
<br />
"I wasn't!" I quickly answer. "I swear. I wasn't even--"<br />
<br />
"Then what were you two <i>doing </i>there?" She raises both her hands and squeezes here forehead. "Ya Allah, the image just won't go away from my head. My daughter. <i>My </i>daughter<i>, </i>with a boy. And <i>that </i>close together."<br />
<br />
My cheeks flare up with heat at the sound of her words.<br />
<br />
"Our dignity," Abba finally speaks. He doesn't yell but instead talks in a low subdued tone. "What we worked so hard to achieve. All gone in an instant." <br />
<br />
"No, Abba," I beg him. "Please don't say that." <br />
<br />
<br />
"I never thought that the same boy who helped me out that wintery
day...the same boy who I allowed to stay overnight at my house would be
the same boy to be so indecent to go after my daughter."<br />
<br />
That day seemed so long ago, when I barely knew Tariq. I suddenly feel so old, like my body has aged. <br />
<br />
"And what a terrible mistake that was," Ammi says. "We should never have let him into our house." <br />
<br />
Hearing my parents talk about Tariq like that makes me uneasy...I still have feelings for him and I have a strange sense of urgency to speak up and defend him. But thank God, I have a little ounce of good judgment left in me so I don't make that mistake.<br />
<br />
Abba shakes his head. "It's not entirely his fault either. You cannot clap with one hand. Two hands have to come together to make that happen."<br />
<br />
<br />
My mind flashes back to the incident, only several hours earlier. The moment when Abba and Ammi caught me red-handed with Tariq. The chance of them walking together like that and passing by us in one of the most secluded areas of the banquet hall was so minimal. And yet, it happened.<br />
<br />
We all seemed to freeze at that moment. My heart threatened to leap out, my head spinning because I couldn't comprehend what was happening and that is was actually real, and not a terrifying nightmare. Tariq, so confident and collected, suddenly stepping as far away as he could from me, awkwardly meeting my parent's gaze until Ammi grabbed my wrist and pulled me away.<br />
<br />
I wasn't sure what Abba said to Tariq. I could only focus on Ammi's words as we walked away--"Don't say a single word and walk beside me like nothing happened." She spoke through her teeth, smiling only seconds later at a woman who greeted us in passing.<br />
<br />
I knew her biggest fear. About what people would say. "They're always looking for a chance, Iman. Something juicy to talk about. Don't give them a chance," she would tell me. And then I would roll my eyes at her and say, "Seriously Ammi, how many times do you have to tell me that?"<br />
<br />
We had walked back into the banquet room and those two remaining hours of the
wedding felt like an eternity. Pretending to laugh, to be happy, to be
so innocent among all the guests when my mind and heart were shaking
with fear, shame, and anxiety.<br />
<br />
And Ameera Auntie, who must have know because she had immediately come up to me. "Iman, are you alright? You look like you're looking for someone?"<br />
<br />
She was such a good observer. No matter how much I tried to stop myself, my eyes searched for Tariq. What had Abba told him? Had he interrogated him, reprimanded him?<br />
<br />
"No, I'm just looking around to see that all the guests are fine." I had replied to her, hearing my voice tremble slightly and praying that she couldn't tell.<br />
<br />
"What a splendid necklace, Ameera." Ammi had smoothly changed the subject of the conversation, touching the gold pendant lying on Ameera Auntie's neck. "I keep forgetting to ask where you bought it."<br />
<br />
"Oh <i>I </i>didn't buy it. It was a Mother's day gift..." And the conversation had continued with Ammi rescuing me once again. <br />
<br />
But there is no guarantee. There were guests, many guests in that banquet hall. Anyone could have seen Tariq and I together, or the way Ammi had pulled me away. And if one person knew, it was only a matter of days before the tale spread like wildfire.<br />
<br />
<br />
Tears spring from my eyes as I pull myself back to the present moment. I don't realize how wet my cheeks are until I wipe them. My parents' painful words are like repetitive stabs piercing
my heart. "I'm-sorry--I-didn't-meant-to-I-swear," I say, my voice stuttering in between crying. <br />
<br />
"Why didn't you come to <i>me</i>?" Ammi asks. "I asked you directly Iman about being with a boy after what your Khala had told me and you <i>still </i>lied to me." <br />
<br />
<i>Because you wouldn't have understood</i>, I silently answer her. She wouldn't have understood my feelings, how hard it was for me.<br />
<br />
I shake my head. "You don't understand, Ammi. I was telling him just that...that I wasn't that kind of girl that talked to boys and..." I skip the part about how much had already happened between me and Tariq, praying desperately that it wouldn't come up.<br />
<br />
"And you were telling him like that? That close to him, like you were--?"<br />
<br />
"<i>Bas. Bohat ho gayiah.</i>" Abba interrupts her in Urdu, raising his hand. "Stop. It's enough." <br />
<br />
I squeeze my eyes shut wishing I could reverse time so that this situation would never have occurred, this conversation would never have taken place. <br />
<br />
"We'll discuss this tomorrow. It's too late and I have a headache," Abba says.<br />
<br />
"I'll get you some Tylenol." There has to be a way to make this right...anything, even something as small as giving medicine. But as I start to walk over to the medicine cabinet, Ammi stops me.<br />
<br />
Her eyes look so tired and sad. "Your father's headache isn't the kind to heal with medicine, Iman."<br />
<br />
My heart drops. Hadn't I thought the same just days before when she had told me to get some rest because she thought I wasn't feeling well? The illness that had come to possess me, which no medicine or amount of rest could cure. And then the image of my parents blurs once again as my eyes fill with tears and I rush to my bedroom.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I cannot remember the last time I prayed...like actually prayed. I don't always pray all the five daily required prayers..sometimes I forget, sometimes it's too hard to wake up for Fajr or to find energy to pray Isha after staying up so late. When finals comes around, it's much easier to pray because I'm so desperate for good grades. But even with exams a couple weeks ago, I didn't feel the same motivation. Every time I tried to pray, I felt too ashamed...like I was cheating with Allah..asking Him to help me when I was directly disobeying Him. I didn't like feeling that way...so I stopped praying.<br />
<br />
Until today, of course. With Farah's encouragement to forget Tariq, I had finally mustered enough courage to stand before Allah, placing my green-colored prayer mat and picking out my favorite hijab at Fajr time. Before the chaos of the wedding would hit later that day, I had poured out my heart to Allah in the quiet of the early morning before dawn. I had desperately asked him to help me forget Tariq...only for His sake. And I was so close...so close to making it all end before anyone found out.<br />
<br />
It's 1:00am and only one question keeps repeating itself in my head. <i>Why Allah?</i> I ask, sitting on the floor of my bedroom against the wall. <i>Why did this have to happen to me?</i> <i>You know I was trying to make things right, and yet You still let this happen?</i><br />
<br />
Anger courses through my blood. Life is so cruel. I think of people who do everything they want, have everything they desire, and no problem seems to come their way. And here I was, seeking nothing when Tariq came into my life...making everything even more beautiful than I could ever have imagined, only to have my world turned upside down. What had I done to deserve this?<br />
<br />
My head is throbbing and my eyes feel hot and heavy. I wonder if I should call Farah and tell her. She's the only one that can bring me some comfort. And then with another bout of pain, I realize I can't make any phone calls. My cell phone is gone. Again, I should consider it a blessing that I happened to delete every memory of Tariq from my cell phone just earlier that day. If it wasn't already bad as it was what my parents saw today, it would have only escalated if they had read the messages we had shared.<br />
<br />
And then fear grips me...what if Tariq continues to send messages on the phone? I hope he has enough sense not to do that.<br />
<br />
My body is aching for sleep but there is no way I'll be able to sleep well tonight. I drag myself to the bathroom and splash cold water onto my face. My eyes are bloodshot and I look nothing like the beautiful girl I thought I once was. I feel horrendous, disgusted with myself. Only Allah knows who is behind that seemingly religious girl in the mirror, her heart darkened with selfish sins of lust and desire.<br />
<br />
I grab a dull gray colored hijab from my drawer and lay out my green-colored prayer mat. I don't have to push myself to pray that night...it comes naturally despite the fatigue.<br />
<br />
I don't know how long I remain in <i>sujood</i>. I lie there in prostration--crying, whispering, praying to the only One who knows what I am going through and the only One that can make things right again. Only Allah can help me to make my parents not upset with me anymore, to regain their trust and love for me. Only He can help me forget <i>him</i>, once and forever.<br />
<br />
And then I finally fall asleep on the floor, exhausted, with tears falling down my cheeks and onto the prayer mat.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-30606480979951323072014-12-23T16:06:00.001-06:002014-12-23T16:08:54.808-06:00TrappedHumza squeezes the bottle of honey until the entire pancake is slathered in it. And then he licks his fingers, enjoying the disgusting look I throw at him. Boys can be so gross.<br />
<br />
"What am I supposed to do?" he says. "Ammi won't let me use the real syrup."<br />
<br />
"You mean the <i>fake</i> high fructose corn syrup. You should be thanking me we're using organic honey," Ammi says as she slips a pancake from the frying pan and into my plate.<br />
<br />
"Oh no," I say, moving back and pushing the plate away. "I don't want to eat it." <br />
<br />
"I'll have it." Humza takes it before Ammi can respond.<br />
<br />
"You barely ate Iman. Are you feeling okay?" Ammi looks at me concerned and I avoid looking at her. I cannot bring myself to meet her eyes after what I heard her saying yesterday. <br />
<br />
"I'm...just a little nauseous." More like really nauseous. I couldn't sleep the whole night, wrapped up in dreams of Tariq and I together with Ammi and Ameera Auntie barging in on us. I was already awake when it was time for the Fajr prayer before dawn, only to find myself too exhausted to walk to the bathroom and do wuduh. <br />
<br />
Actually, I can't remember the last time I prayed. Was it right before midterm exams? I found it much easier to pray around then...desperately asking Allah that I would get good grades, straight A's. But that hardly seems to matter anymore.<br />
<br />
I get up from the dining table and pick up the dishes to wash in the kitchen. <br />
<br />
"You're volunteering to do the dishes?" Ammi asks.<br />
<br />
"Don't look so shocked," I reply. "It's not like this is the first time."<br />
<br />
"Tue." From the corner of my eye, I can see Ammi cross her arms over her chest, leaning against the kitchen counter. "But, it's usually because you're trying to make up for something you did to upset me."<br />
<br />
My cheeks burn. I look up from the cup I'm washing and gaze outside the window. "Not always," I protest. "Maybe I'm just trying to get some good deeds." It sounds so hypocritical coming from my mouth, but I don't know what else to say.<br />
<br />
I feel a hand on my right shoulder. "Is everything okay Iman?" I turn my head and look into my mother's eyes. If only she knew how wrong everything was, how far away I was from being okay.<br />
<br />
I hesitate in answering her. A part of me wants me to pour everything out. Tell her I'm so desperately in love with Tariq and that I can't stop myself. But I know she wouldn't understand. Instead, she would only have anger, a burning anger for betraying the trust she gave me so lovingly and freely.<br />
<br />
I shrug away the feeling and turn towards the dishes again. "I just had a rough day yesterday, Ammi. And I don't feel too great." <br />
<br />
"Do you have a fever?" She places the back of her hand over my forehead. "No, you're not warm. But go get some rest." She reaches over to turn off the faucet and gives me a kitchen towel to dry my hands. "And try to get some homework done too. It's gonna be a busy weekend with Mariyam's wedding. Your Abba has been gone since morning to help with the last minute planning."<br />
<br />
My heart drops. The guilt is only exacerbated when Ammi says this to me. If only she knew that rest wouldn't cure me of the illness that has come to possess me. If only it was that easy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I see two text messages from Tariq later that day, but I can't muster the courage to respond. Everytime I think of him, I remember Ammi's words and I feel ashamed. When I see a third message arrive on my phone, I assume it's Tariq again. But instead it shows one from Farah.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey Iman. Just wanted to see how you were doing. Miss you. :/</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
My shoulders droop and I bury my face into my pillow. How does she have the heart to reach out to me after all the nasty things I had said to her? <br />
<br />
<i>Hey you. I miss you too. Can we talk?</i><br />
<br />
My fingers hesitate before I press the send button. It should not surprise me. Knowing Farah, it is what she does best. And if anyone can help me out of this mess, it would be her. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
There is too much green everywhere and it's bothering me. Mariyam's mehndi ceremony is already underway, and unfortunately for her, she couldn't have the event separated as she had wished. She looks slightly uncomfortable, sitting on the stage with her dupatta pulled forward as much as possible to conceal her hair. It was a good attempt at hijab, but it wasn't covering everything as usual. <br />
<br />
She meets my eyes from far away and motions me to sit by her. As I walk over, I take a deep breath. We haven't touched the boy subject since that day at her house. It's what I appreciate most about Mariyam--that she doesn't force it out of me. And although I had contemplated about discussing it, I didn't want to bother with her wedding so soon. At least I would have Farah to talk to the next day.<br />
<br />
I sit next to Mariyam. "You look beautiful!" I squeeze her hand as she smiles. "How are you feeling?"<br />
<br />
"To be honest, kind of nervous. I've been planning and waiting so long." She sighs and I can see the emotions in her eyes. "And it's almost here. The nikah will be tomorrow already." <br />
<br />
"I bet Umair bhai is losing his patience too," I tease. <br />
<br />
"Oh what does <i>he </i>have to stress about? He just has to get dressed as a groom and arrive. Not like us brides."<br />
<br />
"That's true. But poor guy had to wait a long time and get through <i>our </i>family to finally have permission to marry you. I probably would have given up." <br />
<br />
Mariyam laughs and the twinkle in her eyes makes my heart ache for Tariq. Mariyam, who was so pure, always so modest and free of any indecency. I realize both my admiration and envy for her in that moment. She was someone I could never be. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The outfit I'm wearing at Maryiam's nikah seems a little too fancy, now that Farah is at my side. I peer into the mirror, scrutinizing her face as she looks on. Farah has this way of making me feel bad about myself without her even trying to. <br />
<br />
"It's too fancy, isn't it?" I read her mind.<br />
<br />
She shakes her head. "It's your cousin's wedding, Iman. Of course it should be fancy."<br />
<br />
I turn around to face her. "But the wedding isn't separated."<br />
<br />
She tilts her head and gives me a are-you-kidding-me<i> </i>kind of look. "Iman, I think we have a more serious problem to deal with right now than that."<br />
<br />
The Shalwar Kameez suddenly feels like it is weighing me down. I had asked Farah to come over to help me get dressed for the wedding, but that was only an excuse for me to talk to her. She hadn't asked about what because she already knew. <br />
<br />
Behind closed doors and with Ammi getting ready at Mariyam's house, I was safe in my bedroom to talk to Farah. <br />
<br />
"You already know the answer Iman," she states emphatically before I can even speak. "You're trying to convince yourself of another way out of this...a way to please yourself and do what you want without feeling guilty about it."<br />
<br />
"Well, there you have it." I sigh. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to do my makeup before having this discussion.<br />
<br />
Farah places both her hands on my shoulders and presses gently. "I know you Iman. I know what you were like before this whole boy craze. You just got a little distracted, that's all. But you can put it behind you."<br />
<br />
I pull away from her. "It's not that simple. You don't know how I feel about him."<br />
<br />
"I know."<br />
<br />
I grab her hand. "What about you Farah? Haven't you ever had a crush on someone? Dream about being with a guy?"<br />
<br />
Farah smiles and then looks down towards her lap "Of course I have."<br />
<br />
"See, I knew it! Then you know how it feels." I look at her eagerly to tell me more.<br />
<br />
"Like you, I never felt content...always guilty. It's all Shaytan, Iman. This isn't what love is supposed to be like. You're not supposed to be obsessed and lovesick."<br />
<br />
I shake my head stubbornly. "Allah put those feelings in me. It's not like I went out of my way to like him. It just <i>happened</i>."<br />
<br />
"You're right. It's not your fault you have those feelings. But you did have a choice Iman. And by choosing Tariq instead of Allah, the mess you're now in <i>is </i>your fault. I'm sorry to say, but it's the bitter truth."<br />
<br />
I bite my lip to prevent the tears from falling. "I don't want to lose him."<br />
<br />
"It's all a test, Iman. You can't see past Tariq but you have to. You have to think about your parents, about Allah. They've been there for you your entire life. Tariq just came into your life recently."<br />
<br />
"What if...?" My eyes wander to Mariyam's wedding invitation lying on my dresser. Farah follows my gaze.<br />
<br />
"You...you want to marry him?" She asks the question that I don't have the courage to say aloud. "Iman, that's a really big decision."<br />
<br />
"Isn't that the only way I don't have to choose?" I ask, suddenly feeling like there is light breaking through the clouds.<br />
<br />
Farah isn't buying it. "Iman, you're judgement is being clouded by your emotions. You can't make a decision like that. You have no idea what he's <i>really</i> like, his family--"<br />
<br />
"But, we can figure all that out. It's not like--"<br />
<br />
"And what if he says no?" she interrupts. "Or his family? Or your family?"<br />
<br />
I think about Mariyam's battle. She had won, hadn't she?<br />
<br />
"Iman, you have your whole life ahead of you. <i>Please</i>, trust me on this one," Farah implores. "You will get married one day, but now is the not the time."<br />
<br />
"And what if he ends up marrying someone else?" The idea is like a sharp stab in my heart. <br />
<br />
"Which is exactly why you need to end this relationship. You're after someone's future husband Iman. And he is with someone's future wife."<br />
<br />
I can't stop the tears from falling now. Life seems too cruel and too unfair. <br />
<br />
"Here," she says, taking my phone from the dresser. "The first step is to delete his number."<br />
<br />
"No!" I shout, grabbing my cell from her. She looks startled. "Farah, I <i>can't</i>."<br />
<br />
"Then the first step is to believe in yourself. To make yourself realize you're a lot stronger than you think you are," she says softly. "Until then, I'm here for you when you need me."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
The moment when a woman says yes in the <i>nikah</i>, she is considered to have given consent to her <i>wali</i> or gaurdian to marry. Mariyam's father comes in the bridal suite, asking her permission to marry Umair. She looks down and nods her head confidently. I hear her voice ringing softly but beautifully, a touch of sadness in her tone because she knows that after this day, she will leave her family. <br />
<br />
It's supposed to be a very emotional moment and sure enough, even I find myself crying. Some tears are full of joy, others are out of confusion, frustration, and sorrow. We all embrace the bride and one another and I find myself in the arms of my mother. She has tears in her eyes. "There will be a day when you'll be married and gone too," she says sadly. <br />
<br />
I try to swallow the barrage of emotions running through me and force a smile on my face. "Don't worry mom. I'm not going to be that easy to get rid of." My voice trembles as the image of Tariq flashes in my head.<br />
<br />
Abbu pokes his head in the bridal room. "Now, if you're all done with the crying, we have a wedding to celebrate and a dinner to eat."<br />
<br />
"Always wanting to pig out." Ammi gives a scolding look at Abbu. <br />
<br />
He opens his mouth to protest, but before he can, we hear a commotion outside. <br />
<br />
"$100 and it's done!"<br />
<br />
"Seriously? You're that cheap? We're not taking anything less than $500"<br />
<br />
It sounds like a twisted auction sale but it's actually the price the groom's family has to pay in order to get his wedding shoes back--the ones that the bride's family stole. I find myself laughing with the others, until I see someone looking at me intently. From the expression on her face, she's not enjoying the occasion like the rest of us. The only thing that brings happiness to Ameera Auntie is seeing someone's conflict, a juicy topic of gossip to indulge in. <br />
<br />
And somehow, I have a strange scary feeling she can see right through me with her steely eyes, straight to my heart. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
After dinner is served, I make an excuse to use the bathroom. Behind the green door of the bathroom stall, I pull out my cell phone from my purse. With my thumb in mid-air, just an inch away from the "delete contact" button, I think back to the moment when I first noticed Tariq at the grocery store. I had never thought of him that way then. Just a Muslim guy in my class, someone I didn't even know or care about. <br />
<br />
Pressing the button would erase all the messages, all those conversations I hold so dearly. But I wonder how long it will take me to erase them from my memory. I'm not sure how long I cry in that bathroom stall, amidst women and girls drifting in and out of the bathroom, expressing concern about how they look, taking pictures, gossiping about old friends and foes. <br />
<br />
<i>You're a lot stronger than you think you are.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
With Farah's voice in my head, I muster the courage to step out of the stall. Without looking in the mirror, I wet a napkin to gently wipe my eye make-up for the second time that day. As hard as it was to delete his number and messages, it would take even more strength to confront him about it.<br />
<br />
As I walk out of the bathroom and into the hallway leading to the banquet room, I somehow feel exposed. Carrying a secret is too heavy and a part of me is relieved that this secret will be buried away really soon. I try not to look at some of the couples hanging out in the hallway, heads close together, perhaps whispering words of love. I don't recognize them. There must be another party in one of the other banquet halls--my family isn't that liberal. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. It's not unusual for me to run into someone I know at a big wedding like this. I often welcome it. But today, I'm just not in the mood. <br />
<br />
I turn around, expecting to see an old friend. But to both my astonishment and dread, I find myself face to face with a familiar pair of warm twinkling eyes. <br />
<br />
"Tariq," I stammer, almost tripping as I take a step back. "What are you doing here?" <br />
<br />
This can't be happening. I had just taken the difficult step to delete him from my life only for him to reappear in a matter of minutes. <br />
<br />
"I can ask you the same question," he says, giving me that all-too-familiar smile I had come to be so fond of. He crosses his arms over his chest and I take in his tall muscular frame. He has a crisp navy dress shirt on, his dark hair neatly combed and gelled unlike his usual messy pile of hair. "But, I already know why. It's your cousin's wedding, which is <i>not </i>an excuse to ignore my messages."<br />
<br />
He takes a step towards me. "Lucky for me, I happen to be at the party next door." <br />
<br />
I can't comprehend what he's saying. The fact that he's in front of me, looking so good, his cologne filling my nose, only steps away--it's too much for me to handle. I look around, my heart pounding as I suddenly realize we aren't within the safe brick walls of the school building or in his car. We're at a Muslim wedding with my entire family, including Ameera Auntie and my parents...anyone could see us.<br />
<br />
"I--I can't talk here." I say quickly and am about to turn away when I feel him grab my wrist. I pull away from him, both out of anger and fear. "What the hell are you doing?" I hiss.<br />
<br />
The smile on his face is gone and I can see the hurt in his face. "I'm sorry," he says and takes a step back. "I just wanted to talk."<br />
<br />
My heart yearns for him. "Oh, Tariq." I bite my lip, trying not to cry again. "Come here." I motion him to a more secluded area where we will be temporarily safe from anyone's view.<br />
<br />
"Look, Tariq." This is the last place I expected to reveal my intention to Tariq about separating from him. But it would have to be done. "I--I can't do this anymore."<br />
<br />
"Do what?" His eyebrows furrow together in confusion. <br />
<br />
I can't look at him when I say it. "You're such a great person Tariq. I don't want anything more than to be with you."<br />
<br />
"Okay, you're being too poetic for me again. What's gotten into you, Iman?"<br />
<br />
I shake my head. He doesn't understand the hint. "I can't live this lie. I don't want to be constantly feeling guilty about being with you."<br />
<br />
"Seriously? This is what it's about?" He takes a step closer.<br />
<br />
"Stop," I command him, placing my hand to push him away. "You need to understand."<br />
<br />
"I <i>can't</i> understand. I don't know why you're always so scared."<br />
<br />
"What's so difficult to understand Tariq?" I demand. "You're Muslim, for God's sake, not some random guy who doesn't understand our religion or culture." How can he be so oblivious?<br />
<br />
"I know your family is a lot more conservative than mine." He glances away and then continues. "...but, I'm not going to...you know, hurt you. I have a lot of respect for you."<br />
<br />
It takes me several seconds to realize what he is saying. His words melt me and make it even harder for me to push him away.<br />
<br />
"Oh, Tariq." I shake my head. "That's not what I meant." <br />
<br />
He takes my hand again and this time I don't let go. The warmth of his skin spreads all across me. "Then stop worrying so much."<br />
<br />
I open my mouth to protest but it's so much easier to close my eyes and do as he says. When I open them again, he's much closer...dangerously close. I can't breath because I feel suffocated. I can see his eyelashes, the coarse hair on his chin. Our hands become entwined. My heart races and I forget everything. I forget where I am, only that I'm with him.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should consider it a blessing that I hear the voices before I see them. Because hearing them gives me those three precious seconds to break away from his embrace. But it's not enough time to run away.<br />
<br />
Tariq's hands are still touching mine just as I turn around to face them. I already know who it is, but I still have this strange sense of hope, a leap of faith that perhaps I'm mistaken. <br />
<br />
I have enough shame to not look into my father's eyes. But my eyes lock onto my mother's like a magnet. <br />
<br />
I shake my head before the words come out. "Ammi," I say in desperation. "Ammi, it's not what you think."<br />
<br />
But already I can see the color being drained away from her face, the beautiful softness in her face morphing into a look of shock for a brief moment and then, into a harsh coldness. <br />
<br />
It is too late.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-59008700044361603822013-03-03T21:49:00.001-06:002013-03-03T22:07:00.957-06:00DeceptionDo you ever try really hard to avoid someone at a certain time only for them to end up right up in your face?<br />
<br />
Well, that's how I feel right now, just when I'm about to leave for school. I <i>heard </i>the loud roar of Ammi's '99 Toyota that Abu refuses to sell and I even saw it leave the driveway this morning. So why is that when I am just steps away from the door, I hear Ammi calling my name in that stern voice, her eyes boring through the fabric of my somewhat see-through hijab and right into the back of my skull?<br />
<br />
I become completely still. <i>Three seconds. </i>In three seconds, I would have been out the door and she wouldn't have seen me. But why did I take the risk, knowing Ammi? I mentally berate myself and silently pray that she lets me go. I don't want to turn around because then she will notice the rest of me, and her anger will only elevate. <br />
<br />
"Turn around." It is a command, not a request.<br />
<br />
I close my eyes and rub my cheek quickly, hoping she doesn't notice the blush. And I then face her, looking directly at her so she doesn't think I am keeping any secrets. The look on her face says it all though.<br />
<br />
"What kind of clothes are you <i>wearing</i>?" Ammi steps towards me, eying the gray colored leggings snugging my legs, the glittering aqua blue top ending mid-thigh. "Where did you get all this?"<br />
<br />
I try not to roll my eyes. "It's the fashion, Ammi." I wish she would just leave me alone and not treat me like a five year-old.<br />
<br />
"And this hijab? It's like you don't even have it on."<br />
<br />
Now, that's a lie. I do have a scarf on...sure, I don't have it secured tight around my head like I usually do, but I look so much better with my bangs showing!<br />
<br />
"Ammi, I was in a hurry that's why!" I whine. "I was going to fix it while I was walking out."<br />
<br />
"And this make-up? Since when did you start wearing all of this?" <br />
<br />
"Can we discuss this when I come home from school?" I ask impatiently.<br />
<br />
But Ammi is too stubborn. "I will <i>not </i>let you leave the house like this. Change. Right now."<br />
<br />
My face falls and my shoulders droop. "Ammi, I'm running late for a meeting we have before school!" It wasn't a complete lie. I did promise to meet someone before Homeroom.<br />
<br />
"What meeting?" she asks, a hand on her hip. <br />
<br />
My mind races to think of an answer. "It's for my English project. It's a group meeting." <i>Please let me go, </i>I think desperately<i>.</i><br />
<br />
Hesitation flickers in her eyes for an instant but it quickly disappears. "I'm sure your group won't be upset if you're a minute late. Wait here."<br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
I sigh. One minute seems like an hour, but I'm even more disappointed when Ammi returns with my navy colored track pants in one hand and a gray sweatshirt in the other. <br />
<br />
"Change into these, for Allah's sake. Those leggings look hideous, like you've painted on your legs."<br />
<br />
I can't believe this is happening. It took a lot of time and money to put this outfit together, and there is no way I am going to go out with Tariq in a sweatshirt and track pants.<br />
<br />
But arguing with Ammi isn't going to solve the problem either. "Okay," I manage to say as I take off my backpack and wear the pants over my leggings and pull the hoodie over my head. <br />
<br />
Ammi seems pleased, but she is a mind-reader after all. "Don't you dare take those off when you get to school."<br />
<br />
"Allah-Hafiz," I say a little too loudly and rush out of the house. Thank the Lord I am brown and the warmth that is spreading on my cheeks out of both embarrassment and anger is not noticeable. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
-----</div>
<br />
Anum is talking to a guy again, which comes as no surprise. This one, however, seems unfamiliar. Instead of stopping to greet her, I walk past her and look for Tariq. Fortunately, he is in the vicinity, right where Anum can see us together.<br />
<br />
"Hey," I say, trying to calm my nerves. Being upset with him for only a day makes it seem we haven't talked in months. I feel like throwing my arms around him.<br />
<br />
His eyes take in my outfit (the track pants and sweatshirt are buried deep in my backpack, thank God) and then meet my gaze. "You're looking great," he whispers, leaning his head towards mine. God, I love it when he says things like that.<br />
<br />
I cross my arms across my chest and feign an angry expression.<br />
<br />
"Seriously? What now?" Tariq says in disbelief.<br />
<br />
"I haven't forgiven you yet," I try to say without smiling.<br />
<br />
He places his hands in the pockets of his denim jeans and then shakes his head. "Then I guess we'll have to cancel our date."<br />
<br />
<i>Date</i>. The word makes me all jittery. <br />
<br />
I try to think of something smart to say, but I can't. "Well...what was the plan anyway?"<br />
<br />
"Oh so you are interested?" he says, raising his eyebrows.<br />
<br />
I shove him in the elbow but I try to be careful not to make it too discrete. Already people are beginning to notice that Tariq and I are together and it comes as a surprise to many of my classmates, considering I'm not one to hang out with boys too much.<br />
<br />
The bell interrupts our conversation, signaling that there are three minutes until Homeroom. I want to keep talking to Tariq instead of going to class, but the world does not function on my wishes alone. <br />
<br />
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Anum walking towards us. She has a wide smile on her face as her eyes move from mine to Tariq. She doesn't stand next to me, though. Instead, she stands close to Tariq, leaving a small distance between them.<br />
<br />
"Hey guys," she says cheerfully. "Iman, you look very dressed up." <br />
<br />
Envy fills me up, shaking me with anger. And then determination overpowers me. I am not going to accept failure at any cost. I move closer to Tariq so that our shoulders are touching. I need Anum to know that Tariq isn't going to be hers, that she can't claim every decent guy that walks the face of this earth. <br />
<br />
<br />
Tariq must sense my feelings because the next thing he does is put one of his arms around my shoulder, bringing me a little closer to him. I am frozen for a second, terrified actually that someone will see. But then I remind myself that I am standing in the hallway of my preppy high school...no one will tattle tale me to Ammi or Abu. So I take a deep breath and smile at Anum.<br />
<br />
"Yes, it's a...special day," I reply, looking at Tariq instead. I can smell his after shave and it's making me kind of dizzy.<br />
<br />
Anum doesn't say anything and then an awkward silence follows.<br />
<br />
"Well, I hope you guys enjoy your...date," she says, giving me a wink. There's an omniscient feeling now that Anum has wished us, almost as if she has cast a dark spell on us.<br />
<br />
"Meet me by my locker at noon," Tariq says before we head our separate ways.<br />
<br />
"Can't wait." And I mean every word of it. <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
-----</div>
<br />
I can't focus in class. I keep daydreaming. After first period, I see Laila in the hallway and she is dying to hear about our plan. "So, where is he taking you?" she asks excitedly.<br />
<br />
"It's a surprise," I say, gloating inside. "But most likely taking me out for lunch and then somewhere else after that."<br />
<br />
"You're cutting class?"<br />
<br />
"Yeah, can you believe it?"<br />
<br />
"Oh my God, look at you. Miss beautiful, going on a first date."<br />
<br />
First date. At first, the sound of it excites me, but then I almost feel embarrassed. Who has their first date when they are 17? That sounds awful.<br />
<br />
"You did the right thing to Anum though. She needs to know she can't have every boy."<br />
<br />
"Mmhmm," I answer. <br />
<br />
Farah joins us and we drop the topic. She give me a small smile but doesn't say anything. I know what she's thinking--that I am a terrible Muslim girl, betraying my parents' trust, boy-crazy, blah blah blah.<br />
<br />
But I could be doing a lot worse. There are a lot of Muslims out there who are only Muslim by name...you couldn't even tell. At least I wasn't like that.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
-----</div>
<br />
<br />
Around noon, I'm about to walk towards Tariq's locker but then I stop short. There are three Muslim guys gathered around him. I have become comfortable being around Tariq, but I'm still not used to being in the company of other guys, especially Muslim.<br />
<br />
I don't want to be seen by them so I turn around and walk to another hallway.<br />
<br />
When I look at my phone, my face falls.<br />
<br />
<i>Hey the guys wanna go out to eat. Lets meet during English instead?</i><br />
<br />
Tears build up in my eyes and I hate myself for being so emotional. All night and day I was dreaming of this so-called date. And now, Tariq had ruined it. <br />
<br />
I try to think of what I can do in the meantime. I am not going to go to the cafeteria where Anum and the rest of them can see me. I don't have a car where I can hide either.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I find myself in the girls' bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror and wondering why on earth I dressed up so much. It is a normal looking outfit that many other girls would wear to school, but not for me. I don't dress this way and that is saying a lot. What was I thinking? Or rather, what was I trying to accomplish? Impress Tariq, pretend he was Prince Charming or some idealistic character from a movie or storybook? How stupid could I be?<br />
<br />
My phone rings again and a small shred of hope tells me Tariq has changed his mind.<br />
<br />
<i>You're not upset are you?</i><br />
<br />
I bite my lip so hard it starts to bleed. Are guys really that oblivious or is it just Tariq? I never imagined anyone could lack so much common sense. <br />
<br />
Stubbornness isn't something that comes naturally to me, but today I refuse to reply to Tariq. Only when things were starting to get better between us did he have to go ahead and make it more complicated. If he is serious about me, he would have to prove it. I turn my phone to silent mode and head to the vending machine to grab a chocolate bar.<br />
<br />
Twenty minutes before English class is about to start, I walk out of the school building. If I waited too long, the security guards would suspect I'm cutting class and then I wouldn't be able to leave. I head to the ice cream store where Tariq had treated me to my favorite sundae a week ago. I'm hoping Anum isn't in the crowd when I step inside. <br />
<br />
My phone shows three more text messages when I sit down with a mint chocolate chip scoop.<br />
<br />
<i>Iman, please reply.</i><br />
<i>I'm coming in ten minutes to get you. Where are you?</i><br />
<i>You there? </i> <br />
<br />
Maybe I am being too childish. So what if he wanted to have lunch with his friends? But then again, he promised me lunch and here I am, eating ice cream alone, attempting to appease both my hunger and anger. There's no way I would forgive him that easily.<br />
<br />
The ice cream shop starts to thin out and I notice Amy sitting with a boy at a seat near the window. She waves and I smile at her. I try not to think of the way the boy is holding her hand under the table. And because I can't bear to be around any more couples who are staring into each others eyes or flirtatiously giggling and kissing each other, I walk out with my ice cream unfinished and drop my head to my chin, staring at the cracks in the sidewalk that blur with the tears swimming in my eyes.<br />
<br />
I should not have fallen victim to this; I know better. I <i>am </i>better than this. But why...why is it so difficult to let go?<br />
<br />
My thoughts are interrupted when a car swerves suddenly to the side of the road where I am walking and honks. I quickly wipe away my tears just as Tariq rolls down his window.<br />
<br />
"Iman, I've been calling you. Why aren't you picking up?"<br />
<br />
I look away and continue walking, but he doesn't give up. He gets out of the car and stands in my way. I avoid his gaze.<br />
<br />
"Look, I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have--"<br />
<br />
"Then, why did you?" I ask angrily.<br />
<br />
He sighs. "They kept insisting. I couldn't say no."<br />
<br />
"Well, it's good to know where your priorities lie."<br />
<br />
"It's not what you think."<br />
<br />
"I don't know what to think, Tariq. I'm just tired." When I make a move to walk away from him, he grabs both my shoulders gently and leans forward.<br />
<br />
"Look at me." <br />
<br />
I roll my eyes and hate that there are tears building up again.<br />
<br />
"I'm serious, Iman. I really like you and I don't want to lose you."<br />
<br />
Am I really hearing those words or is my brain making them up? How long had I dreamed of the day when a boy would say that to me? It's as if those words wrap around me like a warm blanket and soothe me.<br />
<br />
I look into his eyes and realize how intimate it can be to just to have somebody hold your gaze so intently. <br />
<br />
"Do you believe me?" he whispers. <br />
<br />
All I can do is nod, because even if Tariq is making it up, I want to believe it really bad. <br />
<br />
And then before I realize it, we are touching. I can't breath; I can't think. I simply shut my eyes and keep my hands
from shaking as Tariq wraps his arms around me and embraces me. I've hugged perhaps
a thousand people in my life--my family, friends, strangers at weddings
and funerals and parties. And Tariq and I had hugged once before in the school parking lot. But this is different. Before, things were uncertain...<i>we </i>were uncertain. This time, we are much closer and the desire that engulfs me is overwhelming. I never want to let go of him.<br />
<br />
I don't know how long we stand there together, oblivious to the cars passing by, the wind whipping around us. But time stops for no one and soon enough, we have to break apart.<br />
<br />
He smiles at me, softly brushing away the bangs that are peeking from my hijab. "Let's get you something to eat before you faint," he says, leading me to his car.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
----</div>
<br />
It's nearing 3:30 in the afternoon and I'm getting nervous. Tariq had taken me to a nice Italian restaurant and it shocked me that he was still able to eat despite having had lunch with his friends. Two hours had flown by so quickly...I didn't realize school had already been dismissed by the time we left the restaurant.<br />
<br />
"Do they call home when you cut class?" I ask Tariq in his car.<br />
<br />
"Why, you're worried?"<br />
<br />
"I don't like lying to my parents." I find myself chewing my fingers and then stop myself.<br />
<br />
"You don't have to," he says, pushing on the gas pedal to run the yellow light.<br />
<br />
"You want me to tell my mom I was out with a guy?" Tariq can just be unbelievable sometimes. "She's gonna freak out."<br />
<br />
"Tell her you were out with a friend and lost track of time."<br />
<br />
"That's still a lie." I think of this morning and how Ammi reacted to my outfit. "What about you? Don't your parents mind?"<br />
<br />
"Mind what?"<br />
<br />
"Cutting class, coming home late, going out...with a girl?" <br />
<br />
"My parents aren't really bossy. As long as I get good grades and I'm not drunk or get into any kind of trouble, they're fine."<br />
<br />
I lean back in the passenger seat. "That's nice." Abu is usually not too nosy, but I wish Ammi wouldn't be so bossy. Then
again, she isn't that bossy with Humza as she is with me. Why is the Y chromosome
so lucky?<br />
<br />
When Tariq reaches the street before my house, I tell him to stop.<br />
<br />
"It's not very gentleman-like of me to drop you off a block away from your house, you know."<br />
<br />
"And mind you, it's not very lady-like of me to be seen with a guy in a car."<br />
<br />
He chuckles as I open the door to leave. "Hey," he says, grabbing my wrist before I walk out. "I had a good time today."<br />
<br />
I smile. "Me too." <br />
<br />
<br />
The smile doesn't fade as I reach my house, where I see an unfamiliar pair of shoes sitting on the doormat next to the shoe stand. It can only mean one thing--we have a guest over.<br />
<br />
I sigh. There is nothing more that I want right now than to go upstairs and lock myself in my bedroom. I want to relive the moments I had with Tariq today, hang on to this memory and not let it fade.<br />
<br />
But I have to pass by the living room in order to go to my room. And then I suddenly remember that I haven't put on my track pants or sweatshirt. If Ammi sees me like this, especially in front of a guest, she's going to marry me to a F.O.B for good.<br />
<br />
I can't take the risk of someone seeing me from the window so I quietly walk to the side of the house and hide between two bushes. Then, I rummage through my backpack and try to crease out the wrinkles. I put on the pants and sweatshirt and then tightly wrap my hijab around my head so that my bangs don't show. I don't have a mirror to check, but at least I'm in a better position now than before. <br />
<br />
When I get back into the house and step into the living room, I see that it is Ameera auntie. Thank God I changed or else I would have been in deep trouble. I have no idea what Ameera auntie is doing at our house, but one thing I do know is that Ammi and her don't get along very well. <br />
<br />
Regardless, I walk towards her confidently and shake her hand. "Assalaamu Alikaum, Khala." She's not my aunt, thank God, but I still have to address her that way.<br />
<br />
She takes a good look at me, as if evaluating every piece of me and then replies to my salaam. I let go of her hand and her prying eyes and then quickly leave, letting Ammi know that I'll help set up for dinner as soon as I change and pray.<br />
<br />
But as I am about to walk up the stairs, their conversation piques my interest.<br />
<br />
"Don't you worry about your daughter?" Ameera auntie asks my mom.<br />
<br />
"Worry?" Ammi repeats. "Which mother doesn't?"<br />
<br />
"The conditions of this age can be very destructive." I lean quietly against the wall, out of sight.<br />
<br />
"Mmm. But, I trust Iman," Ammi says confidently.<br />
<br />
The words burn me. I close my eyes and bite my lip from crying. <br />
<br />
"That's what Nasreen and Abid used to say about their daughter too. And look what happened. In one instant, she sacrificed the dignity of her family for a boy she knew only for a month." <br />
<br />
"A person doesn't have to fear her parents or society alone, Ameera. If she fears Allah, that should be enough to stop her from committing such an act."<br />
<br />
"So you're saying it's completely justifiable for a parent to let their child do whatever he or she wishes?"<br />
<br />
"I'm saying that there is a very delicate balance between restricting and giving too much freedom to your child. The best tool we can give our children is faith and hope that it will be strong enough to fight the strongest of temptations."<br />
<br />
I don't bother to hear Ameera Khala's reply. I rush to my bedroom and lean against the closed door. Only one phrase continues to ring in my head, over and over again.<br />
<br />
<i>I trust</i> <i>Iman</i>.<br />
<br />
If only Ammi knew that I am one of <i>them</i>, a girl who doesn't care for her family, who doesn't fear Allah. How long will I be able to keep this secret? I have been lucky far too many times. Will I be the next victim of gossip? Will my parents have to hang their heads in shame because of my ruthless actions?<br />
<br />
I shake my head as if to remove the demanding questions swirling in my head. I crouch down onto the floor of my bedroom and bury my head into my knees. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-74786571754826690812012-12-31T14:05:00.002-06:002012-12-31T18:19:30.661-06:00DecisionsThe worst thing you can probably do to yourself when you're heartbroken is to watch a romantic movie. It can only remind you of how things used to be and what you so badly wished things were like.<br />
<br />
But that is exactly what I do when I return home that night. Except I do have a cup of hot chocolate with lots of whipped cream to make things a little better. And the mentality that movies are full of deception...no one actually lives happily ever after or ends up marrying their childhood or high school sweetheart 99% of the time. Which again makes me wonder, why not? Why does life have to be so cruel? And then I end up curling even deeper into my bed as if to hide away from the cloud of misery floating above me. <br />
<br />
The phone ring interrupts my solemn thoughts and I pray that someone answers it before I have to get up from my cozy bed. If it is Khala, she will probably be demanding help for last-minute tasks for Mariyam's wedding or tattle-taling about my boy adventures. And if it is one of my many aunts and uncles from abroad, I know for a fact I will not be hanging up until after I have heard all their sad tales about the seemingly harsh life back home and how they are anxiously waiting for our gifts from Amreeka, which we have finely plucked from the tree of everlasting wealth.<br />
<br />
If only there was a tree of everlasting love. Maybe there is, somewhere in a fantasy or storybook. <br />
<br />
Fortunately, the phone stops ringing and I slouch back on my pillow. I spoke too soon, because only seconds later, I hear someone trying to open my locked door. My family still does not understand the concept of privacy or knocking before entering.<br />
<br />
"What is it?" I ask angrily from my bed.<br />
<br />
"Maybe if you picked up your cell phone, you would know."<br />
<br />
I hate when Humza speaks in puzzles. My cell phone is lying next to me and it has taken all the effort to not look at it every ten seconds. Or to scroll repeatedly through the four text messages a certain someone has left.<br />
<br />
"I don't know what you're talking about." I'm suddenly very tired, even though all the sugar from the hot chocolate should have me bouncing up and down the walls. <br />
<br />
"Fine, I guess Tariq can chat with Ammi then," he says a little too loudly.<br />
<br />
In a matter of seconds, I'm at my door and Humza blinks his eyes in surprise at me, our cordless house phone in his hand. I make a move to grab it from him but he is too quick for me. He is enjoying every minute of this.<br />
<br />
"Humza, give it," I hiss.<br />
<br />
"Actually, I think I might just tell Ammi what you're up to." He pokes his head inside my bedroom but I block his view. Even for a boy, Humza isn't that dumb to not figure out my current emotional status.<br />
<br />
"Don't you dare," I say sternly.<br />
<br />
"You owe me. Big time."<br />
<br />
I grab the phone from him and say into the mouthpiece, "Hang up. I'm calling from my cell." Humza raises his eyebrows at me when I shove the phone back into his hands. <br />
<br />
"I never knew you had the guts to talk to a--"<br />
<br />
"Humza, my dear bhai," I say, gently pushing him away. "We'll talk later, okay?"<br />
<br />
And then I shut the door, raise the volume of the TV, and settle into my bed with my cell phone. I hesitate for a minute, thinking of Mariyam's words, of Ammi whose trust I was betraying.<br />
<br />
Maybe this is the opportunity to break all ties with Tariq, to forget about my fantasies and to prevent myself from committing more sin. After all, how long could I be with Tariq anyway? What was our future together? The day would have to come when we wouldn't be together and as difficult as it would be for that day to be today, it would be even harder if it was tomorrow. <br />
<br />
Maybe Tariq would laugh at me, think I was some extremist who couldn't even have a guy as a friend. But, he is Muslim...he should understand. He isn't that liberal..or maybe he is, especially if he was dancing with Anum like that.<br />
<br />
I push away the raging battle in my head and call him. There is no point in rehearsing words; I will let the conversation flow as it should. <br />
<br />
<br />
"Not mad enough to ignore me after all, huh?" Tariq says.<br />
<br />
<i>No, I let myself get too close to you that even if I tried, I couldn't be mad for too long.</i><br />
<br />
"You didn't give me much of a choice," I say instead, not bothering to hide my anger. But the fact that he had called home means a lot to me. It means that he still cares, still needs me the way I need him. <br />
<br />
"You didn't either," he says softly. <br />
<br />
<br />
I close my eyes at the sound of his voice. "You shouldn't have called home, Tariq. That was a huge risk."<br />
<br />
"But it worked."<br />
<br />
"That's cause Humza picked up. What if it was--?"<br />
<br />
"I could have chatted with your parents, you know. They do know me." There's a hint of amusement in his voice and I roll my eyes. It seems ages ago when he had accidentally stumbled into our home. A part of me wishes to go back to that time when I didn't actually have feelings for him, but a part of me wants to relish in these new experiences.<br />
<br />
"Where did you get my house number anyway?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"The school directory, duh."<br />
<br />
I sigh. How could I forget? I had only gone through the whole directory with Laila, Anum, and Farah for the past two years, circling the numbers of all the cute guys and working the nerve to prank call them.<br />
<br />
"Tell me why you're mad." <br />
<br />
"Oh, let' not pretend now." I don't want to bring up this subject, but I need to let Tariq know that if he wants to have anything with me--whether it's friendship or something more--there were some expectations I had that he needed to respect.<br />
<br />
He laughs. The nerve of him to laugh! If we were talking in person, I would have already punched him in the face.<br />
<br />
"Fine, I'm hanging up." <br />
<br />
"Hey, don't. Seriously, I don't know." <br />
<br />
"Tariq, you were <i>dancing </i>with Anum."<br />
<br />
There is silence for a couple seconds and then, "That's it?"<br />
<br />
My mouth drops open and I can't believe my ears. Either I have no experience with guys and I'm just figuring them out, or Tariq is really messing with me.<br />
<br />
"<i>That's it</i>? What the hell do you mean by that?" I yell at him.<br />
<br />
"Calm down," he says and I can tell he is trying to suppress his laughter.<br />
<br />
"No I can't, Tariq. I don't understand you at all. You were touching--"<br />
<br />
"There's nothing between us," he cuts me off in a serious tone. My heart drops. "Me and Anum."<br />
<br />
A joyous feeling rises within me and spreads all the way down to my toes. Tariq had not fallen for Anum, and I would make sure she wouldn't steal him from me again. <br />
<br />
"You there?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"Yeah." I walk towards the mirror hanging on my bedroom wall and twist a strand of my hair around my finger. "I want to believe that Tariq. I want to believe that..." <i>That we're meant to be together</i>.<br />
<br />
"You're sounding way too philosophical for me. Can we leave that for English tomorrow?"<br />
<br />
"We don't have English together," I remind him.<br />
<br />
"Well, we can."<br />
<br />
"Huh?"<br />
<br />
"I have two rainchecks. Let's see...one for ice cream and one for a long run together."<br />
<br />
So Tariq wants me to cut class to go out with him. Nice. "Um...did you check the expiration date on those?"<br />
<br />
"Oh right. I forgot to check."<br />
<br />
I tap my foot in amusement, smiling widely into the mirror.<br />
<br />
"It says here that it's good for ninety days and as far as I can recall, it hasn't even been thirty days."<br />
<br />
"Hmm...I guess I'll think about it."<br />
<br />
But there is no need to dwell upon such a decision. Already, I'm dreaming of him, of us. And I push the small bit of guilt that weaves in between. I don't let it build up, because if I do, it will threaten me, choke me until all happiness is drained from within me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*******************************************</div>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Hello readers!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">First and foremost, I would like to convey a HUGE apology for being MIA for so long. Although I don't like to say that medical school is my life, it has taken up a significant portion of my time. It makes it more difficult to continue the story if I have been away from the story for so long myself. That being said, I was hoping to wrap up this blog pretty soon. However, as I sat down to read all the comments that have piled up over the past several months, I decided otherwise. I realized that I have also gotten quite fond of Iman and all her desi-Muslim-American-teenage drama. Insha'Allah (God Willing), I am hoping to write an entry once every month (and in advance, I apologize if there is a delay).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">I do want to thank everyone for their enthusiasm and support. Stories aren't of much use if they aren't read and reflected upon, are they? Please continue to read and comment :)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: blue;">Always,</span><br />
<span style="color: blue;">Dreamer</span> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-8593012121561272902012-04-26T14:54:00.000-05:002012-04-26T15:06:18.715-05:00EmotionsI crumple the green tissue angrily. I'm in no mood to be at Mariyam's house, helping her and her annoying mother--my Khala--to make favors for Mariyam's Nikah ceremony. <br />
<br />
"Less than two weeks left and my daughter will leave me," Khala laments. I roll my eyes, but I'm thankful she hasn't brought up the boy subject yet.<br />
<br />
"She's going to be happily married," I can't help but say. It's comforting to know that Mariyam really likes her fiance but I would be terrified if I were in her situation. <br />
<br />
"Yes, and one day, it'll be your turn," Mariyam teases.<br />
<br />
"Uh, that's not happening anytime soon," I reply quickly. Tariq's face appears in my mind and something flutters in my stomach. <br />
<br />
"Well there's nothing wrong with getting married young. It's a good thing in my opinion," Khala says, carefully counting dates and nuts to place in each favor bag. <br />
<br />
"I didn't ask for your opinion," I mutter under my breath, avoiding Mariyam's glance.<br />
<br />
"Look, beta, you're probably upset." Her tone is sincere, which is surprising, but I have no forgiveness to offer. "I saw what I saw and it is my duty to tell your mother and that is what I did. She thinks it's a confusion, but--"<br />
<br />
"Khala, you have no need to worry about me." I don't want her to say anything more so I continue talking, dissolving her doubt with words. "I don't have a boyfriend and I don't plan on having one." I clench my teeth. I cannot stand the sight of her; she infuriates me.<br />
<br />
"Ammi, we'll finish the rest now. You should go rest," Mariyam suggests. I breathe a sigh of relief when Khala leaves us both at the dining room table, her face pleased as though she has successfully taught an important lesson to a young child.<br />
<br />
"Don't mind her or what your mother said, Iman. They just care about you," Mariyam says when we are alone.<br />
<br />
"God, not you too! I'm so sick of hearing this. I'm not a little girl." I slam the scissors on the table and get up from my seat. Something is happening to me and I can't describe what it is. I feel ridiculed, dumb even because everyone feels the need to explain every little thing to me. "I need to go home now," I say more quietly, my head turned away from Mariyam.<br />
<br />
"Okay, I'll drop you off but calm down. What's wrong?" Mariyam gets up from where she is sitting and stands in front of me. "Tell me. You know I'm here for you," she says softly, placing her hand on my shoulder.<br />
<br />
I roll my eyes, trying to hide my tears. "You wouldn't understand."<br />
<br />
"Try me."<br />
<br />
I hesitate and then look into her eyes. Mariyam has always been like an older sister to me; in this moment, I envy her for what I am not capable of being. I can't bear to let her think of me as someone unworthy of her respect and love, so I simply say, "Mariyam, why is that there are some things in this life that we just can't do--the very things that can bring joy and happiness? Why are there so many rules?"<br />
<br />
There is curiosity in her eyes, but she does not ask me what this is about. I appreciate that she is not prying like most other people are. "Iman, there are some things that look really good to us at first, especially because Shaytan makes it appear so and everyone else seems to find joy in it also. But Allah has created us, He knows us more than we know ourselves...That's why He has made some things permissible and other things not."<br />
<br />
I shake my head. I heard this many times before; all I want is to be with Tariq without feeling guilty. All I want is not feel as though it is a sin, to live in a secret that is too exhausting to carry on. "I don't buy it. It doesn't make sense. It almost feels like a prison."<br />
<br />
"Is it a boy?" Mariyam asks quietly, studying my face. My skin feels hot and I can't meet her eyes. "You don't have to tell me if you're not comfortable," she adds when I don't say anything.<br />
<br />
I want to pour my feelings out to her, but something is holding me back. I know what she will tell me. That I have to give him up, that I can't talk to him anymore, shouldn't even <i>look </i>at him. And I'm not ready to make that sacrifice.<br />
<br />
"You already know we don't date. People think we're weird not to, but trust me. You have just to be patient. One day, you'll be engaged like I am and it will the most beautiful moment in your life. What you're feeling now is nothing compared to what it will be like."<br />
<br />
I shake my head stubbornly. "I--I just don't see what's wrong with it. I--" The words come out fumbled. "I--I should go home...I want to be alone."<br />
<br />
I walk out before she has anything more to say. "Please talk to me if you need to Iman. You know I love you," she still says.<br />
<br />
Mariyam's words linger in my head throughout the day, but I force them away just like I have removed Farah's stinging words. I am upset at this world for being incomprehensible. Why has Allah put love in my heart for Tariq when He does not permit it?<br />
<br />
I feel restless at home. Even Ammi miraculously has no housework for me to do. Homework is sitting for me but I cannot focus. Fortunately, Anum calls me over to her house to help practice a dance for her cousin's upcoming mehndi. Why do I feel like everyone is getting married, <i>all </i>the time?<br />
<br />
When I arrive at Anum's doorstep, there is Hindi music mixed with English lyrics blaring in her stereo. I wonder if the neighbors are disturbed as I ring her doorbell.<br />
<br />
A guy opens the door and I'm taken aback. There is no way I am mistaken where Anum lives, although I can't say the same for her inviting guys over. That had to mean one thing--her parents were not home.<br />
<br />
"You're Anum's friend?" the guy asks, giving a cheesy smile while leaning against the door. He is looking at me carefully, passing his eyes over me and I wonder what he is thinking. Despite the hijab wrapped loosely around my head, I feel somewhat exposed. It was a good thing Ammi didn't see me when I stepped out of the house. <br />
<br />
"Um, is Anum there?" I ask gingerly, feeling awkward.<br />
<br />
"Yo, Anum. Your cute friend is here." He flashes me a smile while my cheek burns. <i>Cute? Did he just have the nerve to call me cute? </i>I can't tell whether I feel ashamed or slightly delighted by the comment. Anyway, it doesn't seem like anyone has heard him over the music. "This way," he says and I'm grateful that he walks ahead of me instead of besides me.<br />
<br />
I walk to a spacious room towards the back of Anum's house, where Anum's parents have kept exercising equipment, a flat screen TV, and a stereo system. There are about eight or nine other people and I feel kind of alone. All along, I had assumed it would have been just Anum and me. But I was wrong to think that someone as popular as Anum would rely on me alone.<br />
<br />
I look for Anum over the noise; no one has still acknowledged my presence and each second seems to drag. When I spot her, I see that she has her hair tied up high in a ponytail and out of the way. She's wearing a T-shirt, hugging attractively to her skin. Her mouth is open in sync with the lyrics and her eyes laughing. But it's the way the boy next to her has his hands on her arm, touching her bare skin that freezes me in place. They are moving together effortlessly in tune with the music, their eyes not leaving each other. <br />
<br />
I step back, the tears building up. I don't want to cry, all I want is to rewind these several minutes so the knowledge of betrayal is not there. It does not upset me that Anum has invited boys over, or that she is dancing with them. What upsets me, tears me apart, is <i>who</i> she is dancing with.<br />
<br />
I turn to leave, but of course, that is exactly when Anum calls me. I swallow my hurt, wipe away the tears and turn around, forcing a small smile on my face.<br />
<br />
She grabs my hand, unaware of my emotions. "Finally, you took forever. C'mon."<br />
<br />
"No," I say, pulling my hand away and she looks confused. "I...I'm actually not feeling that well." It takes all the effort that I can muster to not look at <i>him</i>, especially when he is so close.<br />
<br />
"Is something wrong?" Anum asks. I look into her eyes, both anger and sympathy rising simultaneously within me for her. How could she be so oblivious to my feelings, my pain? How blind could one be to know what is and isn't wrong?<br />
<br />
"Of course not," I lie, my voice trembling.<br />
<br />
And then he is standing next to me. My body is confused, torn between wanting to stay and run.<br />
<br />
"Hey Iman," Tariq says. His voice, as usual, has a pleasant ring to it. Why did I ever let myself become attune to it? "We could use your help."<br />
<br />
"Help?" I ask, looking at Anum instead of him. I try not to think that he, too, is unaware. I had always imagined that love transcends everything, that the person you love is able to notice immediately your pain, the ability to recognize that you are hurt and need mending. That one is able to let go of everything else for you, to never turn around and share it with somebody else.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, for the mehndi dance. We're still in the process of choreographing it." Anum waves her hands while she speaks. In that instant, I realize how distant we are. We aren't the girls anymore who used to braid each other's hair, read Qur'an together, chase after each other and lick the sweet taste of kulfi while the sunshine poured over us.<br />
<br />
I clear my throat, a bit more confident now. "Anum, I need to go." The tone of my voice makes her still. Despite the chatter around us, something passes between us and I know she understands. She looks away uncomfortably as Tariq speaks.<br />
<br />
"But you just got here."<br />
<br />
I turn my eyes to the floor. <i>Does it matter to you that I'm even here? </i>the question remains unspoken. <br />
<br />
"You guys can do without me," I simply say, meaning every word of it. She doesn't try to stop me and Tariq hesitantly walks behind me as I turn to leave, waiting perhaps for me to say something.<br />
<br />
"You look pale. Are you feeling okay?" he asks, his hand touching my arm. I jerk away at the touch, remembering how he had touched Anum only minutes earlier.<br />
<br />
"I'm fine," I manage to say, avoiding his gaze. "I want to be alone," I say for the second time that day. And then I leave, unleashing the tears once again.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-75184617102334328862012-01-19T19:49:00.001-06:002012-01-19T20:07:05.038-06:00Daring and DeceivingI inhale slowly, trying to calm my pounding heart but I feel suffocated. <br />
<br />
"Ammi, I really don't know what you're talking about," I lie. Well, it's not exactly a lie. She <i>may </i>be thinking about Tariq, but she may not be. Then again, what other boy do I hang out?<br />
<br />
"So, you think I'm making this up?" she asks, her hand on her hip. "Tell me exactly where you were yesterday after school." I avoid meeting her eyes. I'm a terrible liar so I decide to tell the truth.<br />
<br />
"At the park." It was a dumb idea, I know. The weather was gorgeous and I had a childish desire to go on the swings so I persuaded Tariq to join along. <br />
<br />
"With who?" she interrogates.<br />
<br />
I decide to play innocent. "Ammi, I don't like your tone. I was with Amy. How can you accuse me like this?"<br />
<br />
"You weren't with anyone else?" she asks, her brows coming together with that motherly expression.<br />
<br />
"Ammi, I always listen to what you say...you know I'm not that kind of girl. It hurts when you treat me like this. And Humza? You never tell him anything. Why me?" <br />
<br />
I sniff, wiping away fake tears.<br />
<br />
"Oh, Iman. You always bring it back to Humza. You're older, he's still young."<br />
<br />
"Oh yeah? He's still five, I know," I scoff.<br />
<br />
"Look, maybe Khala is mistaken, but tell me the truth, Iman--"<br />
<br />
"Khala? This is about Khala? She's telling you fake rumors about me?" I yell. Anger rises in my throat for Khala. How dare she? She is not my mother and she has no right to pry.<br />
<br />
"Just tell me, you weren't with a boy, were you?"<br />
<br />
Instead of answering my mother's question, I'm thinking of how to seek revenge on Khala. She's put me in this misery, after all. And Mariyam--had she told Mariyam too? <br />
<br />
"Are you listening to me?" My mother is not going to give up so easily. It's a matter of our family reputation more than anything else.<br />
<br />
"Ammi, how can I control who goes to the park? Amy and I weren't the only ones there. There were a bunch of other people, kids, boys, everyone. But that doesn't mean I purposely went with a guy--I just can't believe this!"<br />
<br />
I storm out of the room, hoping she buys it. It's an awful thing to do; I don't want to lie to my mother. But she would never understand. If I told her how I felt about Tariq, she would never console me--she'd freak out before even giving me a chance to explain. Who knows what the consequences would be? Maybe she would have me transfer to another school, or worse, be home-schooled. Or upon Khala's suggestion, she'd marry me off to some F.O.B. for good. I shudder at the thought just as she comes in behind me in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
"Iman, look. I have a right to know, that's why I asked. Especially since your Khala just told me over the phone she saw you laughing with a boy yesterday."<br />
<br />
"Laughing with a boy? Is it a sin to laugh when there are boys around, Ammi? I don't know why Khala is so concerned...she just doesn't like me and wants me--"<br />
<br />
"Enough. She's your elder and deserves your respect. Anyway, I'll let her know what you told me but from now on, you need to be careful, Iman. Today, it was her. Tomorrow, it could be someone else."<br />
<br />
"What? So you're trying to say I can't even go to the park now? Ammi, what is this?" I cry, but she has already left the room. I'm angry when all I should be feeling is relief--relief that I was able to escape without any scars.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
We are on the painting unit now in Mr. Hesser's art class. It's a relief that the face sketching unit is over, especially after having Laila and I debate with him about how we wanted a different assignment.<br />
<br />
Art is my favorite class. Not that I'm much good at it, of course. But because it's relaxing. Mr. Hesser only lectures for five minutes at the beginning, then lets the radio go on in the background while he lets us do our art. Laila, Tariq, and this other guy sits at our table and the fifty minutes often pass by without a single glance at the clock.<br />
<br />
"Iman, why are you painting a shoe?" Tariq asks me while I wipe the sweat off my forehead. I am <i>awful </i>at painting.<br />
<br />
"Ugh, that is not a shoe!" I feel offended; a vase doesn't have much resemblance to a shoe, but maybe he's right. I shove him on the shoulder anyway with my free hand.<br />
<br />
"Ouch! You have some strong hands, woman," he says, but I know it hasn't hurt him. Laila makes eye contact with me and her face is glowing like <i>she's </i>the one in love. <br />
<br />
"Oh, this is nothing," I tease and Tariq feigns a scared expression. "You haven't seen me wrestling with Humza."<br />
<br />
"Better watch out, Tariq. Don't get Iman upset," Laila warns, winking at me.<br />
<br />
A little while later, Tariq leans over to take a closer look at my painting so far. He's inches away from me and I notice the small hairs on his chin. I've become so comfortable around Tariq but there are times like these when he leaves my heart pounding.<br />
<br />
"Don't ever become a painter," he says, slowly turning towards me. There's some pink left on the paintbrush I'm holding and I quickly wave it across his right cheek.<br />
<br />
"Hey! What the--" he tries to grab the paintbrush from my hand but ends up touching my waist instead. I almost gasp but Mr. Hesser is a table away and eyes us like <i>You're having way too much fun, get to work. </i><br />
<br />
My cheeks feel hot and Tariq doesn't bother to wipe off the paint off his face. Five minutes before class is about to end, we start cleaning up. I'm at the sink when Tariq comes beside me, but he doesn't say a word.<br />
<br />
"What?" I ask, unable to keep quiet.<br />
<br />
"I'm waiting for you to wash out the mark you left," he says softly.<br />
<br />
"Tariq!" I hiss. "Wash it yourself!" I quickly go back to my table, daydreaming what it would be like to do what he just asked me to.<br />
<br />
"You guys are definitely hitting it on," Laila chirps softly, only so that I can hear.<br />
<br />
"Laila." I give her a stern look.<br />
<br />
"What? Can't wait to tell Anum and Farah how naughty you are, flirting with--"<br />
<br />
"Don't you dare! Farah will freak and I am <i>not </i>flirting."<br />
<br />
"Oh really? And when did Farah become your Mom?" I know Laila is just kidding, but there is some truth in her words. I've been very bold around Tariq. I guess that's what happens when you get close to someone. And about Farah, well, that's the reason why I didn't bring up Tariq during lunch the next day, but he always comes up anyway.<br />
<br />
"So I just found out my cousin is getting married to Tariq's second cousin," Anum announces. My ears perk. <i>Oh man, can I be invited to the wedding too?</i><br />
<br />
"How?" Laila asks.<br />
<i> </i><br />
"I was chatting with him last night and..."<br />
<br />
I couldn't focus on what else she was saying. Only the first couple words stuck in my head. What was Anum doing, chatting with Tariq?<br />
<br />
"Hey Iman, can you come with me for a sec? I needed help with this assignment we had," Farah interrupts my thoughts.<br />
<br />
"Huh?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Just come," she says and she takes me by the arm so I have no choice. It's when we are down the hallway, away from all the noise that I realize what she's up to. <br />
<br />
"Iman, I know you're not going to like .what I have to say but I'm gonna say it anyway. You're my friend, that's why."<br />
<br />
She looks so earnest that even though I don't want to listen, I do and then make a mental note to ask Anum about that wedding she was talking about. <br />
<br />
"Look, I know when you're in class with Tariq, you don't have much of a choice, but I really think otherwise, you should stop hanging out with Tariq. Just imagine--"<br />
<br />
"You've told me this before, Farah and I don't think there's anything wrong with--" <br />
<br />
"Do you honestly think it's okay, just laughing and flirting like that with him? You were always the one to stay away from guys and suddenly you're..."<br />
<br />
Now, I'm angry. She has no right to accuse or interfere. "Since when did I have to ask your permission to do something? I never asked you to be my mother," I say through clenched teeth.<br />
<br />
"I'm not," she says, a look of hurt evident on her face. I roll my eyes and avoid her gaze. "But if your mother knew, she would be so upset..."<br />
<br />
"Farah, I just don't understand. Just because no guy has given so much as a glance your way, why do you have to ruin it for me?" I blurt. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. Tears spring in Farah's eyes as she stares at me in shock. I look away, a part of me wanting to embrace her and say how sorry I am. But my feet are glued to the floor.<br />
<br />
"You've changed a lot. I've lost my friend, Iman. I really have," she manages to say quietly.<br />
<br />
"Okay, then. Let's end this friendship crap," I say before walking away. I feel ugly in the inside, but there is no helping it. I've done what I've done and there is no turning back. <br />
<br />
After my last class, I meet Tariq at his locker. This has become our meeting place for a while now. Sometimes, a couple of his friends hang out with him and I just wait for them to leave. Being around a lot of guys isn't something I'm used to. Being around one is definitely enough to take my breath away.<br />
<br />
"Wanna go for some ice cream?" Tariq asks, swinging his locker door shut.<br />
<br />
"Ooh, yum. I haven't had some since the last family picnic party, I think." I'm still feeling pretty glum after my fight with Farah.<br />
<br />
"Lemme guess, your mom?" he asks as we walk side by side down the stairs. <br />
<br />
"You bet." But then I see him grabbing his car keys and I'm wondering why. "Wait, aren't we going to the ice cream parlor in the corner over there?" <br />
<br />
"I'm so tired of that place. I was thinking Oberweis."<br />
<br />
I stop walking. Suddenly, Ammi's words echo in my head. "What? You don't...feel comfortable in the car with me?" Tariq asks. <br />
<br />
I shake my head quickly. "No, of course not. I just...I remembered I had to take Humza to his friend's house, but..." <br />
<br />
"But, you're such an awesome sis, you're not going to say no to him, right?" Tariq asks. I'm trying to discern the look on his face. Is it frustration, hurt, or something else?<br />
<br />
"Tariq, you're not upset, are you?" I venture, placing my hand on his. It feels so good I don't want to take my hand away.<br />
<br />
"A little bit, Iman. I thought you'd give me some time, you know?" he asks. I can't figure if its his words or the way he is caressing the top of my hand with the pad of his thumb that's making me all hot and confused. <br />
<br />
"Okay, I promise. The next time you plan something, I'll definitely come," I manage to say and he gives me one of those cute smiles. <br />
<br />
"Promise?"<br />
<br />
"Promise," I assure him. The next thing he does makes me turn dead still. He puts his arms out, waiting for me to step towards him. Okay, I've dreamed of embracing him, but...really? I never thought he'd actually want me to. I can't bear to think what <i>he's </i>thinking as I stare at him like some dumb clown so I sheepishly step towards him. <br />
<br />
The moment we're touching, my heart's soaring I'm scared he can hear it. It's a little awkward at first, but then I fit my face into the crook of his neck and inhale the cologne I've become so familiar with. I shut away all other thoughts, embracing the moment and then we abruptly let go of each other since we're not the only ones in the parking lot. <br />
<br />
"I'll see you tomorrow then?" he asks, tilting his head slightly. He's so cute I don't want to stop looking at him.<br />
<br />
"Of course," I say, a little flustered.<br />
<br />
I can't stop smiling, even when reaching home and watching <i>Rishta </i>with Ammi instead of doing my homework.<br />
<br />
"What are you so happy about?" Ammi asks.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I was just thinking of Mariyam," I reply, having rehearsed it cause I know she'd ask me. "She's so happy, getting engaged to Umair."<br />
<br />
"Masha'Allah. And well, don't worry. It's not going to very long until we start finding someone for you too."<br />
<br />
My eyes widen in horror, but Ammi's are glued to the T.V. screen, where everyone is dressed really fancy for a mehndi party. <br />
<br />
"Ammi, I'm still in high school. <i>Please</i>." I'm literally begging her, but Ammi just smiles and says okay.<br />
<br />
I let my head lean against the soft cushion and close my eyes. There's a romantic melody playing in the drama serial and I start humming to it. I'm wondering how long I can keep this up, but then decide to stop worrying and just live in the moment.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-16380065454272984702011-09-09T21:25:00.003-05:002011-09-09T21:37:31.910-05:00Dissolved BarriersI'm feeling a little impatient, sitting in my Uncle's house, as we discuss Mariyam's marriage. An argument is inevitable when there are five adults with differing opinions. But the bride-to-be is finally given a chance to explain herself. After all, she is the one who has instigated this family feud. <br />
<br />
"I don't understand what's so wrong with having a wedding with a partition--" she begins.<br />
<br />
"<i>No one </i>in our family has ever had a separated wedding," her mother interrupts, her eyes glaring with anger. "What will everyone say? They're going to think we're marrying you off to some--"<br />
<br />
"I don't care what anybody thinks," Mariyam retorts. It's not often that I see this side to her. She is always gentle and soothing, hardly ever angry.<br />
<br />
"It's just a matter of couple hours. Surely, you can do that for your parents," Ammi intervenes. I'm not surprised that she favors the opposing side. Sometimes, reputation and culture overruled. <br />
<br />
"Okay, okay," Abu takes over, clearing his throat. "What about a wedding were the men sit on one side and the women on the other. But we're still all together?" He is playing the negotiator and I'm glad he is making the effort, however futile it may be.<br />
<br />
"What's the point?" Mariyam mutters under her breath before I can verbalize my agreement with Abu.<br />
<br />
"Everyone likes to sit with their family and friends. We can't impose their seating arrangements," her mother refuses immediately.<br />
<br />
"I want to dress up for my wedding and besides, there's so much <i>haraam </i>that happens during some weddings. I just want to avoid that, you know what I mean?" Mariyam explains, her brown eyes searching mine as if I can somehow understand. <br />
<br />
I nod, but my heart and mind disagrees. Of course, Mariyam doesn't want to wear a hijab on her wedding day and she would have to if the male guests could see her. But then again, our family wasn't <i>that </i>religious. And I wonder...a partition separating the male and female guests would make me more solemn than content. It's not good maybe, but that's how I feel. If Tariq and I were at the same wedding, I would want to see him.<br />
<br />
As the argument continues, my mind drifts to the restaurant where Tariq and I had dined with Anum and her friend after watching the movie last week. I had hesitated, afraid of being seen with a boy by a relative or acquaintance. But Anum and Tariq convinced me to join along.<br />
<br />
On the corner table in the restaurant, Tariq and I sat together, his shoulder slightly grazing mine. It was ironic that in public, barriers dissolved so that boys and girls could mix freely. I would never dream of sitting this close to Tariq if we were at each other's home or even at a wedding.<br />
<br />
I suddenly became nervous, aware of how closely we were sitting. The kissing scene from the movie we had seen flooded my mind and I flushed with embarrassment. I would never forgive myself for going through that with Tariq sitting awkwardly in the seat adjacent to mine. Fortunately, the darkness in the theater disguised the hundreds of emotions that ran through me.<br />
<br />
My phone vibrated in the pocket of my jeans.<br />
<i>Home</i>.<br />
I ignored the call, afraid of having Ammi or Abu hear Tariq's voice over the phone. They might even be able to recognize it, considering they had actually met him. <br />
<br />
Once the food arrived, I accidentally dropped my spoon in a hurry to clear some space on the table. It fell on the maroon leather seat, just between where Tariq and I were sitting. We both reached for it together, his hands over mine. I looked up and he smiled, his eyes glimmering in the dim light.<br />
<br />
"We all know Iman's starving and ready to pig out," he teased. He hurriedly grabbed two pizza slices and placed it on my plate.<br />
<br />
"Thanks," I murmured, touched by his gesture. My skin tingled on the spot where his hand had touched mine.<br />
<br />
For the rest of the time, I hardly felt Anum and her friend's presence. I was living in a bubble--daydreaming of Tariq and I together..some place together...some place alone.<br />
<br />
"I'm stuffed. Want to go for a run?" Tariq asked after we're done, interrupting my little fantasy.<br />
<br />
"A run?" I repeated, confused. <br />
<br />
"Why not?" There was a sense of excitement in his face and the tone of his voice.<br />
<br />
<i>But, it's so late...and I should be getting home and well, what if someone sees me.</i><br />
<br />
The bill came and I was thankful for the change in subject because I hadn't made up mind yet. <br />
<i> </i><br />
"C'mon Iman. Let the boys pay," Anum ordered, leading me to the bathroom. She went directly to the mirror, fixing her hair and reapplying her make-up though it looked perfect to me.<br />
<br />
"Anum, what was Tariq saying about me," I asked her, now that we were alone.<br />
<br />
"He was asking if you were coming. By the way, you guys look so cute together," she exclaimed.<br />
<br />
"Anum, why didn't you tell me that he was coming? Look at me...I'm not even dressed right." She turned towards me, peering down at my loose jeans and pale blue top. My beige colored hijab didn't match at all, but I had worn it in a hurry.<br />
<br />
"That's for sure. We need to go shopping one day." And she went back to putting on make-up, not bothering to answer my question. It irritated me that she talked to Tariq without letting me know exactly what they discussed. I was going to press her but my phone vibrated again. This time, I answered.<br />
<br />
"Iman, where are you? Why didn't you answer your phone?" Ammi sounded worried. <br />
<br />
"Uh, sorry, Ammi. I was in the theater so I couldn't talk." The lie came easier than I thought.<br />
<br />
"You're dad's been wanting the car for so long. What's taking you so long?" Ammi sounded frustrated but I tried to take control of the situation.<br />
<br />
"Sorry mom. The movie took longer than I thought. I'm on my way though," I assured her.<br />
<br />
"You better be. It's going to be ten soon."<br />
<br />
Tariq and I ended up alone afterwards, walking towards my car.<br />
<br />
"Sorry about the run. I'll take a rain check?" I asked, surprised by my own boldness. I wanted to reassure myself that I would still be able to see him.<br />
<br />
"Sure. We'll make it a race."<br />
<br />
There was an awkward silence as we stood near my car. Couples normally embraced, even kissed, when departing. But that was out the question in our circumstance.<br />
<br />
Or was it?<br />
<br />
With the light of the streetlamp, I could make out Tariq's eyes intently gazing mine. I didn't want to break it and wished so badly that it would last. My heart pounded, wanting to take a step closer, both terrified and excited by the prospect.<br />
<br />
But Tariq simply said a goodbye, flashing his smile and leaving me alone in my car.<br />
<br />
"Iman, are you listening to me?" It's Mariyam's face looking at me, interrupting my memory. She appears frustrated. I feel guilty for not listening to her.<br />
<br />
"Uh, yeah?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Nevermind," she says numbly.<br />
<br />
"Oh, Mariyam I know you're having a hard time, but <i>insha'Allah</i>, God-willing, we'll figure this out."<br />
<br />
"Sometimes I wish I could just have a small wedding and not worry about pleasing everybody else except myself."<br />
<br />
"Well, at least you have Umair to look forward to right? He sounds so amazing, <i>masha'Allah</i>. I want to meet him already!"<br />
<br />
That does the magic. Her mouth immediately breaks into a smile and I love it. For a moment, I'm tempted to tell her about Tariq. But, would she understand? Or would her trust and respect for me decline? The guilt seeps within me and I do not like the feeling one bit. It reminds me of Farah, whom I had left alone in the theater and who held a grudge against me for only two days before making up. She tried to respect my decision to be with Tariq while I attempted to keep her suggestions in mind. <br />
<br />
"Iman, I need you to clean the bathroom and help Humza with the laundry," Ammi commands when we arrive home. I'm exhausted by my mental battle, but the chores distract me for a while.<br />
<br />
It's not until the next day that the guilt really kicks in, mixed with fear. I'm working on my homework at my desk when Ammi storms into my room, her face pale.<br />
<br />
"What's wrong?" I ask worriedly, jumping from my chair.<br />
<br />
"Who is it?" she asks. "What's his name?"<br />
<br />
"What?" My heart hammers, fear creeping up my back. There's no way she's thinking what I'm thinking.<br />
<br />
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, Iman." Her stern gaze seems to freeze me in place and I swallow hard as if to remove the bubbling emotions within me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-20333370519655493632011-05-22T15:19:00.001-05:002011-05-22T15:39:18.827-05:00ConflictingI tap my foot impatiently and yell at Humza. "Get <i>off </i>the computer!"<br />
<br />
He does not register my words, his eyes focused on the blasting car animation before him. In a swift motion, I reach over and press the small circular button to shut down the computer.<br />
<br />
"What?" Humza looks confused as the screen becomes black and then his eyes narrow in anger. "What the hell did you do that for?"<br />
<br />
"Excuse me?" I ask, a hand on my hip. "What did you just say? What makes you think you can swear like that?"<br />
<br />
He rolls his eyes, bending down to turn on the computer again. I push him out of the chair and he slaps me hard on the shoulder. <br />
<br />
"Just stop!" I screech, infuriated now as I dig my nails into his arm. He screams in response and kicks me in the shin.<br />
<br />
Abu comes rushing in the room while we fight and he yells at us to stop. "You both are acting like a pair of <i>janwar.</i>" He's right of course. The image of two bulls nailing their horns into each other comes to my mind.<br />
<br />
"Abu, I asked him five times to get off the computer. I have homework to do and he's busy playing games."<br />
<br />
Abu gives a scolding look at Humza but my sneaky brother has a comeback that startles me. "Yeah right, if you call doing homework by always being on Facebook and chatting."<br />
<br />
My cheeks feel a little hot and I venture to look at Abu's face, which is depicting a confused expression. Oh God, he doesn't even know what Facebook is, thank the Lord. Boy, he really is behind in technology.<br />
<br />
"Iman, do your homework because I'll need the computer soon too," is all Abu says and I slouch in discontent. One computer to use among the four of us makes things really difficult. And, well, to not have the privacy to use the computer in my room makes certain tasks almost impossible...that certain task being chatting with Tariq, obviously.<br />
<br />
Still, I manage to do it and quickly minimize the window whenever I hear someone popping their head in the room or passing by. But right now, Tariq is offline and my heart plummets. It is probably a good thing because I have an exam in two days to study for, but that really isn't exciting.<br />
<br />
Fifteen minutes before I have to give the computer to Abu, he comes online. I immediately message him but it takes him two whole minutes to reply. Our conversation is choppy, to my disappointment. He doesn't seem interested or focused. I quickly exit from the chat box before heading back to my room and sulking.<br />
<br />
"Wanna go to the park?" Farah asks when she calls me later. The sun is still up and we are blessed with a beautiful day high in the sixties. I realize I shouldn't have to sulk inside the house<br />
<br />
On the swings, I feel nostalgic at the beauty of being a child. No worries, no annoying feelings. Life seems full of fun and free of worries.<br />
<br />
Farah is talking about something but my eyes linger on a couple near the monkey bars. The boy has his hands wrapped around her waist, the girl's on his neck. Their heads lean in together and I look away, wondering why they chose a public area meant for kids to play out their romance.<br />
<br />
"Farah, I--I'm so confused," I can't help but say.<br />
<br />
"About what?" she asks. She has a white colored hijab on, which is unusual for her, but it looks great.<br />
<br />
"About...you know...Tariq," I say. I like saying his name, but around Farah, it's a topic I'm somewhat reluctant to discuss. She's not my mother, but she may as well be.<br />
<br />
She shrugs. "What about him?"<br />
<br />
"I'm not sure how he feels about me."<br />
<br />
"Well, I'm sure he likes you."<br />
<br />
"You think so?" I ask, enjoying the sound of it.<br />
<br />
"He's a nice guy," she says, surprising me.<br />
<br />
"He is," I agree, closing my eyes and starting to daydream again. "It sounds cheesy, but I can't stop thinking about him."<br />
<br />
I've been having dreams about Tariq now. I can't remember much about them, but they give me a pleasant feeling.<br />
<br />
"Do you like him enough to marry him?"<br />
<br />
My eyes fly open abruptly, and I try to swallow the discomfort rising in my throat. <br />
<br />
"Marriage?" I ask stupidly like it's a foreign word. I should have predicted this was coming. I am talking to Farah after all.<br />
<br />
"Look Iman," she says, looking at me directly in the face. "There's nothing wrong about liking him. But you have to be serious about it and let your parents know..."<br />
<br />
I get up from the swing, setting my legs into motion while thoughts swirl around in my head.<br />
<br />
"Farah, we're only teenagers. I can't even think about marriage yet. And I would only want to be with him as a friend, not as..." I can't muster the courage to say husband.<br />
<br />
"A friend, really? It doesn't seem like it from the way you talk about him." <br />
<br />
My lips purse in anger, but I know very well that what Farah is saying is only the truth, and a truth that I really don't like.<br />
<br />
"It's just so <i>dumb</i>. So annoying that we can't be friends. I mean what's wrong with--"<br />
<br />
"Wow, Iman. You're calling Islam dumb?" she asks in a shrill voice.<br />
<br />
I shake my head, raising my hands in the air in frustration. "Farah, what's wrong with you? You know that's not what I mean."<br />
<br />
Like any other Muslim girl, I know the rules. But, it's hard when you feel an overwhelming desire to do something and you're conflicted with your desires and what is actually right. I just wanted to be friends with Tariq, but why did I have to feel so guilty about it? <br />
<br />
We both stay silent for a couple seconds, staring ahead at the ice cream man and small kids jumping excitedly to get a taste.<br />
<br />
"Wanna get ice cream?" she asks. That's one thing I love about Farah. It's very hard to make her angry enough to stop talking to me.<br />
<br />
We buy our ice cream and head home. She gives me a hug and does not discuss the topic anymore.<br />
<br />
My mother practically screams when I enter the house. I've cleaned my room so I wonder what it could be this time. It better not have to do anything with Humza.<br />
<br />
"Mariyam got engaged!"<br />
<br />
I raise my hands and let out a scream too. Finally! "Wait! How come <i>she </i>didn't tell me?!"<br />
<br />
I grab my phone to call her, but Ammi stops me. "We're the first to know. Don't yell at her. She's really busy right now. When things cool down a bit, then go talk to her."<br />
<br />
I slump on the couch. I'm dying to know how it all happened, what the guy is like--the person that will be marrying my lovely cousin. But, as with so many things in life, it's a matter of waiting.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Speaking of waiting, let me intervene here for just a moment. I'd like to apologize for not writing posts as regularly as I had said I would. I have a lot going on right now, including studying for a graduate admission exam, so thanks for being patient and I'll try my best to continue updating. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Dreamer :)</span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;">Okay, moving on....</span><br />
<br />
At school the next day, I feel a tug of guilt as Tariq and I sit next to each other in the library, conjugating verbs. It's like an internal battle.<br />
<br />
<i>Don't look at him. </i><br />
<i>Oh God, but he's so cute. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Stop smiling all the time. </i><br />
<i>But I can't help it when I'm around him.</i><br />
<br />
<i>You're sitting too close to him.</i><i> </i><br />
<i>Am not! We're barely touching.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Ammi and Abu...</i><i> </i><br />
<i>Ugh, don't remind me. They'd never understand.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Farah...</i><i> </i><br />
<i>She's insane. Tariq would freak if I brought up marriage.</i><br />
<br />
<i>You should leave now...</i><i> </i><br />
<i>In just a bit. It's okay if I'm a little late to class.</i><i> </i><br />
<br />
"Don't you have to go to class?" Tariq asks me. We look directly into each others eyes and I wonder if he feels anything at all. The way his brown eyes twinkle against his long lashes does weird things to me.<br />
<br />
"Uh, yea. But I don't feel like it." Why couldn't I have had the same study period as Tariq? Anum is <i>so</i> lucky.<br />
<br />
He leans a little forward. "Iman the naughty girl isn't gonna skip class now is she?"<br />
<br />
"I'm not naughty," I say defensively, a smile tugging at my lips. I can't help but glance at the way the fabric of his shirt wraps nicely around his arms.<br />
<br />
"It's hard to picture you like that anyway."<br />
<br />
"Like what?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.<br />
<br />
"Skipping class, failing tests..."<br />
<br />
"Well, I did get a C on my trig test," I confide. Awkwardly, I feel proud saying it around Tariq.<br />
<br />
"Ouch. That's a shame, with your dad being an accountant."<br />
<br />
I roll my eyes, fluttering my eyelashes. The bell rings but I make no move to stand up. "My next test is in a week."<br />
<br />
Tariq leans back on his chair, swiftly twirling a pen in his hand. He's already in A.P. Calculus. I'm hoping he gets the hint.<br />
<br />
"I'll help you study, but go to class," he orders me. I try to stop from smiling too widely.<br />
<br />
<br />
Several days later, Anum calls me to accompany her to watch a movie.<br />
<br />
"Why not?" I answer over the phone. After studying for that math test, even if it was with Tariq, I do deserve a break. I call up Farah so she can join us too.<br />
<br />
"You're both inseparable," Farah tells me after I pick her up from her house. I drive carefully before Abu has another chance to rebuke me later on. <br />
<br />
Tariq is everywhere--in conversation, in my sleep, in thoughts. I'm a little surprised at Farah's tone--it is not condescending, but somewhere between teasing and reprimanding.<br />
<br />
"He asked me out," I blurt. "Indirectly of course."<br />
<br />
"Tell me all about it," Farah can't hide her eagerness. I sense a part of Laila in her. I miss Laila a lot actually. She's been way too busy with guests over from Jordan to give us any time.<br />
<br />
"He was helping me with trig yesterday. After we finished, he said he'd treat me to lunch." Friday was a half day, but he had stayed to help me.<br />
<br />
"And?" she asks, tilting her head a little.<br />
<br />
"I said no," I reply. It was a tough decision, actually. The more time I spent with Tariq, the less I wanted to be away from him. The prospect of going out with him was so appealing, but Abu made the decision for me in the end. He had called me in the midst of it all, asking me if I had seen his <i>topi</i>, the one he always wears to <i>Jummah </i>prayers. After that, I felt compelled to say no to him.<br />
<br />
"I'm proud of you." Farah gives me a friendly squeeze as we enter the theater.<br />
<br />
My feet seem to be glued to the tiled floor once we meet Anum. She's standing elegantly in a knee-length dress and tights, but it's the person next to her that I can't take my eyes off of.<br />
<br />
Tariq is wearing a splendid dark gray polo, the sleeves short for my eyes to pass over his muscular tone. Before I can take in the rest of him, I see Tariq tilting his head over to Anum, whispering something. <span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<br />
I feel a slight pang of jealously, seeing Anum laughing like that with Tariq. Why the hell is she flirting with him when she knows I like him? And how is he here in the first place? Did they both come together? How come she didn't tell me?<br />
<br />
Suddenly, I become consumed by the idea that Tariq likes Anum. She is beautiful, with her straight black hair, large eyes, fair skin and arched eyebrows. In comparison to Anum, I am nothing. Why would any guy be attracted to me--a simple girl in hijab--when they had a beautiful non-hijabi to look at?<br />
<br />
And then Anum meets my eyes and she motions me over. I have forgotten about Farah who is at my side.<br />
<br />
I walk over lazily, avoiding my eyes to where Tariq is standing.<br />
<br />
"Hey," he greets me, taking a step closer towards me. <br />
<br />
"Iman, we were just talking about you!" Anum gives me a quick embrace and then feels confused that I've brought Farah along with me.<br />
<br />
Out of nowhere, another guy appears. He's Caucasian, and he has two tubs of popcorn, one of which he hands over to Tariq. Anum does the introductions, but I can hardly pay attention. I'm so confused and startled by what's going on.<br />
<br />
"So, what movie are we watching?" Farah pipes in, looking at me and Anum.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I was thinking <i>Road 11</i>," Anum replies. "It got really good reviews."<br />
<br />
"And it's rated R," Farah says out loud. I was actually thinking the same thing, but why did she have to say it out loud? This is so embarrasing. <br />
<br />
Anum shrugs. Tariq suggests watching another movie. The white guy is busy on his phone. Apparently, we're all going to be watching the same movie together. My stomach churns at the idea.<br />
<br />
Anum is pretty stubborn and she's already heading to the ticket counter. I turn toward Farah who looks at me uncomfortably.<br />
<br />
"C'mon, it will be fine," I urge her.<br />
<br />
She shakes her head. "I think we should leave. I thought it was just going to be you, me and Anum."<br />
<br />
My shoulders slump. She can't be asking me to back out now. "Farah, we're already here."<br />
<br />
"If you want to stay, go ahead," she says quietly, looking around.<br />
<br />
"Where are you gonna go?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"Don't worry about it," she replies. We just stand there for what seems to be a long time before she begins to walk away slowly. A part of me wants to catch up with her; I feel sullen for leaving her behind.<br />
<br />
"Tariq got your ticket," Anum pokes me in the ribs. <br />
<br />
"Farah left," I inform her glumly. I also want to ask her why Tariq and the other guy are here when it was only supposed to be use three. But before I can, my gaze wavers at Tariq and it's hard to think about anything else. I don't look back at Farah's receding figure.<br />
<br />
I walk toward Tariq, wondering what it would be like if I just kept walking until we are embracing. I force the image out of my head, the guilt out of my heart, and step into the dark theater room.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-31400339955881465662011-03-10T22:53:00.002-06:002011-03-11T00:29:59.107-06:00LovestruckThe melody is so beautiful and I can relate to it so well. The lights are dim so we can see the movie and I catch myself before I start daydreaming again. It's as if the words are written just to describe my own feelings.<br />
<br />
<i>Late at night when all the world is sleeping.</i><br />
<i>I stay up and think of you.</i><br />
<i>And I wish on a star, that somewhere you are, thinking of me too.</i><br />
<i>Cause I'm dreaming of you tonight...</i><br />
<br />
<i>Wonder if you even see me </i><br />
<i>And I wonder if you know I'm there.</i><br />
<i>If you looked in my eyes</i><br />
<i>Would you see what's inside?</i><br />
<i>Would you even care?</i><br />
<br />
My gaze wavers towards Tariq, slouched in his chair and watching the movie like it's the most boring thing in the world. He is wearing a long sleeve navy colored fleece, the collars sitting comfortably on his shoulders. He doesn't seem to notice me, except for the occasional moments when our eyes meet during class or in the hallway. Even then, it's only a polite nod of the head.<br />
<br />
I had expressed the slight pang of disappointment to Farah and Anum when Laila was not around. I am annoyed, much more exhausted actually, by her teasing and taunting.<br />
<br />
"Well, that's the whole <i>point </i>of hijab. He's not gonna start chatting with you or go out with you suddenly. He respects you," Farah had explained the obvious. Even though I know this is the truth, I don't like to hear it. Anum's words had appealed to me more.<br />
<br />
"He's not a mind reader and until you don't make it seem like you want his attention, he's not going to."<br />
<br />
The words float in my mind again while Salena continues to sing in the movie. Spanish class is suddenly now my favorite, the one which I look forward to the most. This is despite the fact that Senora Gonzales is a hard-core Columbian who tries to spew as much information as she can from her mouth in the fifty minutes of class. For once, she allows us to take a break from conjugating verbs and watch a movie, though she makes sure it is entirely in Spanish.<br />
<br />
Except for the song, of course.<br />
<br />
The class ends and I linger in my seat, waiting to get up until Tariq does. It's no use though; I'm too nervous to initiate a conversation on my own. If he did, I wouldn't mind continuing it.<br />
<br />
At home, I feel melancholy. Humza is having fun at a basketball game while I mull over trig problems. I suddenly freeze at the computer several hours later when I check my email.<br />
<br />
<i>Tariq Malik wants to be friends with you on Facebook.</i><br />
<br />
My heart hammers though he's not even anywhere near me. But the thought--the realization that he initiated this. He wants to be friends with me, even in cyberspace, means that he had noticed me.<br />
<i> </i><br />
My fingers tap the mouse nervously as I wait for the page to load. In a matter of seconds, I'm browsing through his profile pictures. In some, he doesn't look so nice but in a few, he looks attractive. He's not exactly a hunk that I am swooning over. But he has that genuine sweet look to his face, and I already know from my previous encounter that his personality matches that look. I hesitate for only a moment before I accept his request.<br />
<br />
<i>There's nothing wrong with this</i>, I think to myself. Why amI defending this simple act anyway? I don't write on his wall because I don't want to sound so desperate. Maybe he'll drop a line soon.<br />
<br />
When he doesn't, I get impatient. But fortunately, Ammi calls me to the kitchen for dinner and my mind steers away from him.<br />
<br />
The next day, I'm eager to see him. But in my bedroom mirror, I can't stand the sight of that pimple on my left cheek. I dig my fingernails into it to squeeze out the pus and carefully apply foundation to cover it. It stings a little but it's well concealed, and that's all that matters. The birds seem to be chirping loudly during my usual trek to school.<br />
<br />
But,he doesn't wave, much less talk to me. By lunchtime, I'm so irritated by myself that I want to disappear into a corner and hate myself for thinking he likes me too.<br />
<br />
Laila makes a joke over something, but I don't laugh. I just stare at my turkey sandwich like it's the most interesting thing in the lunchroom.<br />
<br />
"Hey, what's wrong with you?" Laila pokes me in the ribs. I jerk a little backwards at the sudden contact, tilting my head away. In my peripheral view, I see him standing by the entrance of the cafeteria. I let out a deep breath and mumble something in response to Laila, looking down at my sandwich again.<br />
<br />
My friends are chattering about something but I'm not paying attention. Why did he have to choose that very spot to stand with his friend? No, it couldn't be because he actually--<br />
<br />
"Are you listening?" I hear Laila again. Maybe I really do need to disappear into a library corner so I can be left alone.<br />
<br />
"Go talk to him. T-A-L-K." I look up at Anum and she gives me an encouraging nod. My eyes look towards the seat that Farah usually occupies, but she's not here today to give me any input. Darn that root canal for taking her away from me.<br />
<br />
I stand up without a word, shoving my uneaten sandwich back into my backpack. I try to make it as natural as possible--to exit the cafeteria and brush right past him enough for him to acknowledge me.<br />
<br />
"Hey Iman."<br />
<br />
I can't help but smile. It's like magic. I love the way my name sounds when he says it.<br />
<br />
Crap. This is really bad. Why am I thinking like this suddenly?<br />
<br />
"Hey Tariq," I reply casually, not giving away the rapid thump of my heart beat.<br />
<br />
"Chase any buses lately?" he asks me and I stare at him in confusion.<br />
<br />
"What?" I stammer.<br />
<br />
"Oh, sorry. Now I'm gonna sound like a stalker. But I saw you running after the bus that one day after school."<br />
<br />
I swallow, remembering the day Abu told me to meet him at his office instead of going home. He needed some help and he didn't have the time to come pick me up.<br />
<br />
"Uh, yeah," I say sheepishly. "I don't usually do that." But he had noticed? Well, duh, you can pretty much tell a hijabi running after a bus in broad daylight. But still. Gaaah. I need to stop having this crazy internal conversation in my head and instead pay attention to him.<br />
<br />
We end up walking together towards the stairwell. Suddenly, I'm caught in the fear that he has discovered I am the creator of that ridiculous valentine card. My cheeks feel hot but he's talking so casually that I stop thinking about it.<br />
<br />
He's talking about some football game. I should know this. I like sports. But I can't come up with anything clever to say so I just nod and agree.<br />
<br />
And before I realize it, we're separated and we head off separately towards our class. Is this how it is? Talking only when the time and situation allows for it? School is an inconvenient place, interrupting conversations with discrete appointments to head to one class or another. But school is, after all, the only place where I can see Tariq five days out of seven. So I couldn't put much blame on it.<br />
<br />
Walking home, I see a bus drive past me and I find myself smiling. So he had humor also. Only made things better.<br />
<br />
Facebook alerts me that Tariq's birthday is in three days. Oh great. Now what?<br />
<br />
The idea of getting him a gift is nonsensical. It would definitely show my desperation, which I really need to work on by the way. But it feels wrong to only wish him a birthday verbally and not accompany it with anything else. Even if we aren't exactly friends, I feel like it's heading that way.<br />
<br />
Two days later, I head to the kitchen, remembering the day Tariq came over. My friends say that my crusty white chocolate chip cookies are the best. And so, with the spare ingredients in the cupboard, I set to baking a batch.<br />
<br />
I'm already imagining the scene where I hand it to him, but I stop myself from daydreaming again. Ammi is already upset with me for not listening to her while she narrates some story she heard from work. Besides, I don't want her to get suspicious. I don't know how true it is, but some mothers can readily tell when their son or daughter "is in love."<br />
<br />
Which I'm not, of course. Right? Love is an arbitrary word.<br />
<br />
Anyway, the idea of giving him a card seems a little feminine. So I make do with the cookies, which I've wrapped in plastic. Of course I take some out for my friends before they start punching me for forgetting about them.<br />
<br />
But I don't know how to do it. I can't just go up to him and hand it over to him like that, especially when he's surrounded by six other guys.<br />
<br />
There are ten minutes left of my lunch period and the bag is still sitting in my backpack. Anum is busily texting someone on her iPhone and I wish she would stop. Farah looks miserable with the pain in her mouth. Laila is busy studying for some test in the library.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, I hear his casual laugh and it's very close by. I don't turn around though, despite my natural urge to do so. Anum looks up from her phone and waves at Tariq. I envy her for it, but I don't have time to contemplate.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, Tariq is swinging his long legs over the bench and sitting next to me. Sitting <i>right next </i>to me. I feel frozen in space and all I can do is shift my eyes nervously from Farah and Anum. Farah looks super confused. We don't usually have company from the guys. But Anum is a natural at this and starts chatting away with Tariq.<br />
<br />
I take my time to get a sideway glance at him. He's wearing navy again. God, that must be his favorite color. At least he looks really good in it.<br />
<br />
"What kind of cookie is that?" I hear him ask, but the question isn't targeted to me. It's toward Farah, who's biting away at my last cookie. She looks a little annoyed but Anum responds for her.<br />
<br />
"It's Iman's specialty. Crusty cookies with white chocolate chips and raisins."<br />
<br />
I glare at her for drawing the attention to me but I quickly remove the expression as Tariq turns his head towards me. God, he's so close--less than an arm's length away. If I shifted slightly, our shoulders would be grazing.<br />
<br />
"So you bake too?" he asks. What is this? Is he making a mental note of all my capabilities?<br />
<br />
"Yeah," I reply. And then something triggers me to pull the plastic bag from my backpack and slide it on the table in front of him. "Knock your socks off." Okay, maybe that is a dumb way to say it, but he's laughing and already opening up the plastic.<br />
<br />
"Damn. These are good," he replies, already on his second cookie. I don't think my smile can get any wider and I just want to hug Anum desperately for giving me this chance. But she's already standing up to leave and nudging Farah to do so also. And then I realize what she's up to.<br />
<br />
She wants Tariq and me to have some time alone. But the idea makes my heart churn. We're not alone obviously, we're in the middle of a cafeteria. But still, at the lunch table, we are our own pair.<br />
<br />
There's an awkward silence before he starts talking again. I'm paying attention to the sound of it. His voice has a pleasant ring, a cheerful tone.<br />
<br />
"How's your little brother doing?" he asks.<br />
<br />
"Humza?" I ask idiotically. Where did he fit in the picture? "Oh, he's the same. Being the spoiled brat that he is."<br />
<br />
He's smiling and I remember that he can relate to. "Is yours still nagging for chocolate all the time?" I ask.<br />
<br />
He shakes his head. "No, surprisingly not. He's all about the newest video game now and those things aren't a dollar like chocolate is."<br />
<br />
I agree, telling him what it's like to have a father who is frugal beyond belief, but it's what has helped us to finally pay our mortgage. He tells me that my father is pretty funny, recalling the time they spend together during the blizzard.<br />
<br />
We continue the conversation until the bell rings. It always had to ring at the wrong time. He walks me to class and I feel like I'm floating in the air.<br />
<br />
That night, I fall asleep with the conversation playing over and over again in my head. I sigh at the beauty of it all and only wish for tomorrow again because it holds another opportunity--another chance to see him and talk to him. <br />
<br />
In the darkness, I find my voice softly humming the melody again, rocking me gently to sleep.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-59517033023096453682011-02-10T21:04:00.000-06:002011-02-10T21:04:34.454-06:00Crushed!I swallow, staring at the tiny bottle of silver glitter and the pink sheet of paper. I wish I was six years old again and it was perfectly fine to write out Valentines for all my classmates. The princess ones for the girls and the superhero ones for the boys. <br />
<br />
"Oh, just do it already," Anum says in a bored way. She taps her foot impatiently while I swirl a marker in my hand.<br />
<br />
"Don't," Farah disagrees. "He'll find out."<br />
<br />
My eyes widen in worry. There is no way I want him to find out. It would be so embarrassing!<br />
<br />
"Silly, he's not going to find out," Laila chimes in. It was her idea in the first place, so of course she would say that. <br />
<br />
"You can just write a friendly message instead of a romantic one," the girl sitting at the table encourages me. The sale is a fundraiser for some cancer group. It seems like a good cause and I finally make my decision. I write with my left hand to disguise my writing, but it appears to be so illegible that I switch back to my right hand.<br />
<br />
<i>Dear Tariq,</i><br />
<br />
<i>I won't start by saying that roses are red, or that violets are blue, because you already know that (besides, I think violets are actually violet, not blue). What you don't know is that I really care a lot about you. I like the way you smile and your ever so sweet personality. I'm not sure when this started happening, but I secretly like you, and hope that one day you'll notice me too.</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>Your Secret Admirer </i><br />
<br />
<i> </i><br />
After about five minutes of having the correct wording, I decorate the card, jot down Tariq's full name and hand it to the girl. I slip in a five dollar bill along with it and hope that someone recovers from cancer.<br />
<br />
My body feels all tingly and warm and I'm dying to see the expression on his face when he opens it. But I will not be able to because he's not in my homeroom.<br />
<br />
"Here's what we'll do. Text me and we can ask both our homeroom teachers for a bathroom break. I think Tariq's in Room 306 and we can sneak up there to see what he thinks.<br />
<br />
"No way," I refuse immediately. "Could we make it any more obvious?"<br />
<br />
"Hey, you're the one who wants to see his reaction."<br />
<br />
<br />
"Yeah, but I'm not gonna risk have him see me peeking at him like an idiot. No way."<br />
<br />
<br />
I tune out Laila and reminisce the time last week when I had realized that Tariq was on the footsteps of my home, standing adjacent to my father.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Let's go inside," Abu had said when Tariq and I were staring at each other in surprise. His skin appeared to be all red from the cold. I had quickly looked away out of embarrassment; I didn't want Abu to think I had no manners.<br />
<br />
<br />
I walked into the house first, unsure of what else to do or say in front of Tariq and my father. I went straight into the kitchen, just in time to catch Humza red-handed.<br />
<br />
<br />
"Hey!" I yelled at him. He wiped the crumbs on his mouth with the back of his hand and gave me a wide smile.<br />
<br />
<br />
"It's delicious, Baji," he complimented me, but I wasn't satisfied. I was actually very nervous. I couldn't seem to make up mind about whether I should tell my family that Tariq and I knew each other from school, or continue pretending like we didn't.<br />
<br />
Ammi forgot about the fight before Abu had left and took great care of Tariq. I stayed out of the way. Tariq refused to eat dinner with us and kept calling someone. He seemed uncomfortable to be staying over at our house, and if things didn't work out, he would have to sleep over.<br />
<br />
"Don't you worry, beta. We have plenty of room. The roads are completely blocked," Abu comforted Tariq. Abu loved helping other people, even if it was his friend's relative's son.<br />
<br />
"You're so nice, Uncle. I'm so sorry about all of this," Tariq said. I sneaked a look at him and I felt touched at how he was so mature in his behavior towards my parents.<br />
<br />
"No apology," Ammi insisted, though I knew she was still a little annoyed. <br />
<br />
When Tariq accompanied Abu outside to help him shovel, my respect for him grew even more. He was such a gentleman!<br />
<br />
Ammi fixed dinner for us and I wondered if Tariq would sit down to eat with us.<br />
<br />
"I'll have him eat in the room so he doesn't feel embarrassed in front of us," Ammi answered, reading my mind. I wanted to disagree but I didn't want Ammi to feel suspicious. <br />
<br />
We had a spare guest room and that was where Ammi made Tariq's bed. I couldn't describe how I was feeling. Tariq sleeping over at my house? How unimaginable!<br />
<br />
We hadn't exchanged a single word since he arrived, nor had I removed my hijab. I felt envious when Humza talked to him and I too wanted to join them in their Wii game. But, I couldn't do that in front of my parents.<br />
<br />
At eleven at night, when everyone seemed to be sleeping, I went to the kitchen and observed the scene outside our window. It was pitch dark outside, but I could distinguish the hills of snow caved towards our fences and the narrow path that Abu had shoveled. <br />
<br />
I turned around when I heard a sound and found myself face to face with Tariq. I opened my mouth to speak but couldn't. He looked so fair in the dim light of the kitchen, his black hair contrasting his skin. His eyes were warm and as I continued to observe him, I felt an uneasy feeling settle in my stomach.<br />
<br />
"Sorry, Iman. Could I get a glass of water?" he asked politely. I stood awkwardly for a second before I registered his words and then I quickly grabbed a glass from the cabinet to give him water. When he took it from me, our hands brushed ever so slightly. I glanced nervously towards the hallway and hoped that both my parents were in deep sleep.<br />
<br />
"What a small world huh?" I managed to say to Tariq. He drank the water in a long sip and licked his lips. He handed me the glass back and gave me a smile. <br />
<br />
"I was so stupid to go out. I didn't believe everyone. We've never had this much snow before." <br />
<br />
I nodded, looking at his dark blue jeans and wondered if he would be comfortable in sleeping in them. "Do you...um, need pajamas or something? I could give you Humza's even though they would be small for you."<br />
<br />
He laughed softly and shook his head. "No, no I'll be fine really. Your family is awesome, man."<br />
<br />
Did he think I was awesome too? I wanted to keep talking to him but I knew it wasn't right. My parents were doing him a favor to keep him here for the night, not so that their daughter could secretly converse with him.<br />
<br />
I said goodnight to him and slipped under my warm blanket. It took me very long to fall asleep that night. I replayed the conversation over and over again in my head. He was so near, just two rooms away, and yet we were so far.<br />
<br />
He left immediately in the morning, before I even woke up. We didn't have school in the morning either, so I couldn't look forward to seeing him there either.<br />
<br />
At school, Tariq was more open and thanked me for my family's hospitality. I liked the way he looked in the dark gray sweatshirt.<br />
<br />
When Laila saw the both of us talking to each other, her eyes grew in excitement. She couldn't believe Tariq had slept over.<br />
<br />
"Iman, do you like him?" Anum had asked me later that day. <br />
<br />
I took my time to reply to the question. I already knew the answer and it would be a lie if I said otherwise. So, very shyly, I smiled and nodded, only to hear a shriek of giggles from Laila. I rolled my eyes at her and I too felt excited. This was a new feeling and it felt terrific.<br />
<br />
And here I was today, a Valentine already on its way. Would Tariq find out it was me? I certainly didn't hope so. I liked liking him secretly because that's all that I could do. This was just another crush. <br />
<br />
And I knew that before the beginning of anything, I would have to somehow get rid of it, before it ended up crushing me.<br />
<i> </i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-6637475686853921322011-02-03T15:09:00.001-06:002011-02-03T15:21:59.083-06:00Caught in a BlizzardI'm laughing and I'm not sure why. Well, some people laugh out of nervousness or embarrassment so I guess that makes sense. But, I'm also lying on the sidewalk on a burning sheet of ice in a whirlwind of a blizzard and with hills of snow emanating around me. My feet had flung upwards and had come back down so quickly that it all seems pretty funny...until I sense the pain creeping up in my left hand.<br />
<br />
Maybe I twisted it when I fell, but it doesn't matter because I need to get this snow shoveled out of the way before we are completely trapped within our own home.<br />
<br />
"Humza!" I yell at my brother, a dark gray figure several feet away. He huffs forward, the layered clothing making it difficult for him to move swiftly.<br />
<br />
"Get me up," I command him, stretching out my arm. He takes my mitten and pulls me up to my feet again. I rub my hand, but the cold has made me numb again.<br />
<br />
"I can't do this anymore," Humza sighs, kneeling on the shovel. I remove speckles of snow that have gathered on my face with the sleeve of my coat.<br />
<br />
"It hasn't even been ten minutes," I tell him. "Abu has been shoveling for two hours straight."<br />
<br />
"But he also told us not to step out," Humza pouts. I roll my eyes at his immaturity. Of course Abu wouldn't want us to go through that trouble, but he couldn't be the only one out in the blizzard.<br />
<br />
"We'll make a giant snowman," I cheer him, encouraging him to keep going. The snow had not yet subsided and I had no idea when Abu would wake up again. He had fell asleep in an exhausted state, warning us to stay inside.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes later, my entire face has gone numb and I feel the hairs within my nose freeze. "Still wanna make that snowman?" I ask Humza.<br />
<br />
"No freaking way," he replies, trudging towards our front door. It takes the both of us to get it open fully.<br />
<br />
"I've got green tea for both of you," Ammi greets us inside. I'm not a huge fan of green tea, but I grab the warm cup as soon as I see it. The liquid soothes me as it passes down my throat.<br />
<br />
I take off my black and gray mittens and examine my wrist. It is all red and as my body adjusts to the warmth, I feel less numb and more pain.<br />
<br />
"You got hurt?" Ammi asks, eying me. <br />
<br />
"I fell. Is there ice?" I ask.<br />
<br />
My skin seems to flare up in fire once the ice makes contact with it, but it feels better after a couple minutes.<br />
<br />
"Ahmed is stuck at work," Ammi informs me.<br />
<br />
"Why in the world would he go to work when he knew there was going to be a blizzard?" I ask, shaking my head. Mariyam's brother could be very idiotic sometimes.<br />
<br />
"Apparently he had to," Ammi replies, stirring something in a pot. She has a stack of candles and matches ready in one cabinet in case the light goes out.<br />
<br />
"Lake Shore Drive is completely blocked," Humza announces from the living room. Ammi and I join him to watch the television news. It seems like a nightmare, but I think it would be pretty cool to get stranded in the middle of the day in a blizzard. It seemed better than getting stuck at work.<br />
<br />
Abu wakes up, red-eyed, heading towards the door. I hope he doesn't bump into anything; it appears like he's sleepwalking and focused on the single task of shoveling.<br />
<br />
<br />
"They've already shoveled for now," Ammi stops him and he seems to awaken. He messes up mine and Humza's hair in an expression of gratitude.<br />
<br />
"Abu! You ruined my hair!" I tease, trying to pat it down again. It's frizzy again, but that probably has to do with the extensive amount of heat warming us inside the house.<br />
<br />
I really should use this free day to catch up on homework but I'm too lazy. Besides, I don't think I've ever had a snow day. We were always obligated to attend school, even if it was below zero. It wasn't like Georgia or Florida, where only five inches snow resulted in immediate closing of schools.<br />
<br />
"Come on Skype," I text Anum, but she does not respond. Laila is busy shoveling snow around her driveway.<br />
<br />
Humza starts up his new Wii, which he got for his birthday last week. I made sure to hint to my parents that they better get me an equally expensive gift for my birthday or else I would accuse them of favoritism. Not that I haven't on previous occasions, but still.<br />
<br />
"Let's play tennis," I suggest.<br />
<br />
"No I want to play basketball," he retorts.<br />
<br />
"Fine," I stick my tongue out at him and leave to join Ammi in the kitchen. I feel bored to death, isolated at home. I grab a brownie mix from the cupboard and decide to make some and not share any with Humza.<br />
<br />
"Where is he?" I hear Abu in the hallway, his voice calm as he talks with someone over the phone. Apparently, someone was very stressed on the other line.<br />
<br />
"Give me his cell number. I'll talk to him. There's a Walgreens just two minutes from my house."<br />
<br />
"What happened?" Ammi ask Abu after he hangs up, but he is focused on dialing a number.<br />
<br />
"This boy is an idiot. He goes out into the blizzard to buy medicine for his father and gets stuck at the store."<br />
<br />
I shrug my shoulders, placing the brownies in the oven and text Anum again. As long as no one is dying, no one should be complaining, right?<br />
<br />
<i>At the hospital. Talk 2 u later. </i>Anum scares me with this text.<br />
<br />
<i>Omg what happened? U ok? </i><br />
<br />
<i>Sarah fell. Not a big deal</i> I examine my wrist and wonder if I should be in the Emergency Room also. Probably not. I can't stand hospitals.<br />
<br />
Ammi calls to check up on my grandma across the street and our neighbors. The brownies look done but I want them a little more crisp.<br />
<br />
"You're going to <i>walk </i>out there?" I hear Ammi yell at Abu a while later.<br />
<br />
"He's stuck in there and the father's dying of worry," Abu explains.<br />
<br />
"He's not five. And are other peoples' kids more important than your <i>own </i>family? My mother's sidewalks are still full of snow!" Ammi is exasperated and I'm not sure who to side with. <br />
<i> </i><br />
"Iman and Humza can do that," Abu suggests and I suddenly sense the cramping in my arms. <br />
<br />
"No. Next time, just don't even ask me anything. Do whatever you do. Just go. Leave," Ammi sighs in defeat.<br />
<br />
"How can you stop me from helping someone?" it's Abu's turn to yell. I step into their room while Abu walks out and he shakes his head at me. Ammi mutters something under her breath, folding the dried laundry.<br />
<br />
Humza's too busy playing so I wrap myself up in a hijab, two hoodies, and a coat. The worst of the storm seems to be over but it has left a monstrous amount of snow behind. Cars on our street are buried in white, only small spots of color peeking out. A lot of people are outside and some have even placed chairs to designate their cleared parking spots.<br />
<br />
"You making your parents proud?" Mr. Willamson calls out to me. He lives two houses down from us.<br />
<br />
I smile at him though I doubt he can see that close up. "It's a nice workout," I reply and ask him about his family.<br />
<br />
About twenty minutes later, I feel satisfied internally, but my entire body is sore. I cross the street to head towards my own house, careful to avoid large piles of snow.<br />
<br />
<br />
I see two figures walking towards me. One is clearly Abu, with the navy blue winter hat. But the other figure, I can't seem to decipher, although it is obvious it is the boy Abu "rescued."<br />
<br />
<br />
Closer up, Abu is panting and I grab the spare shovel he has in his hand to relieve him. But I stop mid-step as I see who he is with.<br />
<br />
<br />
His eyes widen in recognition at the same time mine does.<br />
<br />
"Tariq?" I ask doubtfully.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-1876927333930051352011-01-07T00:22:00.002-06:002011-01-07T00:29:09.164-06:00Contemplating Theories<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I am feeling irritated to wake up so early this week after two weeks of vacation, but I console myself by picking a nice outfit to wear.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I decide on a lavender top with a large black flower stitched on the side for Monday. It would look fantastic with a pair of dark blue skinny jeans, but Ammi will not let me leave the house with those on. She says it's like I've painted them on me, but I beg to differ.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anyhow, I choose a pair of black casual pants. I hope it doesn't look like I am dressed for an interview or that I am super excited for school. At least I'm not like some girls who come dressed to school all dolled up, with their hair and make-up done. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The wind whips against me, freshly grazing my cheeks as I trek toward school, literally my second home.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Though it feels disappointing to even <i>call</i> a school a home, it is where I spent seven hours, at the least, daily.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Sometimes it feels like a reformatory, but today I'm eager to step inside the old brick building.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> My body craves for warmth as a sudden gush of cold wind slices my face.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“Ah,” I groan to myself, quickening my pace but being careful not to slip on the slippery surface.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">If only I was in Florida right now rather than having to suffer the rough Chicago winter.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Then again, Florida would be a little too hot for me considering my attire.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> The blazing Chicago summers do get irritating when it hits the nineties.</span><span style="font-size: small;"> Maybe I just need a place where it is fifty degrees all year round.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The students in my class appear to be as groggy and sleepy as I am, but the teachers don't and are ready as ever to pull us back in the swing of work. </span><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Mr. Ali, you know very well that I do not allow students to wear hats in my class. Please take it off," is the first thing I hear Senorita Gonzales say as I enter my Spanish class.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My eyes move toward Tariq, just like everyone else in the class. We are seated in assigned groups of four, and he sits diagonally across from me at another table. He bites his lip and very slowly, removes the blue Chicago Cubs cap from his head.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My mouth slowly opens but then closes on its own accord. I hear a few snickers in the class, and I sympathize Tariq. His head is completely bare and I wonder if someone has forced him to shave the hair off. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Ten minutes later, I come to a terrible conclusion. What if Tariq has cancer and his hair loss is a result of none other than chemotherapy? I shudder at the thought and pray silently that it is something else. A while later, after attempting to conjugate some verbs, I reach another theory. Maybe Tariq had gone for Umrah during winter break and had shaved his head as it is customary to do so during the pilgrimage. I hope that the latter of the two theories are true.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I cannot find out, however, because it feels awkward to approach Tariq and interrogate him about it. I feel bad that I will embarrass him by asking and we aren't best buddies either.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">During lunch, I tell Laila all about it. Her eyes widen in shock and she takes a look at Tariq waiting in the cafeteria line ahead of us, but the blue cap is on again.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Maybe he's just going through a phase," she suggests, but I tell her my own theories.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"No way Iman! He can't have cancer! We would have all known by now. Don't you remember that Grayson girl, what was her name? Anyway, the whole school found out she had cancer and was going through chemo."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">She has a good point. News spread quite quickly and before long, we would know the story behind Tariq's bald head.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anum and Farah talk about their trips to Pakistan and Texas and I lament at the fact that I couldn't travel beyond Aurora. But they have both been thoughtful to bring along gifts for all of us.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Anum gives me a pair of Shalwar Kameez, tailored to my size. It's a beige and blue pattern that is simple but pretty. Farah gives me a Texas keychain and magnet.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">In art class, the cap doesn't come off because Mr. Hesser is a highly artistic individual in addition to being liberal. He promotes freedom of expression and likes change. Laila is stumped because she still hasn't seen Tariq without the cap.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Our new unit in class is sketching, which I am undeniably terrible at. Mr. Hesser asks each of us to sketch a picture of a cube that is displayed by the overhead projector. It's tedious and boring, but Laila is there to entertain me as I attempt to replicate the image onto my sketchpad.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Next class, I'll be taking a picture of each of you once I set up a small photo booth. Then, your unit final will be to create a sketch of yourself, specifically your face," Mr. Hesser announces.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I look at Laila and raise my eyebrows in worry. If I can't sketch a simple cube, how could I ever sketch myself? She shakes her head and my shoulders slump. Then, I realize that I don't have to. I never draw human faces, and why should this be an exception?</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I would have to talk to Mr. Hesser about it, and I'm pretty sure he would understand. But, I don't get a chance because Laila is bold enough to drag me towards Tariq at the end of class.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Hi Tariq," I greet him, while internally, I feel like punching Laila in the face. He looks a little surprised, and I think a little embarrassed, as he recognizes us standing there by him. He gives me a small nod.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Tariq, what happened to your hair?" Laila asks and my mouth opens in shock. <i>Why is she asking him that?</i></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">To my horror, Tariq looks at me and I hate myself for telling Laila anything about him in the first place. I quickly look away and grab Laila's elbow.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Well, you know my brother," he began, and he looks at me while he talks. <i>I do? Oh right, I saw his brother at Jewel.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"He...uh...it's embarrassing, but he was experimenting and he mixed my sister's hair-removing cream into my shampoo bottle."</span><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I clap my hand over my mouth in utter surprise but Laila is laughing. Tariq gives a small smile and I like the way he looks when he does so. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"I'm so sorry, Tariq," I muster. "Stop laughing!" I scold Laila. Humza is nothing compared to Tariq's brother. Wow, kids can be a nightmare.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Well, did-he-get-punished?" Laila asks, in between giggles.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Tariq shrugs. "I punched him here and there and he's grounded, but I guess it ends there. He has ADD so we have to be a little lenient." </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I really can't tell whether Tariq is being serious or sarcastic. But, it's time to leave because we now have the information we were looking for.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Bye, Tariq," Laila says as I edge her away from him. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Laila, you shouldn't have laughed. It's so rude."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"We didn't tell him the best part though."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"What?" I asked, confused now.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"That you thought he had cancer."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Laila, you better not even think about telling him," I hissed. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">At home, I seal my lips and do not tell anyone about the crazy story, even when Abu asks me how school was. I certainly do not want to give Humza any ideas, in case we start fighting again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">TGIF. Thank God It's Friday (well, tomorrow, that is). I can finally catch up on some sleep again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Beware of little monsters!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">American Muslim Girl</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-9281387814588777142010-12-21T22:50:00.000-06:002010-12-21T22:50:18.082-06:00Craze"All I want for Christmas is youuuuu," the lady sings from the speakers above while I steer the grocery cart. I want to stop and put back my purple ear muffs on to block out the sound. But, Humza keeps making fun of the fact that I'm wearing it over my hijab and I've become self-conscious about how I look. <br />
<br />
It's not that I don't like Christmas music. It's just that I am so tired of hearing it everywhere. For God's sake, this very song was playing even at the <i>Indian </i>restaurant we dined out at last week. Sparking green and white Christmas trees are just about everywhere, from the doctor's office to my aunt's house. (She considers herself too American to not have at least a Christmas tree). There are two neighbors on my street that seem to be in a competition for the award of "Most Random and Overdone X-Mas Decorations." Who sells a reindeer flashing five different colors anyway?<br />
<br />
That's what you get for living in a Western country where just about everyone, Christian or not, celebrate Christmas. But, it makes me wonder what it's like during Eid or Ramadan in a Muslim country.<br />
<br />
"It's amazing," Ammi tells me. "There's so much joy and excitement. All the women gather together to make a lot of food. We buy new dresses and bangles. You walk out and you can't help but greet someone and tell them to have a great Eid or Ramadan."<br />
<br />
Hmm...if I wear to walk out of my house during Eid and tell someone Eid Mubarak, they would probably think something is wrong with me. Not that I would do that, obviously, unless if I was sure it was a Muslim.<br />
<br />
Anyhow, it still seems like we're celebrating, because we have a party to go to on the 25th. Except the occasion is a baby shower.<br />
<br />
I feel that day by day, our family is expanding infinitely. There about three female relatives currently pregnant and many more relatives immigrating here to live the American dream (only to realize within a month that money, in fact, does not grow on trees, the economy is downright terrible, and the winters are freakishly harsh).<br />
<br />
Abu jokes that the total number of family guests we will be obligated to invite by the time I get married will be close to a thousand. I tell him it will probably be much more than that, because I'm not planning on marriage anytime soon.<br />
<br />
"Iman, get some romaine lettuce and put it in a bag will you?" Ammi asks me. <br />
<br />
"Sure," I reply. By the way, have you noticed how outrageously expensive healthy food is? Ammi would love to buy all things organic, but Abu would freak out if she did. <br />
<br />
"You can be cheap about everything, but <i>not </i>food," is Ammi's argument. Add the shopping for clothes part, and I completely agree with her.<br />
<br />
While I'm placing the bagged lettuce in the cart, I notice a familiar guy in my peripheral view. I turn around, curious.<br />
<br />
"I've already gotten the Snickers for you. Let's go now," I hear a familiar voice. His head is covered with a black hood, but as soon as he turns his head, I recognize him. Our eyes meet, and I smile a little.<br />
<br />
"Hey, Iman," he calls out. Before replying, I look around me to see where Ammi and Humza are. They don't seem to be in sight. <br />
<br />
"Hi, Tariq," I reply. Or should I be saying salaam to him? If it was a Muslim girl, I wouldn't have even thought about it. I would have just said salaam. Next to him, his younger brother resembles him closely, with a dark pile of hair and high cheekbones. <br />
<br />
We are in the same Spanish and Art classes but he had never really said hi to me before. He knows I don't purposely communicate with Muslim guys, and I guess he respects that.<br />
<br />
But why now? Being the girl that I am, it is only natural for me to analyze and decipher the most minor of things, especially when it concerns the opposite gender. I am hoping he leaves before Ammi comes though, because then it could just lead to another misunderstanding.<br />
<br />
"Enjoying break?" he asks, while his brother tugs at his sleeve. It makes me wonder, how can some guys be warm in just a hoodie or a sweatshirt when it's fifteen degrees?<br />
<br />
"Uh...yea," I decide. "Is that your brother?" I ask, knowing the answer already.<br />
<br />
"Yea, he's a chocolate addict, I swear," he replies. I laugh and he smiles, but his brother whines angrily. I guess I am not the only one with an annoying and spoiled young brother.<br />
<br />
"I gotta go before he throws a tantrum. I'll see you at school then," Tariq says to me, and I nod a goodbye to him. <br />
<br />
Lather that evening, Laila is over at my house to see Eclipse. She has seen it two times in the theater already and owns it on DVD, but is appalled by the fact that I have not seen it yet. Hence, she's forcing me to watch it with her. It's only us tonight because Anum and Farah are both out of town. Lucky them.<br />
<br />
An hour into the movie, I can't help but notice that there are way too many kissing scenes. <br />
<br />
"Laila, you watched this movie how many times?" I ask, almost afraid of the answer.<br />
<br />
"Ah, I lost count," she replies. "But, it's soooo good!"<br />
<br />
"Yea, but it would be much better if someone wasn't kissing every other minute," I said.<br />
<br />
"That's the best part!" she exclaimed excitedly. "Wait till the part where Jacob and Bella finally kiss!"<br />
<br />
I roll my eyes. She's pulling me into her love craze now. "I saw Tariq today," I tell her.<br />
<br />
She hits pause on the remote and sits up straight, her large eyes widening. "No way! Tell me all about it." <br />
<br />
One thing I have learned about Laila is that she gets excited about everything, even the most minor of things. So I should have expected this, and yet I was surprised by her reaction.<br />
<br />
"Tell you what?" I ask her, confused. "I just saw him at Jewel Osco."<br />
<br />
"Oh," she said, her shoulders sagging a little, deciding it wasn't as exciting as she thought it was. "But he must have talked to you!" she predicted, waiting for me to explain.<br />
<br />
"Yea," I reply slowly, "but it was just a hi."<br />
<br />
"Aw that's so cute! Man, you two would look so good together. I can just imagine--"<br />
<br />
"Laila!" I interrupt. Now, I'm starting to feel a little uncomfortable. "I didn't mean it that way. I was just saying casually that I saw him. I don't...you know...like him or anything." <br />
<br />
"Yea right you don't," she refutes, her eyes twinkling. I roll my eyes, shaking my head. "Iman, have you seen him? He's so adorable!"<br />
<br />
I reserve that word for little kids, not necessarily for someone like Tariq. "I thought you were crazy about Asad. Now it's Tariq's turn?" I ask.<br />
<br />
"No, no. I mean for you, he's so cute. And this is so perfect. He's even in our art class!"<br />
<br />
"Laila," I grab her by the shoulders. "Really, stop it now. These movies are getting to you. Don't think of any crazy plans."<br />
<br />
"You're no fun Iman," she pouts her mouth. <br />
<br />
"How about a pillow fight then?" I ask, grabbing one from behind me. She shrieks as I throw it towards her. And that's how I stop her from talking about boys. <br />
<br />
Later at night, I think about Laila's words. Now that I think about it, Tariq isn't so bad looking. But then again, I can hardly remember how he looks like, and it won't be another two weeks before I see him at school. Maybe Laila was exaggerating again.<br />
<br />
For now, I have to focus on enjoying vacation. Even if I have to listen to Christmas songs, at least I will be able to sleep late and not worry about tons of homework. Hurray!<br />
<br />
Happy vacation (and for those of you who don't have that privilege, I sincerely apologize),<br />
American Muslim Girl<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-84043913913970275522010-11-05T19:41:00.000-06:002010-11-05T19:41:15.280-06:00Sweet Tooth"I hate the people who invented this ridiculous Halloween!" my mom said angrily while scrubbing the dishes. The bell rang for the hundredth time that night, despite nearing eleven o'clock. The screeching sound of the bell only added to the eeriness of the night.<br />
<br />
Frankly, I wasn't paying attention to anything except the large pool of candy in front of me. I sorted the chocolate from the lollipops, the expensive from the cheap.<br />
<br />
I had returned three hours earlier from trick-or-treating with Humza, my two young cousins, and the Chinese girl who lived across from us. Basically, I was the baby sitter for all the kids who wanted to go out and get candy and whose parents refused to or were unwilling to tag along.<br />
<br />
I didn't mind at all. I loved being with the children in their little costumes and the freaky decorations creeping up people's driveways and bushes. We stuck to the neighborhood, so we knew most of the people anyway.<br />
<br />
Eight year old Ayesha was dressed as an Indian princess, which was sadly, my costume for the two years I had a Halloween party at school when I was in elementary school. It involved taking out a fancy Shalwar Kameez worn from a previous Eid or wedding and wearing it with some bangles and anklets. The only comfort was from the other girls who adored my inexpensive "costume" but the envy was always hidden beneath. But, even now, I stuck with my simple lavender Shalwar Kameez. I was only interested in the candy.<br />
<br />
Amir, two years older than his princess sister, was a pirate and an extremely adorable and hardly dangerous one too. I wouldn't have minded if he captured me and took me away on his nonexistent ship.<br />
<br />
Lisa was dressed as the good witch from the Wizard of Oz, and was a very animated one too. "Immi, I shall grant you your wish," she giggled delightedly.<br />
<br />
"Okay, take me all around the world, and no homework for the rest of my life and--" <br />
<br />
"Why so serious? Wanna know how I got these scars?" Humza interrupted. He's such a terrible actor.<br />
<br />
He wasn't really into dressing up much but he caked his face with make up to look like the joker from Batman.He didn't understand that saying these lines over and over again just made him less impressive. He was also annoying me because Abu and Ammi ordered that he had to come along with us instead of his friends. I probably would too, considering he came home past eleven last Halloween.<br />
<br />
Anyways, it was very embarrassing because Ammi insisted she wasn't going to keep a bowl of candy out for the kids who came to our house. Instead, she put crackers, nuts, and a combination of other obviously non-chocolate-too-healthy-for-Halloween "treats." Now which kid wants that? Abu and I sneaked some chocolate in the bowl to save our reputation in the neighborhood.<br />
<br />
I really had planned to last all the good candy for at least a week, but two days later, I've exhausted my entire supply. Instead of lamenting me with me or comforting me, my friends decided to engage in a debate of whether Halloween should be celebrated or not.<br />
<br />
"I don't think there's anything wrong with it," Laila said.<br />
<br />
"No, really, isn't not such a good thing. This is a holiday that originated from pagan and idol worshipers," Farah argued while munching on a cookie.<br />
<br />
"Oh, c'mon, people don't go out and worship the lord of death. They go out to have fun," Anum disagreed. <br />
<br />
"And having fun by dressing up as Cleopatra or a slutty cop costume and going to stranger's houses is okay?" Farah asked.<br />
<br />
I wanted to say something, but every time I opened my mouth to speak, someone else would just get started. My eyes moved towards Kathy who occasionally joined us for lunch sometimes. She too listened to the conversation in between bites of her chicken burger.<br />
<br />
"I know my grandma is really against Halloween because she's really Orthodox and she doesn't believe in witchcraft," Kathy said, "but what's wrong with little kids having fun?"<br />
<br />
"Exactly. Kids dress up to be their favorite hero and it's so cute and fun for them," Laila said.<br />
<br />
"That's the problem. Their hero shouldn't be someone like Iron Man or Cinderella. And besides, if they celebrate Halloween as a kid, they're gonna want to when they are older anyway." Farah was hanging to her argument stubbornly. She had a point, but I didn't think she realized that superheros and princesses are really what little boys and girls care about.<br />
<br />
"Uh, I'd kinda feel left out if I was the only kid in class to not dress up in a costume for a Halloween party. No kid likes to follow a million rules at such a young age, or they'll just end up hating the source of those rules, which would be their parents or Islam," I pointed out.<br />
<br />
The bell ended just after I finished talking, signaling the end of our little debate. But, it left me thinking about the issue later that week.<br />
<br />
"What do you think, Abu? Is it bad to go out to trick-or-treat and celebrate Halloween?"<br />
<br />
Abu flipped through pages of some sort relating to his work. He had his reading glasses on and I wouldn't have bothered him but he didn't seem to be focused much.<br />
<br />
"Like any other American holiday, Iman, it's all about making money."<br />
<br />
Of course Abu would talk about money. It was only natural for him to do that, but he also had a very good point.<br />
<br />
"But I mean is it a bad thing for Muslims?" I knew Ammi's answer already; she would have said yes just because Halloween always ended with a stomach full of candy.<br />
<br />
Abu hummed for a bit. I tried to recognize the tune. I think it was a classical Bollywood tune, probably from before I was even born. He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and leaned forward.<br />
<br />
"All these people have such a negative view of Muslims, beta. They think Islam is such a backwards religion and we're not allowed to do anything. Hassan told the teacher he didn't want his son to be part of the Valentine's party in his class. What kind of impression does the teacher have about Islam? That they don't let their kids have fun."<br />
<br />
Hassan is one of Abu's many friends and perhaps a little more conservative. I wonder what his son felt like.<br />
<br />
What do you think? Is it okay to celebrate Halloween?<br />
<br />
Kindly pondering these thoughts, <br />
American Muslim GirlUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-24900587911320064132010-10-25T22:59:00.001-05:002010-10-26T20:21:33.438-05:00DistractedIt's been really hard to focus on school lately. I'm not even a senior yet and I feel like I've been inflicted with senioritis.<br />
<br />
Actually, I've been hooked to YouTube and Facebook. I swear, technology is such a distraction. The administration at my high school doesn't realize that there are still ways to access these ever popular websites despite attempts to block them. We have some pretty clever geeks at our school, if I may say so. And really, are teachers that gullible that they don't know we're not using our phones in class to update our Facebook status or lament on how boring angular momentum is?<br />
<br />
Truthfully, I don't even have Internet on my phone, which I guess is better that way. Or else I would become robotic like Anum and respond the second after I recieved an email or message alert. But, I can't deny I'm jealous about her iPhone. Dear Lord, my friends <i>are </i>so spoiled and rich. They don't even pity me sometimes.<br />
<br />
I was very close to recieving detention in class today because Laila texted me while I was taking a quiz and being the forgetful person that I am, I had not switched my cell to silent. <br />
<br />
Mariyam was telling me that I need to be strategic about these kinds of things. I have to punish myself, or distract myself so I don't become engrossed in them. It's difficult, but I know I have to do something about it. How can I wake up for Fajr after only falling asleep the hour before?<br />
<br />
If I do use technology, which I must in this day and age, it should only be for a limited amount of time. I am such a hypocrite--I become agonized when I find people at social gatherings glued to their phone instead of <i>actually</i> talking to the people around them. And now with the iPad. Apple really needs to stop it with their amazing inventions.<br />
<br />
Oh where can I roam in this Earth so that I may be able to live without the forces of technology? Where I can tell the time by the intensity of the sun rays, where can I breathe the desert air and splash nature's pure water on my skin? Where can I put my forehead on the floor of the Earth and sing praises to my Lord?<br />
<br />
Okay, I don't usually go to the whole poetic route. But, this is pretty ironic because I am blogging, not using a stick to scratch letters on a rock or in the depths of sand. <br />
<br />
By the way, in the midst of my YouTube obsession, I did find an entertaining movie that really is cute. Here's the description:<br />
<br />
<i>Katie and Ramsha are two strangers, two quite different young women, both attending the same University. Katie catches Ramsha in the most awkward of moments, but soon their relationship is defined more acutely by friendship. In this film, we witness inter </i><br />
<br />
...and then it gets cut off, but basically awkward moments. Foot in the sink, praying by the stairs anyone? This is exactly what this is about. Check it out: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J3Dlh5-OR70&feature=player_embedded#%21">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J3Dlh5-OR70&feature=player_embedded#!</a><br />
<br />
<object height="315" width="500"> <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hVw0KkvCQIU?border=1&showsearch=0&rel=0&fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hVw0KkvCQIU?border=1&showsearch=0&rel=0&fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="315"></embed> </object><br />
<br />
So, before I fail an exam and my parents freak out about, and because I really do need to shut off the computer before I spend another five hours on the computer, I really must take your leave now.<br />
<br />
Sincerely hoping that you too recieve a dose curing technologitis :)<br />
American Muslim GirlUnknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-66866919679171097642010-10-08T23:12:00.001-05:002010-10-08T23:34:21.879-05:00Sick of It!Ah, the joy of finally being able to do things again. I've been quite sick, hence the long time period since my last post. <br />
<br />
The weather is making me extremely angry. One day, I find myself walking in beautiful sunshine and the very next in bursting cold wind. These rapid changes are what I was assuming to be the cause of my sickness. But, actually, it really was Humza who made all of us ill.<br />
<br />
I think he passed along some germs from one of his nerdy classmates who decided to come to school instead of staying home. And once one person in the family gets sick, you know what happens, right? Well, lemme tell you anyway.<br />
<br />
Ammi had made us pear juice (freakishly healthy, right?) and had left the jug in the refrigerator. One day, I came home from school and poured myself a drink because it was 70 degrees outside.<br />
<br />
Before I can even take a sip, someone rang the doorbell. I hurried to answer because the sound of our door bell is extremely annoying. It's almost like the sound of the fire alarm, screeching and whiny. Either Abu purchased some really strange bell because it was cheap or he installed it completely wrong. Both are equally likely.<br />
<br />
It ends up being Nabeelah to give us a box of sweets.<br />
<br />
"Ooh, what's the special occasion?" I teased.<br />
<br />
Nabeelah rolled her eyes. "It's <i>not </i>what you're thinking. My sister had a baby boy."<br />
<br />
"Oh yea!" I squealed in delight, remembering Ammi telling me earlier in the week. Nabeelah was in a hurry because she had madrasa exams so I had to bid her farewell.<br />
<br />
When I returned to the kitchen, I was in a dilemma of choosing the sweets or the pear juice. On the one hand, no one was around so I could have my share of the sweets before Abu and Humza devoured it, or before Ammi snatched it from us because it was unhealthy. <br />
<br />
I decided to go with the pear juice because I was more thirsty than hungry. And I always felt guilty about having dessert before a meal.<br />
<br />
It probably would have been a better choice to go with the sweets though. The next day, when I woke up with a sore throat, I was adamant in finding the cause of it. I had a busy day ahead of me and I was angry at my immune system for failing me.<br />
<br />
Humza decided to tell me that night that he had a sip of my pear juice while I had gone to answer the door bell. I thought he wasn't even in the house, because it was such a gorgeous day out and there was no noise to indicate he was present. But, I forgot that he was sick with a cold and unlike his normal self, he had had quietly slunk away in his bed.<br />
<br />
Anyway, when I found out, I was furious. I pushed Humza with my right shoulder while he was returning to his room after dinner. <br />
<br />
"Stop it," he yelled, shoving me back. I almost lost my balance, suddenly realizing that he was getting stronger. <br />
<br />
"What happened?" Ammi called out from the kitchen. I glared at Humza, who had already turned away from me to open his bedroom door. I grabbed the top of his T-shirt, pulling him from behind.<br />
<br />
"Owww," he whined, trying to release himself. Ammi came rushing, which wasn't a surprise. I swear Humza is <i>such </i>a spoiled brat.<br />
<br />
"What are you two doing?" she scolded us, clearly exasperated. "I'm sick of you two fighting. And I'm not feeling good either, and I'd like some peace in this--"<br />
<br />
"Well, it's his fault that we're all getting sick," I interrupted, folding my arms across my chest.<br />
<br />
"Iman, don't interrupt me and this isn't the first time you've had a cold so quit it."<br />
<br />
I rolled my eyes. Of course, she would favor Humza. I stomped out of the hallway and returned to my bedroom.<br />
<br />
The bed was covered with my favorite shade of soft green, a floral pattern mixed in with light blue. It called to me and I wanted to sleep. <br />
<br />
But I had a trigonometry test the next day to study for and I needed to at least look over the material. I'm not usually the kind to stress, but suddenly the equations I was practicing became too complicated and jumbled.<br />
<br />
Ammi came in about an hour later with a glass of boiling water mixed in with honey and lemon.<br />
<br />
"Drink this," she ordered.<br />
<br />
I shook my head in protest, but she didn't budge. "It's going to burn my mouth!" I insisted, fearfully eying the drink. She set the glass on my dresser and I knew I had to drink it. NyQuil was out of the question.<br />
<br />
I ended up taking the next day off. My head throbbed and my sore throat had disappeared in exchange for a runny nose and a slight cough. I was alone in the house, and yet I couldn't relax because of the noise caused by the remodeling of the house across the street.<br />
<br />
<i>were r u?? still sick? </i>Laila texted me around midafternoon. I had given up studying for the math test and was waiting for the chicken soup to warm up in the microwave.<br />
<br />
<i>yea. im going to kill humza! dont finish ur painting w/o me! </i> I really wished that I could have spent this day off from school another way--say, shopping? Or, even sleeping in and watching movies. But I felt restless and couldn't sleep.<br />
<br />
Right before Humza was to return from school, I finally fell asleep and didn't wake up until dinner. Fortunately, I was feeling much better. Ammi's home remedy had worked. <br />
<br />
But now it was Ammi's face that looked pale and tired. This was a never-ending cycle and I was so relieved to step out of the house the next day. I felt unhealthy just staying inside and away from the fresh air.<br />
<br />
"How did you trig test go?" Farah asked me during lunch. She was wearing a lavender hijab with a beautiful black abayya trimmed with sparse gems on the sleeves. <br />
<br />
I shrugged. "Okay, I guess." I certainly didn't care at this point because it was already over. I was just happy I got a make-up during study period and not during lunch.<br />
<br />
"You should see my painting so far!" Laila said, "Mr. Hesser complimented on it!"<br />
<br />
I rolled my eyes at her. She found our art teacher to be attractive, and though I could see that, his age definitely ruled out any fantasy of him for me.<br />
<br />
"I thought you were infatuated with Asad," I reminded her. I was puzzled at how some girls like Laila had multiple crushes. It was hard sometimes to just focus on one.<br />
<br />
She fluttered her long eyelashes at me. "Habibti, who said I wasn't?"<br />
<br />
I opened my mouth. Farah met my glance and smiled. "I hope you're not flirting like that with him," she warned, "because you look pretty hot when you do that."<br />
<br />
Laila giggled. "I sit diagonally from him in French. It's such a perfect view."<br />
<br />
"Why, does he look good from the side too?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Actually, his noise <i>does </i>look kind of big from the side," Laila said, who tilted her head to take a good look at Asad who sat several lunch tables away. I was too tired to move my head and follow her gaze. <br />
<br />
I couldn't rest when I got home. Ammi had to go to the doctor because it seemed like she had a virus.<br />
<br />
"No, I'm feeling fine," she insisted, but Abu wouldn't buy it.<br />
<br />
"That's what you said last time when you got a strep throat. I'm not listening to you this time." Abu had a pretty persuasive argument. <br />
<br />
"I'll go grab some pizza," I volunteered, knowing the traffic at this time of the day would be too much to both visit the doctor and get dinner.<br />
<br />
There was a pizza diner just several blocks away from our house. It was pretty small but it was cozy and warm. I realized there were not many sunny days left and I should take advantage of the few that remained. I took out my bicycle, which was getting kind of small for me, while Abu and Ammi headed out for the clinic.<br />
<br />
"Abu, I think it's your turn now to get sick. Better watch out," I warned later that evening. I sat at the dining table with my homework, Humza next to me and Abu across from me eating pizza. Ammi had gone to sleep early, which was unusual for her but the medicine was making her drowsy.<br />
<br />
"Hey, I'm strong," he said, his mouth full.<br />
<br />
"Is this correct?" Humza asked, shifting his notebook towards me. He didn't explicitly want to say, "Can you help me?"<br />
<br />
"You should ask Dad you know. He's the math expert." It was true. What do you expect from an accountant?<br />
<br />
Abu looked at me. "Expert, huh? That's a nice way of putting it. Usually, it's the boring accountant guy."<br />
<br />
"You <i>can </i>be a little boring sometimes." I had to agree, but then again I was a girl and most girls find some things boring that guys find interesting.<br />
<br />
"And you and your mom? Crazy about shopping. Never think about saving."<br />
<br />
"Abu, you are very stingy."<br />
<br />
"Yea, we didn't get much Eidie this year," Humza pointed out. He was correct, for once.<br />
<br />
"Well, this year isn't over yet. And Eid is coming up next month Dad. Hint hint."<br />
<br />
"Ahh. You kids are too much. You don't think $100 is good enough for Eidie?"<br />
<br />
"Uh...no," Humza and I said together. We look at each other and laugh and then quiet down because we don't want Ammi to wake up.<br />
<br />
Abu shook his head and then left us to do our homework. My homework wasn't usually finished until I checked Humza's. His scrawny writing made the task much harder.<br />
<br />
Anyway, there was so much more that happened, but the important thing is that we're alive and well now. I hope winter doesn't bring this repetitive cycle of sickness again, because frankly, I'm sick of it!<br />
<br />
Before I bid farewell, let's have Dreamer give you an update :)<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;">Hey everyone! I wanted to apologize foremost for not being able to write a post in three weeks. Believe me, it has been killing me inside. Neglecting writing is one thing, but neglecting a blog which people actually read is another thing. My schedule of classes has left me insane! I am not used to such big gaps between my classes and I get hardly any work done at school. And as you might have anticipated from the theme in this post, I was sick too--for over a week, but alhamdulillah I am feeling much better now. That being said, I will try and post at least every two weeks now. Thank you for being patient! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="color: black;">Well, folks, I guess it's time to call it a day then!</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="color: black;">American Muslim Girl </span> </span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-25525195949584322822010-09-14T12:59:00.000-05:002010-09-14T12:59:10.863-05:00Eid FestivitiesI was so thrilled to skip school on Friday. It's nice to have to go for only three days of the five on the first week of school. But, I know that's not going to last long.<br />
<br />
I tried to enjoy the moment as much as I could.<br />
<br />
"Don't eat the cookies!" I yelled at Humza, who was leaning over to grab the special moon-shaped cookies I had baked for Eid.<br />
<br />
"Then why'd you make them? So you could take pictures of it?" he asked, annoyed. He was dressed in light blue Shalwar Kameez with a white cotton topi. A pretty rare sight. <br />
<br />
"You can eat <i>only </i>one after I'm done taking the picture," I replied, maneuvering my new Canon over the plate of cookies. I had the best uncle in the world, who gave me a special gift every Eid-ul-Fitr.<br />
<br />
Satisfied with a couple of shots, which were soon to be uploaded on Facebook under my album "Delightful Cooking," I allowed Humza to take a cookie.<br />
<br />
It was midday, and people were bound to be over. We had already prayed Eid Salaat at Holiday Inn earlier in the morning and I had said Eid Mubarak a thousand times to everyone I knew and didn't knew. <br />
<br />
Abu came into the kitchen just as Humza savored his last crumbs, dressed in a similar hue of Shalwar Kameez. Humza wasn't at all appreciative of my idea for him and Abu to dress the same, but I thought it would be cute, and Abu liked the idea too.<br />
<br />
"Where is your mother? Mahmoud's wife and children are over and you are all stuck here!" he exclaimed. My dad loved to entertain guests, and he got upset when we didn't live up to his expectations.<br />
<br />
"Mom..." I started, realizing I didn't know where she was. Anyway, being the good daughter that I was, I took control and went to the living room to greet the guests.<br />
<br />
Mahmoud's wife was petite and very friendly, and her daughter seemed to appear right out of a magazine. With her large blue eyes and light brown curls, she looked inevitably Caucasian, not Arab...and definitely not Muslim. But there I go with the categorization again.<br />
<br />
"Eid Kareem!" I enthusiastically greeted them, giving both a warm embrace. During Eid, I can get very loving. I can hug complete strangers out of pure happiness, but that's also dangerous and I'm aware of my limits.<br />
<br />
Ammi popped out of nowhere minutes later, rushing ahead of me to offer the guests plates of sweets and snacks. She motioned me later to retrieve the Eid candy bags we had made the night before to hand to the kids.<br />
<br />
Towards evening, we all got in Mom's silver Toyota Camry and headed to my favorite uncle's house. House might be an understatement...no, I think I meant to say underword...wait that's not a word at all. Never mind. You get the picture.<br />
<br />
He lives in Kenilworth, one of the richest suburbs in Chicago. And it makes sense, considering he's a neurologist and really one of the best. I hope his intelligence has passed down to me through Ammi.<br />
<br />
It's the usual tradition for our family to gather at his house for Eid. For one thing, his mansion can actually <i>accommodate </i>our extremely large and expanding family. And he's rich so he can also provide food for us, which half the time is what we're really looking for.<br />
<br />
Abu is relaxed, as usual, driving in between chatting with family and friends abroad on the phone.<br />
<br />
"Look out! There'a a cop," I warned him. He slips the phone on his lap for a second before raising it to his ear again. I guess he really doesn't care if he gets a ticket, or thinks he'll get lucky and not get caught.<br />
<br />
Speaking of luck, we really weren't feeling it while inching our way to get on the highway. There was not one complete road in Chicago that was left untouched and not closed to traffic. Almost every block, it seemed, was broken and under repair, or sectioned off to accommodate construction workers and trucks.<br />
<br />
"We're going to be late again. I told you we should leave earlier," Ammi complained, drawing her dark green dupatta tighter around her face.<br />
<br />
"How could we leave with guests over?" Abu asked innocently.<br />
<br />
"We had over an hour in between the time Mahmoud left and the time we left." You couldn't fool Ammi, that's for sure.<br />
<br />
But her frustration subsided quickly once we reached the house.<br />
<br />
"Eid Mubarak!" I called out. The house was already crowded and more people streaming in. I wanted to place my heels in a safe spot before I went drastic at night to find them in the messy pile of hundreds of shoes. There is a shoe stealer in our family, I'm telling you. One of my favorite sandals went disappearing at one such gathering and Mumaani (my neurologist uncle's wife) was kind enough to let me go home with her own five inch bronze heels.<br />
<br />
Honestly, I didn't want anything more than to dig right into the food. Mamu (my neurologist uncle...okay maybe I need to stop calling him that) has an exquisite taste for a variety of cuisines and I was a little eager to try it out. But, I couldn't jump right to the food because I had to greet everyone--give hugs, say Salaam, ask how they were doing, and so forth. Which of course I wouldn't mind <i>if </i>I hadn't already done that countless times earlier that day.<br />
<br />
I can never be too tired of meeting Mamu though. <br />
<br />
"Iman beta! Come here. Get some food!" he ordered sweetly.<br />
<br />
Well, <i>thank you</i>. Just what I wanted.<br />
<br />
"You like the gift?" he asked, tilting his hand. He was very tall and somewhat intimidating when I was younger. It only took a couple of treats and him calling me like his own daughter to realize he really wasn't intimidating at all. I mean, what do you expect a seven year old child to think of a person who cuts up people's brain? Scary, obviously. <br />
<br />
"Mamu, it was a complete surprise! I tried calling you earlier to let you know I received it in the mail, but your phone was busy!"<br />
<br />
He laughed, then pointed to the food. "Now after a month of fasting, I want you to eat all of this. As much as you can. And how is school coming along?"<br />
<br />
"Alhamdulillah," I replied, before we were separated by a stream of chasing kids.<br />
<br />
"You can't get me!" a little girl shrieked out of excitement. She ended up tripping over Jamal, who swiftly put her steady on her feet again before getting hurt.<br />
<br />
"Iman," he said, giving a small nod of his head. I knew he acknowledged me only because we had already formed eye contact or else he really wouldn't.<br />
<br />
"Jamal, how's your Eid?" I asked, knowing my attempt to make conversation would be futile. Jamal is one of those people who have everything but some good manners and a kind heart. I wish he'd learn something from his father or even his two other brothers who were much more sociable and sweet.<br />
<br />
He shrugged, and I ended it there. <br />
<br />
I could go on and list all the people I talked to, all the delicious food items I indulged in, and so forth but I really need to get going to my class now.<br />
<br />
Lunch break is almost over and instead of occupying myself with some reading, I have been won over by the computer. <br />
<br />
We shall meet again!<br />
American Muslim GirlUnknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-13715053173288637062010-09-07T21:12:00.001-05:002010-09-07T21:16:06.430-05:00And the Drudgery BeginsThe street where my high school stands is already crowded with vehicles streaming in to drop off students. Fortunately, I can avoid the deep traffic because I only live four blocks away, not to mention I can get in my morning walk.<br />
<br />
I'm not nervous as I step in; I'm actually unsure of how I feel. I am cold, for one thing. The arrival of Fall is bringing bursts of cold wind, indicative of the long winter ahead. <br />
<br />
I almost stop midstep, seeing that there is a line formed from where I stand and to the actual entrance of the school. A freshman, whom I can identify by his short stature and nervous glances, is ahead of me.<br />
<br />
"Imaneeeeee!" I hear someone screech my name. I can't mistaken this voice. It has a clear ring to it, a beautiful tingle.<br />
<br />
"Anum!" I turn my head to see one of my best friends walking towards me. She is looking fabulous, as always. Her hair is sitting in loose waves around her shoulders, and she is wearing a magenta floral dress with skinny jeans. The Prada designer frames gives her an intelligent, studious appearance.<br />
<br />
"Love your new glasses!" I comment immediately. "And the outfit it gorg!"<br />
<br />
She smiles, appreciative but modest. "You're looking quite fab yourself. But Iman, I <i>cannot </i>believe they're going to be checking every single one of us."<br />
<br />
"Checking us?" I ask, confused. Apparently, I was waiting in line to be checked by the school security.<br />
<br />
"Yes, and we only have a half hour before Homeroom," she pointed out, checking her watch.<br />
<br />
"Why are they checking us? Don't we already have those metal detectors?" I ask.<br />
<br />
The line is moving and we step ahead, closer to the doors. "Yes, but they want to check our bags too. It's all because of those school shootings."<br />
<br />
"Right," I agree. Although, who would plan a school shooting on the first day of school? That seems unlikely. But, hey, if a grade school kid can kill his teacher, I guess any form of violence is possible.<br />
<br />
It's finally our turn to get checked. I get the Hispanic security officer with the short hair while Anum gets the Caucasian officer. It's tedious, but we are done in a matter of minutes.<br />
<br />
Before the stairwell, there is the same mural that greets me every time. I know that in a couple days, the smiling painted faces and yellow colored sunshine will not alleviate my tired mood in the least. <br />
<br />
But now, at least, I am feeling happy. I am a junior, having moved up in the category of upperclassmen, which attributes to gaining respect--a little less than seniors obviously--and of course, the right to occasionally look down on the younger ones.<br />
<br />
I sit with the same three other students in Homeroom as I have been for the past two years. We are a pretty diverse group:<br />
<br />
Eric, the Vietnamese super-intelligent manga-loving boy.<br />
Amy, the Irish girl with really long beautiful hair and an obsession with <i>Seventeen</i> magazine.<br />
Natasha, the Nigerian sudoku-lover who occasionally sings to us.<br />
<br />
Add in my crazy Homeroom teacher, who thinks of mathematics as his second child, and we have a pretty fun time. At least I can relax a little before heading off to classes.<br />
<br />
I guess I'm quite content with my schedule. First period is Spanish III, which is better than having P.E. first thing in the morning like last year. You can't do much in fifty minutes of class if all the teacher is going to do is go over the syllabus and lecture us to not plagiarize and cheat. And, really, which teacher in his right mind would make us take a mini math ACT practice test on the first day of Trignometry class? Oh, right, my Homeroom teacher obviously, who decided I was having too much fun in Homeroom.<br />
<br />
But, I can't complain. As nerdy as it sounds, I can't deny that I like learning and going to school. Sure, if you subtract everything besides the actual learning--namely, high school drama, cliques, peer pressure, gossip, and so on--then maybe high school wouldn't be such a drag.<br />
<br />
That, of course is not the case.<br />
<br />
I have to welcome everything, drama included.<br />
<br />
"Iman, did you take a look at Asad? I think he grew another four inches and God, he looks even more hot!!"<br />
<br />
I purse my lips as Laila meticulously describes Asad's physical features. Not that this is the first time we talked about him, and it most likely won't be the last either.<br />
<br />
Welcome to high school, I silently tell a freshman who is bent over under the weight of a heavy backpack.<br />
<br />
Let's hope things don't get too off hand, <br />
American Muslim GirlUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-62444663509442967132010-08-25T21:20:00.002-05:002010-08-25T21:30:29.368-05:00Almost Sept Already?I went to go help out at Ammi's work today, namely the Northern Muslim Center. She's sort of like a social worker there, helping new immigrants out with applications and other troublesome matters.<br />
<br />
Ammi was thankfully more calm after visiting Hamid Nana and she asked me to help her with some boxes of files that she needed to bring up to her office from the car. I told her she could go ahead and settle inside while I brought it in for her. <br />
<br />
It was still morning and the air carried a cool breeze. The sun was out but I hardly felt the heat, which was a good thing cause I didn't want to get thirsty at nine in the morning.<br />
<br />
I took the boxes from the car and put them down on the sidewalk beforeI shut the hood. I bent over to pick them up again and started walking towards the building.<br />
<br />
NMC was located on a side street just off of Devon Avenue, which made sense since many of Ammi's clients were Muslims that lived in the neighborhood. The streets were not that crowded, since it was still a Wednesday morning. Devon was mostly crowded on Fridays because of Jummah prayers and during the weekend for shopping purposes.<br />
<br />
As I headed towards the building, I noticed a guy walking towards me from my peripheral view. I directed my attention towards opening the door without having to put down the boxes again.<br />
<br />
He broke into a jog and appeared next to me within a couple of seconds. I stepped back, clearly wanting my space. He opened the door for me so I could go in.<br />
<br />
"Thanks," I muttered. He looked a little older than me, but he was definitely Muslim and by the look of him, he didn't seem to have been here for very long. Maybe a F.O.B? Oops, did I just say that?<br />
<br />
Anyhow, the guy needed some manners. <br />
<br />
"Lower your gaze!" I wanted to yell at him. "It's Ramadan, you idiot."<br />
<br />
I quickly went up the couple of steps and into the center. It was decorated with a large banner at the top, bold green letters saying Ramadan Mubarak in English, Urdu, and Arabic.<br />
<br />
"Iman! Ramadan Mubarak!" I heard a familiar voice while I put the boxes down on a table.<br />
<br />
I turned to my right to find Zubeda, the woman that worked with Ammi and led the immigration workshops.<br />
<br />
"Zubeda Aunty! How are you?" I greeted enthusiastically. She came to embrace me with a big hug.<br />
<br />
"How come you didn't come earlier? It's been days since you last came," she scolded lovingly. The lady wishes I was her daughter. She has told me on several occasions.<br />
<br />
"Summer flew by so fast and then Ramadan started," I told her, remembering that I only had two weeks left until school began.<br />
<br />
"Oh, well at least you were able to come in today. We need so much help from you! Come this way," she motioned me towards her cubicle.<br />
<br />
I spent most of the day organizing files and entering data in the computer. It was very tedious, but the time went by pretty quickly.<br />
<br />
Around 1:00, Ammi asked me to help one of the other aunties to dust the only classroom in the center.<br />
<br />
"We'll have a lot of kids for tutoring when school begins," the auntie made conversation with me in Urdu while I dusted tables.<br />
<br />
"Oh yea," I answered, remembering the chaos of kids jumping, chewing their pencils, and all of them calling my name at the same time.<br />
<br />
This is why I will never be a teacher, I had told myself that one day when I felt like pulling both my hijab <i>and </i>my hair off.<br />
<br />
"You're a good girl," the auntie complimented me suddenly.<br />
<br />
"Huh?" I asked her, surprised. She was new to this center; I hadn't met her before. <br />
<br />
She pointed to my hijab. "You wear a scarf, and you help here," she remarked. "That's very good. And everyone here says you are very smart."<br />
<br />
"Aw, thank you," I replied, touched. I wasn't really that great, I thought to myself. But if she wanted to think so, I didn't have a problem with that!<br />
<br />
After we finished cleaning, we brought in the boxes Ammi had told me to bring in earlier. We took out school supplies, pencils and markers from one, paper and scissors from another. <br />
<br />
Later that evening, Farah called me to invite me to her house for Iftaar the following day.<br />
<br />
"Tomorrow?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"Yea, did you already make plans? Please tell me no!" she said.<br />
<br />
"No, I didn't," I reassured her. "It's just sudden, but that's okay."<br />
<br />
"Awesome! I can't wait to see you. It's been so long."<br />
<br />
"Don't get too happy. You'll be seeing me everyday in two weeks," I reminded her. We had been given our class schedules earlier this week during orientation. Farah practically squealed with delight when we found out we had art class together.<br />
<br />
"Yea, like I'll really be annoyed by you," Farah said.<br />
<br />
"Ah, don't bet on it. It's our third year in high school, which makes it more special and should be worth remembering. Hence, I <i>will </i>make it memorable for you," I promised<br />
<br />
"My sister would disagree with that. She says her high school life is one she hates remembering because she acted so immature and it's just that phase in life where you have to get through it."<br />
<br />
"Oh, older people. I never understand them sometimes. They like to make it seem like it's <i>so </i>much better to be their age. But I say, let's live in the present and enjoy it."<br />
<br />
"Sure thing," Farah agreed and hung up soon afterward.<br />
<br />
The thought of starting school again wasn't such a pleasant thought. I couldn't sleep until ten or eleven in the morning on a school day, and sometimes it felt like being imprisoned being in school for seven straight hours. But once I got over my summer lazy self and adjusted to the school pace, I didn't mind it so much.<br />
<br />
But I sure was glad most of my Ramadan is during vacation, because that way I can at least ensure more time is spent praying. <br />
<br />
Do continue to enjoy your Ramadan!<br />
American Muslim GirlUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-41930854531711459262010-08-21T12:12:00.010-05:002010-08-21T18:10:33.387-05:00Improv Dinner<p>Not going on the computer for several days rouses a strange feeling. You are detached from the Internet bubble and you get a chance to immerse yourself in the beauty of sensing. But once you reattach, you find your email inbox filled up dramatically and after one link leads to another, oh look, it's Asr Salaat! Better not delay it!</p>
<p>Ramadan has made me so preoccupied that alhamdulillah, I am not wasting hours away on Facebook, Youtube, or even the Old Navy shopping page.</p>
<p>But that doesn't mean I can't go on the Internet to read QuranFlash, listen to Ramadan lectures, mull over the Ground-Zero mosque controversy while settling internal arguments, and of course, entrench my experiences in this blog!</p>
<p>Yesterday, I busied myself with writing a shopping list with an actual notepad and paper. And no, this shopping was not for clothes, but for school supplies, which is indeed a very exciting thing to shop for! Though the arrival of Fall and beautiful colored leaves on the pavement (although none are present yet right now) bring with it the beginning of the school year, at least I can comfort myself in the thrilling prospect of school supply shopping. </p>
<p>I sat down with the Staples sales paper, along with the Office Depot, and Office Max (how much more variety can I ask for?). Using the tactical skills my dear father passed on to me, I calculated that buying the colored index cards in Staples versus the boring white in Office Depot would only cost $0.79 more, and that the binders in Office Depot are $0.59 cheaper, which would amount to a lot of savings if I purchased, say 6 binders for the 6 classes, and the pencils in--</p>
<p>And then the phone rang. "Brinnnnnnnnnnng. Brinnnnnnnnnng."</p>
<p>I couldn't tell Humza to pick up because as always, he was outside again with a friend.</p><p>
</p><p>"Iman, we're going to the hospital," I heard Abu on the other line. He sounded a little worried, but otherwise, very direct and quite calm.
</p><p>
</p><p>Images rushed through my mind. Was it Ammi? Nani? They had all gone to the supermarket together. Car accident? Sudden seizure? </p><p>"What--?"</p><p>"It's nothing to worry about," Abu replied to my unspoken question. "Hamid Nana is recovering from a heart attack and we want to be with him."</p><p>"Oh, ok," I replied, relieved. What else could I say? I didn't remember much about Hamid Nana. I know he used to give me chocolate as a little kid whenever he came over. But ever since moving to Aurora, I hardly saw him.</p><p>"Is he hospitalized here?" I asked.</p><p>"No, in Aurora, so it'll take a while to get there," Abu said. I could hear Ammi's voice in the background. "Here, talk to your mother."</p><p>"Listen Iman, where's Humza?" Ammi asked me. She sounded much more tense than Abu.
</p><p>"He told me he would be at the park with a couple of friends," I replied.
</p><p>"Well, make sure he comes home soon. And, beta, I'm not sure if we'll come home in time for Iftaar. I've taken the chicken out of the freezer, but you can leave it. Why don't you grab something from--"</p><p>"Ammi, don't worry about it. I'll manage. I'll cook the chicken and besides, what will you all eat once you come home?"</p><p>"I don't know if that's a good idea. You're fasting."</p><p>"Ammi, you forget sometimes that I'm not a little girl. And stop sounding so worried! He's passed the worst, right?"</p><p>"Alhamdulillah, but still..."</p><p>Ammi should get an award for being the most worried Mom in the world.</p><p>"Ok, don't worry Mom," I said, sensing more background noise.</p><p>"Don't make a mess in the kitchen Iman! Make sure you clean up!" Ammi said just before I hung up.
</p><p>I went to our kitchen, feeling the rush of excitement about cooking. As Mom had said, the chicken was thawing. I opened the refrigerator to see what I could cook.</p><p>After stirring up my creative juices, I decided to go with Chinese topped with a little Italian: chicken chop suey, stir-fried vegetables, and a regular veggie pizza. I had to pace myself because I only had three and half hours before Iftaar.</p><p>I was in the middle of preparing the dough when Humza walked in.
</p><p>"Oh, man that smells good!" he remarked.</p><p>"Why thank you," I replied, smiling.
</p><p>"Woah, what are you doing? Mom's not here?"</p><p>"Why?" I asked. "Only Mom's supposed to be in the kitchen?"</p><p>Humza walked over to to the refrigerator to get some orange juice. He's not fasting today.
</p><p>"No. Mom would've freaked if she saw the mess you made."</p><p>He was totally right. Sprinkles of dough had settled on the counter top, which also housed noodles and more than half the contents of the refrigerator. </p><p>"Oops."</p><p>Humza was thoughtful to face his back behind me while he drank the orange juice.
"Are you going to be full with just that?" I asked, surprised he hadn't asked for any food.</p><p>"I should leave space for all that you're making," he replied rather maturely.</p><p>"Smart. By the way, Mom and Dad are at the hospital to visit Hamid Nana. They won't be back until later."</p><p>Humza nodded, not seeming very interested. He instead observed me kneading the dough.
</p><p>Three hours later, we sat together on the floor in the dining room. Dad had called to tell us they were on their way home.</p><p>Before breaking my fast, I tried to focus and pray for the things I wanted most, both in this life and the Hereafter. I had so many endeavors, so many goals, but in the end, I only wanted happiness. Looking at Humza sitting across from me with his white topi on his head, I wondered what he was asking for.</p><p>We silently ate our dates and fruit. Just as I was about to give Humza a slice of pizza, Dad arrived with Mom and Nani.</p><p>"Iman! Look at all that you've cooked!" Ammi remarked, surprised. I was hoping the smile didn't disappear after she looked at the kitchen. I tried to clean up, but I didn't have much time to leave it clear and speckle-free.</p><p>"My daughter is a great cook," Abu commented as he dug in.</p><p>I hugged Nani who saw after a week. "Will you be okay with this?" I asked, knowing she didn't like bland food.</p><p>"Beta, I'm so hungry right now I'll eat raw broccoli if I had to!" she said in Urdu.
</p><p>I was overall pleased with my cooking. The chop suey could have used more salt and pepper and the soy sauce was a little too much in the vegetables, but it's not like I could have tasted it while I was cooking! Well, I could have but I don't think I could have rinsed my mouth right away like Ammi does.</p><p>Surprisingly, Ammi wasn't too upset about the kitchen. She was pleased with my efforts.</p><p>"See? If only you'd let me cook more often," I told her while I washed the dishes.</p><p>"True, but don't forget the time you stayed up late to bake cookies instead of studying for your Chemistry test."</p><p>"Oh <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>," I said. "I ended up getting an A in the class anyway," I reminded her. I quickly regretted the way I said the words. All success is from Allah only, I reminded myself.</p><p>"And I'm asking you for the third time now. Cut your nails."</p><p>I sighed. My nails were not that long, but Ammi always bugged me to cut them. I didn't argue.
</p><p>After Maghrib Salah, I sat down to cut my nails. Nani and I took turns to massage oil in our hair. Closing my eyes and feeling the soothing sensation in my head, my thoughts drifted into an open body of reflection and gratitude.</p>
<p>So very pleased,<br>
American Muslim Girl </br></p>
<p>
</p><p>
</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-77801876203196047222010-08-12T18:49:00.006-05:002010-08-12T19:50:11.874-05:00Moon Over Matter<p>I feel as if I am in a vacuum where time is racing past me and I have lost complete sight of it. Is it really already Ramadan?</p>
<p>The first fast is always a little hard for me. I'm afraid I have made my body too used to ingesting food all the time.</p>
<p>I am feeling a little fatigued so I shall let Dreamer take over:</p>
<p><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Well, hello! Ramadan Kareem!</span></p>
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_bMxo1giqbAw/TGSWdxwnPUI/AAAAAAAAAI8/qMIyJpPknl4/s1600/ramadan.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 151px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_bMxo1giqbAw/TGSWdxwnPUI/AAAAAAAAAI8/qMIyJpPknl4/s400/ramadan.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504690082871196994" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_bMxo1giqbAw/TGSS5JbOM2I/AAAAAAAAAI0/WFpE-XBcOWk/s1600/ramadan.png">
</a>
<p style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">One thing I love about Ramadan is that it is so universal. Even though we may not realize it, it arouses a connection to the entire Ummah. Right now, Muslims all over the world are fasting, or are ready to start their fast (Suhoor) or are breaking their fast (Iftaar). Subhan'Allah.</p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">What does disappoint me, however, is that not all of us have started Ramadan on the same day. Here in North America, it was reported that no moon was sighted the night of Tuesday. Yet, there are many people who still started fasting the very next day. How come?</p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">The debate concerns the traditional method versus the technological method, or so I think. According to hadith,</p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><span style="font-style: italic;">Allah's Messenger (peace be upon him) said, "Observe fast on sighting it (the new moon) and break (fast) on sighting it (the new moon), but if the sky is cloudy for you, then complete the number (of thirty)."</span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Some argue that it is very necessary to have actually seen the moon rather than relying on scientific calculations. Tuesday night was not a cloudy night, but rather a clear sky. So, are we going to assume the moon was there because of satellite pictures and calculations? Or should we stick to more traditional methods and not declare Ramadan until the moon really has been sighted?</span></p> <p style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">I believe both methods should be used in a combination to validate each other. However, in the situation that it conflicts with each other, as in the case this year, I think we should rely more heavily on whether the moon was really sighted or not.</p> <p style="color: rgb(0, 204, 204);"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">What do you think?</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">
<br>Dreamer</br></span>
</p>
<p>I don't have the energy to ponder over this matter, Dreamer, because I'm dreaming of delicious spicy Tandoori chicken and cold lemonade with a burst of--</p>
<p>"MOM! Where did you put my basketball?!"</p>
<p>Oh, dear. Humza is at it again. I better go see what this is about.</p>
<p>I find him on the porch outside, beads of sweat on his forehead.</p>
<p>"I can't find it!" he yells in exasperation. "Mom always puts my things where I can't find it."</p>
<p>I touch his shoulder, and he stops talking to look at me. I'm not usually this nice to him. That is why he's giving a weird expression.</p>
<p>"Calm down. Mom is on the phone, but I'll help you find it."</p>
<p>It is amazing how suddenly things become better when the devil is chained. My usual self would have said, "You need to yell like you've been crushed by a car. Go and find it yourself."</p>
<p>We head downstairs to our storage room.</p>
<p>"Are you really going to play basketball right now?" I ask him, my stomach grumbling. We make our way towards the far left corner where Mom has kept all the sports equipment.</p>
<p>"Yea. It'll kill time," he says.</p>
<p>"And I've already checked there. It's not there."</p>
<p>I move my badminton racket and some bats to uncover what was below inside the large bin. "Knowing Mom and how organized she is, I'm pretty sure it's here."</p>
<p>"Why can't she just leave it outside?"</p>
<p>"She probably figured school is starting soon so you won't have time to play," I answer.</p>
<p>I remove Dad's cricket bat and smile. Humza takes it from me and starts examining it.</p>
<p>"Hey, I don't think Dad played cricket at all this summer."</p>
<p>"Yea, he's been too busy with work."</p>
<p>My hands move over the volleyball net, and I see that the basketball is stuck within its folds.</p>
<p>"Somebody didn't look hard enough," I muse.</p>
<p>"What? It's in that?" Humza asks.</p>
<p>We both lift the net and Humza reaches over to grab the basketball.</p>
<p>"I think you just didn't want to lift the entire net when you came looking for it."</p>
<p>Humza ignores me. Now that he's got his ball, he cannot focus on anything else.</p>
<p>"Hey," I tap him on the shoulder. "We'll be going to the masjid tonight for Taraweeh. Don't forget."</p>
<p>"Oh yea," he says. He only came with us several times last Ramadan.</p>
<p>"He's still young," Ammi would tell Abu when he insisted on taking Humza with us. "And he has to go to school as well the next day."</p>
<p>But now there was no excuse about school.</p>
<p>I turn to go back inside. About an hour left until Iftaar. As I was about to remove my shoes, Humza calls me.</p>
<p>"Yea?"</p>
<p>"Come here," he motions to me.</p>
<p>Now what? I put my shoes back on and go near him. He's avoiding eye contact.</p>
<p>"What's the matter?" I ask him, curious now.</p>
<p>"I was...I was really thirsty a while ago," he says, looking down.</p>
<p>"Mmhmm."</p>
<p>"And I biked over to Peter's house. We were going to go biking together. His mom handed both of us ice-cold water bottles."</p>
<p>I understand. My heart reaches for Humza and his innocence.</p>
<p>"And?" I ask, knowing what was to come.</p>
<p>"I...I didn't refuse," he says.</p>
<p>Sometimes, I really do forget how young Humza is, much younger than me.</p>
<p>"Hey, big guy. A little sip won't break your fast, unless if you did it on purpose. But, still. You're trying and that's what counts."</p>
<p>"But, I ruined it," he says in a frustrated tone. "For one water bottle, my whole fast doesn't count."</p>
<p>"Well, you don't know that. Only Allah does. And let it be a reminder for you the next time you're fasting," I explain to him. "Now, shoot some hoops and then come inside because we're a house of hungry people eager to grab a bite once the sun sets."</p>
<p>He nods. "Thanks Iman."</p>
<p>"No prob," I reply.</p>
<p>I go inside the house and decide to muster the energy I need to help Ammi in the kitchen.</p>
<p>"It's all about the good deeds," I pat my grumbling tummy and walk into the kitchen.</p>
<p>Happy Ramadan,
<br>
American Muslim Girl
</br>
</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-32776230475272190542010-08-06T23:08:00.010-05:002010-08-08T00:29:56.099-05:00Perspectives<p>Mariyam called me this morning and asked if I wanted to join her while she went downtown.
</p>
<p>How could I ever refuse?
</p>
<p>"We'll be going to the Skydeck," Mariyam informed me when we got into her Acura SUV.
</p>
<p>"THE SKYDECK?!" I practically screamed.
</p>
<p>"Woah. Calm down there, sister," Ahmed said. I would have given him a fitting reply if we didn't have guests with us.
</p>
<p>"She gets excited over small things," he explained to his friend and his friend's wife. That is no way to talk about your cousin to your friend.
</p>
<p>I turned to the couple and smiled at them. "Going to the Sears Tower Skydeck is no small thing. I've been dying to go there since last year, but no one was brave enough to join me," I explained.
</p>
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bMxo1giqbAw/TF41lB9_VQI/AAAAAAAAAIs/3z7tBUUVh5c/s1600/theledge3.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 169px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_bMxo1giqbAw/TF41lB9_VQI/AAAAAAAAAIs/3z7tBUUVh5c/s200/theledge3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5502894704993195266" border="0" /></a>
<p>"Is it scary?" Anisa asked.
</p>
<p>"Well," I began, "if you go and stand on the ledge, which is an extension from the 103rd floor, you will be surrounded by glass from top, bottom, and sides."
</p>
<p>Maybe I shouldn't have said that. Anisa didn't look the most excited, but her husband, Sajid, definitely did.
</p>
<p>"Good thing I brought along my Canon. It's gonna be an incredible view."
</p>
<p>"And it's called the Willis Tower now. Not Sears," Ahmed corrected.
</p>
<p>Well, I <span style="font-style: italic;">obviously </span>know that, but to me, it is still the Sears Tower.
</p>
<p>"It's the tallest building in North America, right?" Mariyam asked.
</p>
<p>"What a true Chicagoan my sister is," Ahmed said, "she has to confirm that fact with me."
</p>
<p>I knew Mariyam wasn't too excited, but she had to drive. Ahmed was still recovering from the surgery on his arm.
</p>
<p>There was traffic on Lake Shore Drive, and on top of that, Mariyam was being very nice and allowing cars to cut in front of her.
</p>
<p>"You don't have to let every car go," I finally said.
</p>
<p>"Hey, when I need to go in another lane, someone will be nice to me too."
</p>
<p>"Yea right. If anything, city drivers are <span style="font-style: italic;">aggressive </span>and not <span style="font-style: italic;">as </span>nice as you."
</p>
<p>"It's a good deed," she simply said. I couldn't argue with that.
</p>
<p>After the long drive, it was a long wait in line. I began to get impatient. So, I tried to entertain myself by observing people.
</p>
<p>You could tell apart these tourists just based on how they spoke. The Southerner accent vs. the New York accent and of course, if someone was speaking amazing French or Madrid Spanish, they were probably European. When some of them looked at me, I smiled at them. But, sheesh, some people are just rude and don't like to smile.
</p>
<p>I wanted to talk privately to Mariyam about any marriage updates, but I didn't get a chance. Especially not in the elevator.
</p>
<p>I jumped up and down like a little girl who just got a princess dollhouse when I got to the ledge.
</p>
<p>Anisa started to look pale just at the sight of it, so Mariyam took her away. I didn't waste any time in taking the breathtaking view of Chicago underneath my shining gladiators.
</p>
<p>"You are a chicken," I told Mariyam afterward.
</p>
<p>"What? Me?" she asked, feigning innocence. We were driving home after dropping Ahmed and the couple over to a relative's house where they were going to have lunch.
</p>
<p>"You used Anisa as an excuse to not stand on the ledge. CHICKEN!" I have so much fun teasing girls for their scare of heights. Thank the Lord I'm not as scared; I am quite an adventurer.
</p>
<p>"The poor girl was going to puke and her hubby was too busy clicking pictures," she defended herself.
</p>
<p>"Speaking of hubbies, what's the status on the matrimonial site?" I asked.
</p>
<p>Her expression changed to a more solemn look. She shrugged.
</p>
<p>"What happened? No one interesting?" I asked, slightly disappointed. I was looking forward to good news, although I have had my fair share of weddings this summer.
</p>
<p>It looked like she was hesitating to tell me something.
</p>
<p>"You found someone," I guessed, "but there's something wrong with him." Wait, did I just say that?
</p>
<p>"He's Arab," Mariyam said simply.
</p>
<p>I understood right away. "Your parents don't like that." I knew my aunt and uncle pretty well to know that.
</p>
<p>She pursed her lips. "They would never agree. I haven't even told them."
</p>
<p>"Did you even contact him?" I asked.
</p>
<p>"Yea, through the website. I can't say anything until I meet him in person, but he seems like a really good person."
</p>
<p>"You should at least tell Khala about it," I encouraged. "You never know."
</p>
<p>We parked in front of my house, but I didn't leave immediately.
</p>
<p>"An Arab. That is so cool," I mused, leaning my head back on the seat. A streak of sunlight settled across my face, but I didn't mind.
</p>
<p>"Oh Iman, the hopeless romantic." She knew me too well. "I just wish..." she drifted off into her thoughts.
</p>
<p>Mariyam is like an older sister to me more than a cousin. I looked at her and touched her shoulder.
</p>
<p>"I don't like it that our family sometimes considers our ethnicity to be superior over others. It's just not right," she said, anger and frustration evident in her voice.
</p>
<p>"Yea, when culture is given more importance over religion," I added. "I don't know why we can't marry outside the Indian culture, but Mariyam, if Allah wills, then that won't last forever."
</p>
<p>I wanted to give her hope, but she didn't want it.
</p>
<p>"If you go against the family's will, you're taunted by everyone."
</p>
<p>"Who cares? As long as your happy?" I said.
</p>
<p>"No. My parent's happiness means a lot to me," she said.
</p>
<p>We sat in silence for a while. I couldn't come up with anything else to say.
</p>
<p>"Hey, Iman, why did you get so serious all of a sudden?" she asked, breaking the silence. She softly pinched my cheek like one would to a young child. I drew back, laughing.
</p>
<p>"Serious and me? C'mon," I asked. "I should be heading home now before la madre gets worried."
</p>
<p>"Sure, chica. Go ahead and enjoy the last month of vacation."
</p>
<p>"Hardly a month. And Ramadan is next week!"
</p>
<p>"I know! Woohoo! Pray hard and don't waste your time!"
</p>
<p>I was happy to leave her smiling, but I prayed that things would work out for her. She really truly deserves a good husband.
</p>
<p>Keep smiling,
<br>
American Muslim Girl
</br>
</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-27972527301811649662010-08-02T14:43:00.015-05:002010-08-03T23:46:41.540-05:00Let's Spill a Secret Here<p>Today is August 3rd, which marks three months since this blog was launched and this is the 10th post thus far.</p>
<p>That is pretty special, so I have decided to share a secret. I have pondered long and hard about whether I should even do so, but then again, what is there to lose?</p>
<p>So, drum roll please.</p>
<p>The truth is...</p>
<p>...I AM IRON MAN.</p>
<p>Okay, I'm sorry. I just really enjoy that last line from the movie. It's such a powerful ending. And oh hey, did you know that Transformers 3 was being filmed in Chicago last week? Go Chicago!</p>
<p>Well, now that I have vented the movie fanatic in me and possibly annoyed you a tad bit, I shall move on to our little secret.</p>
<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_bMxo1giqbAw/TFjl24jocJI/AAAAAAAAAIU/lZxerBVGAIo/s1600/beach.jpg">
</a><p>Have you ever wondered <span style="font-style: italic;">why </span>my blog is written with dialogue? Do you think my posts sometimes read like a book or story? Well.</p>
<p>The truth is...I am a fictional character. Yes. I know you were <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> expecting that. And it really does sound demeaning, but I thought I should share it with you nonetheless.</p>
<p>Let me explain. Wait, I think I should rather have my author explain. She gives herself the pseudonym <span style="font-style: italic;">Dreamer</span> and I have the pleasure of introducing you to her:</p>
<span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><p>Hi there. I am so sorry to intrude like this, but I must say I have been feeling so guilty lately. I feel like a betrayer, a liar, and so much more.</p>
<p>First let me properly introduce myself. I am, of course, an American Muslim, currently a University student, and the <span style="font-style: italic;">real </span>author of this blog.</p>
<p>You see, I love to write, but alas, I do not have many people to read my short pieces of fiction. People, especially here in America at least, are just too busy in their own lives. Time is of the essence and who really picks up a book now to read for the pure pleasure of reading? Well, there are a lot of people that do read actually, myself included. But I have not published anything yet so you won't find my work on Kindle or an iPad, or even your local bookstore or library.</p></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><p></p>
<p>But I have not lost hope. In this modern era, it is fortunate that we have the opportunity to write a blog and to be published worldwide. </p></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Subhan'Allah.<p></p>
</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bMxo1giqbAw/TFjmDjve_yI/AAAAAAAAAIc/hOMNzm7XSA8/s1600/beach.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 231px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_bMxo1giqbAw/TFjmDjve_yI/AAAAAAAAAIc/hOMNzm7XSA8/s200/beach.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5501399893641461538" border="0" /></a>
<span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><p>Two years earlier, I started a blog with the attempt to give my readers a chance to read Muslim fiction. I tried to write at least every week, but I found the task both very difficult and time consuming. Moreover, I had no followers of my blog, which discouraged me greatly because I was writing for the sake of having people read it.</p></span><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"><p></p>
<p>I discontinued my blog and continued to write on the pages of my small notebook like I did previously. However, I was constantly reminded of blogs and the door of opportunities it opened. I decided I needed a theme to write and stick to. Thus, I came up with <span style="font-style: italic;">Blog of an American Muslim Girl</span>.</p>
<p>It is difficult to write a personal blog. The problem is what if one does not want to share his or her identity, family problems, the drama that exists, the test one failed, the private conversations one holds? Also, my initial motivation to write a blog was for the purpose of writing fiction so I didn't want to be writing about <span style="font-style: italic;">myself.</span></p>
<p>I decided I would blog from the perspective of a fictional character. Yes, this little family, which includes Iman, Humza, Abu, Ammi, and many other characters, is completely made up. It became so much easier and so much more fun to write this way.</p>
<p>Unfortunately, I am giving the impression that I really am Iman and Humza is my brother and so forth. Alhamdulillah, I am so thrilled to have followers of this blog. After receiving comments which implied this misunderstanding that I was really Iman and I was writing about my family, I truly felt that I needed to disclose this secret.</p>
<p>Fiction is so beautiful and such a powerful tool. You can recreate and stir up exciting things with a pool of memories, experiences, and your very own imagination.</p>
<p>Most of my fiction concerns Muslim characters because their lives are so interesting. This blog is an attempt to both expand and share my writing in addition to exploring my faith and this life.</p>
<p>I hope you continue to ride this journey with me. It is a humble request that you send this blog link to your fellow non-Muslim friends. Many people are oblivious to the lives of Muslims and how Islam influences their daily actions, and <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>is the main force that drives me to write.</p>
<p>Insha'Allah, God Willing, we shall meet again. Iman is becoming a little impatient so I shall let her continue now.</p>
<p>Sincerely,
<br>
Dreamer
</br>
</p>
</span>
<p>Ahh thank you. Now the question that I am dying to ask: What do you think? Are you angry, confused, or taken aback? I hope you will not leave me thinking that I am a good-for-nothing fictitious character.</p>
<p>Sigh.</p>
<p>You see, I am a mosaic of a variety of American Muslim girls, and though I may be fictitious, I am real in a sense. Anyone who writes doesn't always use only pure imagination. They are influenced in so many ways.</p>
<p>But, enough of my talking. What do you have to say? I'm craving for some feedback now that my identity is known. Thank you for reading. :)</p>
<p>Kindly awaiting your response,
<br>
American Muslim Girl
</br>
</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4758854528837525903.post-19586224017715659872010-07-31T19:52:00.016-05:002010-08-01T00:21:39.736-05:00What's For Dinner?<p>I couldn't sleep past 7 in the morning today. That's what happens when you get a mother who gets up so early in the morning to start cooking...for dinner.</p>
<p>We held a dawut today, which basically means a dinner party, except it's not a party where you dance or anything, and the dinner is less than formal. It's more like, "I'm-obligated-to-invite-you-over-for-dinner-so-let's-chat-and-have-some-dinner-and-then-you-can-leave."</p>
<p>I'm just kidding. I love dawuts and so does Ammi, but I don't like seeing her getting stressed. And sometimes it's not wholly enjoyable to cook 3 main courses supplied with a series of appetizers and desserts, to be followed with fruit and shortly thereafter, chai and biscuits...all in one day...for, say, 15 people. But at the end of the day, it's all about the good deeds you obtain by serving people and for the sake of Allah, and so it is with such intentions that we hold these dawuts.</p>
<p>Yesterday, we gathered in the living room and held a family discussion to decide the menu. Aren't we such a cute family?</p>
<p>"I want to eat gyros," Humza pointed out.</p>
<p>I rolled my eyes at him. "No one cares what you want to eat. This dinner is clearly not meant for you." By the way, I'm really craving gyros too. Was the last time I had it...three weeks ago?</p>
<p>"Stop it, Iman," Ammi said, trying to focus the conversation. She makes all the decisions of what to make anyway, but we have to be there for support.</p>
<p>"Ammi, can I please make my pasta dish? Everyone will like it so much!" I pleaded. Ammi gave me that look, and I knew where the answer was headed, so I quickly turned to Abu.</p>
<p>"Dad, don't you think we should have some <span style="font-style: italic;">variety </span>in the types of food we serve?"</p>
<p>The look on Dad's face told me that he really wanted to end this family discussion so he can watch some TV. I would have pitied him, except he was out all day and it's his duty as a father to spend time with his family. </p>
<p>"I--yea, I guess so. That's a good idea. Whatever your mom wishes." And with that, he leaned back to slouch on the sofa. How many times need I remind him that he should sit straight and maintain a good posture?</p>
<p>Anyhow, after 35-40 minutes of discussion, the menu was finally decided. Would you care to see?</p>
<p><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Starters</span>
</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>
<br>Vegetable Pakora-<span style="font-style: italic;">fried balls of flour and potato</br>
</span>
<br>Beef-filled pastries-<span style="font-style: italic;">fluffy pastries with a filling of ground beef, spices, and mozzarella cheese</br>
</span>
<br>Potato Salad-<span style="font-style: italic;">because Mom said I couldn't make my pasta dish, I made this instead</br>
</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Main Courses</span>
</span></span>
<br>Tandoori Chicken-<span style="font-style: italic;">marinated spicy chicken served with fresh roti</br>
</span>
<br>Chicken Biryani-<span style="font-style: italic;">a mixture of spicy chicken and rice served with raita sauce</br>
</span>
<br>Mom's Special Fish-<span style="font-style: italic;">tilapia fish cooked with herbs and some spices (a very healthy yet savoring dish)</br>
</span> </p>
<p><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 51, 255);"><span style="font-style: italic;">Dessert</span></span>
<br>Gulab Jamun-<span style="font-style: italic;">balls of flour soaked in a sweet syrup topped with saffron</br>
</span>
<br>Gajar Ka Halwa-<span style="font-style: italic;">carrot pudding topped with almonds and raisins</br>
</span></p>
<p><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Following Dessert</span>
</span></span>
<span style="font-style: italic;"></span>
<br>Fruit Platter-<span style="font-style: italic;">because dinner would be incomplete without it</br>
</span>
<br>Chai and Biscuits-<span style="font-style: italic;">because Indians know how to drink chai excessively the best</br>
</span></p>
<p>I guess that justifies waking up so early during the weekend, but not prioritizing cooking over Salaat. Around five in the evening, I reminded Ammi to pray.</p>
<p>"Ammi, it'll be Asr time soon."</p>
<p>She didn't reply, so I said it again. </p>
<p>"I'll pray later," she replied.</p>
<p>"But, the time for praying Zuhr will be over soon. When are you going to--?"</p>
<p>"Don't start giving me orders now," Ammi interrupted, stirring something in a large pot. She was sweating next to the stove. Just an hour before, she had ordered Abu and Humza to leave the kitchen so she could focus. I thought I should too, just for a little while.</p>
<p>There were three families we invited. The first was a family that had recently immigrated here from India. They are my aunt's sister's family. The second was a couple who were married two years ago, but had recently relocated here from Texas. They had a two-month-old baby boy who was very cute, but I was too afraid to hold him. I can carry furniture, tackle Humza, and sit through an entire 3-hour Bollywood movie, but I can't muster the courage to carry an infant. It's not a problem when they're past a year old though.</p>
<p>So, where was I again? Oh, yea. The third was a couple who got married just three months ago. Man, our family is expanding. </p>
<p>Fortunately, everyone ate dinner very well and repeatedly told Ammi what a great cook she was.</p>
<p>Alas, I could not enjoy dinner for I was overwhelmed with the amount of food in front of me and preoccupied with the task of ensuring that all dishes were full, and if not, that I refilled it. Not to mention I was very busy answering Ayana's questions about how school is like here and I could not be happier that she can now fulfill her dream of becoming a doctor. </p>
<p>By the way, why does everyone want to become a doctor these days? Before I run off on a tangent, I'd at least like to express my sincere hope that the "I want to become a doctor" does not transform to "I want to be like Hannah Montana."</p>
<p>I just had a very late dinner right now, but I am content. And the house is eerily quiet now. Because I ate so late, I have every reason now to stay up late. I should probably start browsing for some new heels online. My sparkling silver heels have made their way into The Salvation Army's donation box and I am sad to part from them, but I must since they no longer fit me.</p>
<p>And now, if you will excuse me, I shall indulge myself in diligently searching for a size 6.5, 3in silver heel.</p>
<p>Happy eating,
American Muslim Girl
</p>
<p>P.S. Why does this post show up as 7:52? It's actually 11:52pm. Technology is beyond my understanding sometimes. </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4