2
ME, THE INVISIBLE GIRL?
The next week zips by. International Women’s Day has come and gone. We’re currently on the third and final day of presentations, and my sense of dread starts to build up. I managed to avoid being called on both last Thursday and Friday. Forget having the Monday blues today – I’ve got a serious case of nervous butterflies. Once again, I’ve come to school empty-handed. Guilt over skipping a homework assignment sits in my belly like a heavy rock. This is definitely a new and super-uncomfortable experience for me.
The last presentation is concluding. My classmate, Roxanne, is passing around different fancy-schmancy anklets that her mother’s company makes.
“Please handle these items with care, girls!” Ms. Grant says. “Most of these anklets are made with real gems cast in gold and silver.”
“Yes, my momma gave me this stuff on loan,” Roxanne says so quietly in her Texan accent that you practically have to fall out of your seat to hear her.
The prized anklets that are circulating land in Tammi’s hands. She naturally has to make a splash as the leader of the ‘Cool as Ice’ girls. In a blink of an eye, Tammi rolls up the hem of her uniform and tries on a pair of anklets.
“How do I look?” Tammi asks, standing up and strutting her stuff like a model on an imaginary catwalk.
I half expect my fellow classmates to break out in applause. While this doesn’t happen, our room is abuzz with excitement.
“She looks absolutely stunning,” I hear girls whisper from the desks behind me.
Tammi has gone from popular student to celebrity extraordinaire.
“Jeez, those anklets make some noise!” Juliet, another of the ‘Cool as Ice’ girls says.
‘Who would’ve thought that Roxanne’s got a momma who makes tinkling, jingling anklets?’ I say to myself. After all, Roxanne is THE quietest student in our class. If you ask me, that’s pretty ironic. Boy, would my English teacher be proud that I just used one of her spelling test words. I know for a fact that my mom would never wear a pair of noisy anklets. Not because anklets are a ‘fashion don’t’ or anything. Rather, our holy book, the Qur’an, states that women shouldn’t wear anything that makes noise when they walk. Yes, my mom is different yet again.
Once the last of the anklets has finished circulating, I sink deep into my seat, hoping against hope that Ms. Grant won’t notice me. I wish I could press a secret button under my desk to become the Invisible Girl. Why haven’t scientists come up with this invention? Why, why, why? ‘Oh Allah, please, please, please don’t let her call on me,’ I silently pray.
It’s too late. Ms. Grant looks at me directly. “You’re up next, Farah Khan. In fact, you’re the last student remaining to present.”
It turns out Allah has another plan for me. Perspiration trickles down my back.
Suddenly, an age-old excuse pops into my head. “Um, Ms. Grant,” I blurt out nervously, “I don’t actually have anything to present. My, er, dog ate my homework.”
My classmates hoot with laughter.
“Nice one, Farah!” someone cheers.
I’m not in the mood to be congratulated. I didn’t mean to be funny, and deep in my heart I know I shouldn’t have lied about it, not even a white lie like this one. But my lame excuse came blurting out on account of desperation. Feeling totally ill at ease, I sink even deeper into my seat. If only the floor would swallow me whole!
“That’s enough,” Ms. Grant says firmly, cutting into my thoughts and into the chuckles rippling through the room. “Farah, I’d like to speak to you privately. Everyone else is dismissed, as there are no further presentations.”
As expected, there are no objections to an early exit. Girls practically fly out of our classroom. As I approach my teacher it feels like lead weights are strapped to my feet.
Ms. Grant takes a seat behind her desk. “Would you care to tell me what’s going on?”
I stand before her like a soldier who’s been caught deserting his post. Words struggle to escape my dry tongue.
Ms. Grant isn’t rattled by my silence. “I know you don’t have a pet pooch, Farah. I remember the excellent paper you wrote on ‘Islam and Animals’.”
Guilt splatters cherry-coloured paint across my cheeks. I don’t know what I was thinking when I told that lie. “You’re right, Ms. Grant,” I state quietly, with my shoes shuffling. “We don’t have any dogs.”
“Frankly, I don’t know what to make of this,” Ms. Grant admits, fingering a manilla file folder on her desk. “You usually put two hundred percent effort into your assignments.”
I nod in agreement.
“I don’t mean to pry,” Ms. Grant says delicately, “but is everything okay at home?”
“Yes!” I cry abruptly. “I mean, everything is great at home.”
“Then what is it?”
I decide to be honest. There’s no point in denying my dilemma any longer. My head hangs so low that my dark hair masks my vision. “The truth is… my mother…is, well… boring.”
“Oh, my word!” Ms. Grant states, throwing her liver-spotted hand to her chest. “I can’t believe you said that. I’ve met Mrs. Khan at parent-teacher conferences and she’s not dull in the least.”
I shake my head fiercely. “She’s not like the other girls’ moms!” I yelp. “I searched my house from top to bottom looking for something interesting to present, but I came up with nothing.”
Ms. Grant crosses her arms squarely. “I find that hard to believe. I’m giving you one more week to find something. Otherwise, you’ll be subject to detention, young lady.”
I swallow a gulp the size of a football. I’ve never been in any teacher’s bad books before.
I find Ashanti waiting for me outside our classroom. I’m so happy to see my loyal friend that I give her a great bear hug. I tell Ashanti about my one-week deadline. I’m in serious panic mode because I have no idea how I’ll find anything. We walk to the Banana Boat together, trying to think up a solution.
Ashanti scrunches up her forehead in deep thought. “Why don’t you tell everyone about your mom’s knack for art?” she suggests.
“No, that won’t do,” I say, shrugging off her idea.
Okay, it’s true. My mom makes a killer paper mache paste, and she made the beautiful quilt hanging in our living room. But she isn’t exactly the next Pablo Picasso.
“I don’t see why you can’t talk about your mom’s artistic talents,” Ashanti persists. “She’s held craft parties for us every Monday night since we were four years old.”
I still won’t budge. “The last thing I want is for everyone to think of us as toddlers who still like to cut and paste – not in our school!”
“You’re such a stubborn mule!” Ashanti laughs, putting her strong arm around my shoulder. “But I get your point. I am looking forward to what your mom has planned for us this evening, though.”
3
MY MOTHER’S SECRET LIFE
Unfortunately, things at home are not what I expected. Not in a good way either. You’d think a tornado just whipped through the house! My mother’s prized spotless kitchen is upside down. Boxes are everywhere. Mom is buried behind a stack of old photos. Not only that, she’s distracted when Ashanti and I enter.
“As-salamu ‘alaykum, Mom,” I say, clearing my throat loudly to get her attention.
My mother’s bright green eyes open in surprise. “Wa ‘alaykum as-salam, honey. I didn’t even hear you two come in.” She smiles at Ashanti. “How’s Farah’s favourite ‘soul sister’ keeping?”
“Couldn’t be better, Mrs. Khan!” Ashanti says, sticking her two thumbs up.
My eyes dart about, trying to figure out what we’ll be doing this evening. “Mom, are we going to make some kind of photo collage?”
My mother gives a little laugh and fiddles with her shoulder-length, straight black hair. This is a sure sign that something’s on her mind.
“Um, no, honey,” Mom says apologetically. “I actually forgot al
l about our arts and crafts night!” She glances at the pictures in front of her. “I’m sorry; I guess I got carried away.”
I feel my temper rise. After the rough day I’ve had at school, I was really looking forward to relaxing with a fun project. “How unfair, Mom!” I complain, dropping my backpack on the ground.
As usual, good old Ashanti tries to keep the peace. “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Khan,” she says, with a quick wave of her hand. “You’ve got a PERFECT track record. This is the first time you’ve forgotten in, like, seven years. Sometimes I wonder if my mom even remembers my middle name.”
“Don’t say that,” Mom replies, getting up from our kitchen table. She cups Ashanti’s face affectionately. “I know for a fact that your mother loves you very much.”
Mom squeezes both of our shoulders. “You children are the most precious gift from Allah—or God, as our Christian friends say. Don’t ever, ever forget that.”
I feel myself soften. “Moms are pretty special, too.” I kiss the side of my mother’s lightly-tanned cheek, feeling like a dork for my earlier actions.
“Okay, ladies, cut out all the mushy stuff!” Ashanti interrupts.
Mom pinches Ashanti’s young cheek. “We love you, too, silly girl.”
We all laugh together.
My eyes wander back to the scattered photographs laying everywhere. “So, what’s the deal with all these pictures?”
Mom leads us to the kitchen table. “I was walking down memory lane,” she says. Her beautiful eyes remain distant. “I was trying to figure out my life journey. I wanted to remember and reflect on how I got to where I am today.”
Mom motions for us to sit down, and picks up a set of pictures to explain. The first photo catches me off guard. It’s a family portrait. My eyes are glued to the image of my late father. His winning smile pierces my heart. I don’t talk much about my dad—not even with Ashanti. It’s been more than two years since he died, but it still hurts too much.
“As you know, Mr. Khan’s death was very sudden,” Mom says to Ashanti. “He went out to fetch some milk at night, and a drunk driver hit him. In a split second his life was over…” Mom says softly, caressing the family portrait in her hand. “May Allah have mercy on him. My biggest regret is that I never had a chance to say goodbye.”
A wild tide of emotions hits my stomach. “I miss him so much, Mom,” I blurt aloud.
Mom brushes my coffee-coloured hair with her fingertips. “So do I, honey. Inshallah we will all be together in Paradise one day.”
Ashanti peers closer at the photograph. “You look gorgeous, Mrs. Khan! I mean, you’re still very pretty, but I’ve forgotten how much you really decked yourself out back then. Your makeup and jewellery were so funky.”
Mom bites her lip in thought. “I don’t feel like dressing up anymore,” she says. “I used to enjoy beautifying myself for my husband. Now that I’m a widow, I have no desire to wear lipstick or other makeup at home.”
This is the first time Mom has admitted this in my presence. However, now that I think about it, her appearance has changed since Dad passed away. She practically never wears her long, flowing dresses. She’s always running errands in tired-looking jeans, and a long top. Ever so slowly, small lines have crept into her face. I always thought her plain appearance had to do with her hectic schedule—not because she just wanted to look pretty for Dad. How did I not connect the dots?
Mom lightens the mood, pulling out some old photographs she found of Ashanti and me. There is one of a trip the three of us made to the Los Angeles Zoo and Botanical Gardens. Then, there’s a picture of an arts and crafts night from long ago—we were finger painting puppets made out of paper bags. Ashanti had serious style even at five years old. She’s gone through more hairdos than a baby goes through diapers! Her hair is constantly updated with different styles courtesy of Ms. Smith’s ‘Blinding Light’ personal hairstylist.
The last picture we see is of Mom making a speech to her graduating class at UCLA (for those of you who aren’t from sunny California, that’s the University of California, Los Angeles).
“I had the honour of speaking there because I was named valedictorian of my class,” Mom tells us. She looks fondly at the photograph of her standing at a podium in a cap and gown. “Valedictorian means top student. I worked very hard, and earned good grades in my business program.”
Ashanti shakes her head. “I don’t get it, Mrs. Khan,” she says, wondering. “Why didn’t you make a great career for yourself as a businesswoman with your awesome grades?”
Mom smiles. “I actually was a career woman when I first got married,” she tells us. “In fact, I worked as a financial advisor for a Fortune 500 company. I left my job when Farah was born.”
This is news to me. Mom doesn’t usually talk much about her past. This admission of hers has got me curious, and at this point it doesn’t add up. “I don’t see why you’d have to quit your job after having me,” I say.
Mom entwines her long fingers together. “It was a personal choice,” she explains. “I stopped working because your Dad made enough money to support us without an added paycheck from me.” Mom looks at me thoughtfully. “I felt it was more important that I devote myself to your needs than to build a career for myself. Work was a great challenge, and fun, but it also required a lot of long hours away from home. I didn’t want to come home exhausted every night, too tired to give you and your father enough love and attention. So I became a stay-at-home-Mom,” she remarks with a smile.
“Wow!” Ashanti exclaims with a gasp. “That’s really sweet, Mrs. Khan. That’s a big sacrifice.”
“I don’t want to give you girls the wrong idea,” Mom says to us quickly. “Every woman’s life story and choices are unique.” She looks at Ashanti directly now. “Society isn’t always kind to single, working women. Your mom has done exceptionally well despite everything she’s faced. You should be proud of her.”
Just as Mom says this, Ashanti’s stomach and mine growl in unison–proof that we’re ‘soul sisters.’
“You poor kids!” Mom says, getting up immediately. “We’ve been so busy talking that I haven’t even fed you anything. You must be so hungry after a long day at school!”
Mom takes off to grind up some meat at lightning speed.
Ashanti pats her empty belly. “I may have a housekeeper with a fancy cooking school degree, but I love your mom’s home-cooked food,” she says, licking her lips. “Mrs. Khan makes awesome shish kebabs. You’re one lucky girl!”
Ashanti gets her wish. Mom does end up making shish kebabs for dinner, and Ashanti goes home like a happy camper.
Late in the evening I go to Mom’s bedroom closet to snoop through her stuff. I have exactly one week to find something to present at school. The countdown has begun. I’ve heard awful things about what happens to kids in detention. Teachers make you wash chalkboards with rags that previous students in detention have spat on. Read: Yuck, yuck and yuck. I need to find something fast. It doesn’t help that I’m standing on a wobbly stool. If I could just reach the top shelf! I see a big, inviting box up there marked “Sisters Parties.” Maybe my mother has some cool frocks and cosmetics tucked inside. Muslim women have the freedom to dress up to the max at these social events. I’ve seen Mom and her best friend, Aunty Sheila, wear some drool-worthy outfits to Muslim Sister Parties. But my mother’s daily wear is more simple. The only things I’ve found in the room so far are long-sleeved cotton shirts, a few faded shalwar kameez and other traditional Indian clothes. At last, my fingers grasp my target. Trying to balance, I pull the box down, legs and fingers shaking. My conscience tells me I should be respecting my mom’s privacy, but I just don’t know what else to do.
“What are you looking for, Farah?”
I’m caught totally off guard. I fall off the wobbly stool and land flat on my face. Talk about busted! I feel like a criminal who’s been caught red-handed.
Mom puts out her soft hand. “Are you alright, honey?”
/> I latch on and get up. “I’m okay,” I say, brushing off my clothes. “I’m sorry, Mom,” I mumble, staring at the floor.
My brain goes into a tizzy now, telling my heart to confess to Mom about what’s really going on. How can I do that??? I wonder to myself. The last thing I want to do is to hurt my mother’s feelings. Read: I just have to find a solution by myself.
“I, er, wasn’t looking for, um, anything in particular,” I blurt out another white lie. “Just, you know, browsing.”
Mom’s fingers toy with one of her long strands of hair, like she does when something is up. I’m caught off guard once again. “Have you figured out what I’ve been up to?” she asks sheepishly.
I look at her, genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
Mom stares at the beige carpet under our feet. “I’m sorry for keeping this ‘arrangement’ from you,” she says with remorse. “I know we share everything, and it must hurt knowing that I’ve kept you in the dark. I just wanted everything to be finalized before I got you involved. I hope you can understand.”
My stomach flip-flops. “What do you mean—what’s going on?” I ask, a million bad scenarios zooming through my mind.
Mom gently takes my hand. “There’s nothing to worry about, Farah,” she reassures me. “Let me just start at the beginning.”
I nod.
Mom crinkles the corners of her large eyes. “First, I’ll test your knowledge about why I started wearing hijab,” she says playfully, raising a naturally arched eyebrow. “Tell me: why do you think I made the choice to become a hijabi?”
“Simple!” I answer, thoroughly enjoying our game. “You wear a hijab because your beauty is so special, it’s private. You only want to share it with the people you’re closest to—like your child, husband, parents, brothers and sisters.”
The Hijab Boutique Page 2