“It’s much easier than you think. And Obayda will love it. When I was a young girl, my neighbor was a bacha posh. She was my age, and we used to play together until her mother changed her into a boy. Then she ran with the boys and was too busy to have anything to do with me. She was the happiest girl in our neighborhood, I promise. Do it now, before the girls start school. It’ll be easier on everyone.”
My eyes go wide. Is she suggesting what I think she’s suggesting?
“And for how long do we keep her that way?” My mother sounds unsure.
“It’s very simple, dear. Make Obayda into a boy. With her as a son, she will bring good luck to your home. You’ll see your husband cheer up. Then you plan for another baby in the family. Having a bacha posh at home brings boy energy into your household. The next baby that comes will be a boy. And once you have a real son, watch what happens. Your husband will come back to life. I’ve seen this work in the families around us. It’s not magic—it’s just how it is. And that’s when Obayda can go back to being a girl. Everyone wins.”
I hear my mother sigh.
“How will I make her believe it? How will I make her sisters believe it?”
“Make her not just a son, but the most precious son that ever lived. Take away her chores. Don’t let her do anything that girls usually do. Tell her she’s a boy with every bite of food you feed her, with every word you speak to her, with every pass you give her on her boyish troublemaking.”
My mother is silent. She must be thinking this over.
“And there’s something else you’ll need to think about,” my aunt warns. “You must know that the brothers cannot go on supporting an entire family forever. A boy can work and earn money. A boy is good luck. A boy brings other boys into the family. Girls can’t do any of those things. You’re not in Kabul anymore, my dear. This town is run by that awful warlord Abdul Khaliq, and if you don’t throw yourself at his feet, it’s hard to scrape by. Time to think seriously about what you can do for your family. You don’t want to see your daughters go hungry, do you?”
“Of course not,” my mother whispers. It sounds like her voice is cracking.
Meena takes my hand into hers and squeezes. There is a pause. I can hear my aunt pouring herself a cup of tea.
“Make Obayda your son, and let him fix everything that’s wrong with your family.”
Three
“You’ll be able to do what no other girl can do.”
She gets my attention with that one.
“You’re lucky to have this chance. Girls would kill to take your place.”
This is what my mother tells me. She’s been chewing her lip for the past three weeks, thinking about my aunt’s suggestion to make me into a boy. She seems to have woken this morning with her mind made up. She knows I’m nervous and I can tell she is too. I don’t know how people will react to me. I’m not even sure how I’ll react to me.
“It won’t be forever.”
Maybe that’s where the problem is.
My mother wields a pair of scissors, blades that usually nip pieces of string or folds of paper or stems of mint—nothing as important as this. She looks unsure.
So am I.
For ten years I’ve been a girl. That’s a pretty long time. I like being a girl. I like doing girl things. My mother tells me that as a baby, I danced before I walked. I would crawl up to a table, pull myself to stand, and sway side to side to the rhythm of the music on my father’s radio. I love when the song starts slow and then moves into tabla-drum rumbles, fingers beating against an animal skin stretched taut, and the song goes wild. It’s fast and exciting, and I can’t help but bounce to it.
By the time I was four, I had memorized a few dances from some Indian movies. I’d put on my fullest skirt and sneak one of my mother’s head scarves from her dresser. My favorite was the purple-and-gold one my sisters had outgrown. With the ends of the scarf in my outstretched fingertips, I would pivot on one foot, my right shoulder dipping in and flaring back, in and back, in and back.
Neela, Meena, and Alia love to watch me dance, though they can’t keep from telling me what I’m doing wrong.
“Don’t forget your eyes!” my sisters would chide. “The eyes are so important. They tell the story of the song.”
Meena heard an Indian movie star say so once in an interview. I would keep mine wide, my eyeballs rolling from corner to corner and my lips curled in a coy smile. I learned how to flip my head just right so all my hair would fall to the side.
I couldn’t mess up a single move. My sisters would call me on it if I did.
My wrists would twirl together in a wide arc over my head. I loved when my sisters would clap for me.
When I was around six years old and Alia was eight, she decided we should re-create the duet dance, one where a man and woman flirt with each other. The woman in the movie pretends not to be interested, but the guy chases after her because he loves her so much. I was given the part of the guy because Neela and Meena thought I’d be better at it. It wasn’t as much fun at first. I missed making my skirt billow out as I twirled, looking like a spinning top. But I could do it. Shoulders back, hips forward, head cocked to the side. Alia’s steps were delicate and graceful like the song of a flute; mine were heavy and bold like fists thumping on a drum.
Leaning in, I would take playful steps toward my sister, grabbing the end of her head scarf just as the actor did in the movie. Hand over hand, I’d pull her closer to me, in a tug-of-war that no woman ever won. I was the victor, the conqueror, the man.
But that was pretend, and what my mother is talking about now is very different. She’s talking about a real change, not something I’ll stop doing at the end of a song.
“You won’t have to worry about tying your hair back. Remember last Friday, when you wanted to hang upside down from the branch of that old poplar tree in the park? How long have you been asking me to let you run with the boys when they chase each other through the streets? How many times have you asked to ride your cousin’s bicycle? Today is the day I will tell you yes. Yes, yes, yes.”
My mother is good. If she were one of those kids who sold sticks of stale gum on the street, all the foreigners would buy from her.
My sisters follow as my mother leads me to the patio behind our four-room house. It’s a simple house with nothing on the walls but a prayer in calligraphy and a picture of our family. Our home is surrounded by a courtyard, which sounds fancy but just means there’s open space. There’s a pear tree in the front and a dried-out acacia tree in the back, where our laundry hangs on a clothesline. The courtyard is closed in with a clay wall that goes all the way around, making our house a box inside a box. There’s a gate in the wall that opens into the street where all anyone can see is walls because all homes are made the way ours is. That’s what gives us all privacy and keeps neighbors from seeing into our home and us from seeing into theirs.
“Sit on this,” she says, pointing to a wooden crate.
“Why don’t you do this for them too?” I ask the questions my sisters won’t ask. That might be my thing. I’ve been wondering if I have a thing. It’s easier to spot other people’s things than it is to pick out my own.
“You’re only ten years old. They’re too old for this. A boy can’t have breasts.”
I think about this. Because my sisters are older, their bodies are made of curves and circles. Mine is different. My shoulders and hips are as square as a piece of paper. Neela’s definitely got breasts, but Meena’s got nothing more than two small lumps that you can’t see because she’s wearing one of Neela’s dresses—one she hasn’t quite grown into yet. Alia is too pretty to be a boy. I don’t even argue with my mother about her.
I’m raw clay and they’re pottery.
“Then why didn’t you do it before? Neela was my age six years ago.”
“We were in Kabul. Your father was working and we were . . . we were just different then.”
I know Kabul was different. In Kabul every family s
ent their girls to school. In the village, there are two kinds of families. There are the ones that send their daughters to school—and then there are the ones that don’t. Some families think daughters are born to be wives and mothers and don’t need to bother with books or writing. I feel bad for these girls because they don’t get to do all the things schoolgirls do. They can count only how many cups of rice to soak and can’t tell the letter kof from the letter gof. Other families are more like ours and think girls should be able to write their names, read books, and multiply. They still think girls will grow up to be married, but, like my mom always says, a smart girl will be a smarter mother.
I remember what Khala Aziza said about this making my father better. She doesn’t seem like the most reliable authority, but if there’s even a chance she’s right, I should do it. I owe Padar-jan that much.
“How long will it take for my hair to grow back?”
My mother doesn’t answer.
“Mother, are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Obayda, why wouldn’t I be sure?”
She’s got a hand on her hip, but she answers my question with a question, which is a sure sign that she doesn’t know what the answer is. I wish she would just say that.
My hair falls just past my shoulder blades now. My mother is stroking it, trying to even it out, bracing herself as she prepares to make the first cut. She takes her time. I wonder if she’s changing her mind.
I like my long hair. I like having my mother brush it out and braid it—one thick, brave plait. When I turn my head it swings like a horse tail. I like my dresses. I don’t tell my sisters, but I like that they’ve worn them before me because it means I know what I will look like even before I put them on. Alia and I are close enough that we share some of our clothes. That won’t happen anymore. Alia can’t wear pants.
My mother cuts. The scissors are dull and my hair is thick. It puts up a noble fight.
“You see how easy this is? Now I just need to make it even.”
My mother manages to get rid of the length, but she doesn’t quite know how to make it look like a boy’s head. She just keeps cutting from the ends until I have a shaggy cap of hair. I still look like a girl. My mother takes a step back to judge her work. She looks like she might cry.
Meena steps in and takes the scissors from my mother’s hands.
Snip, snip, snip. Clumps of hair fall at my feet.
Some people can look at something and know how to make it better. That’s Meena’s thing.
When Meena is done, I stand and check out my reflection in the window that looks into our kitchen. My ears are much bigger than I ever realized. I turn my head to the side. There’s no horse tail to swing. There are no knots for my mother to gently brush out. My purple hair clips—the plastic ones that look like tiny bows—I can’t use at all. My hands are on my head, pulling at nothing. What has she done to me?
“Meena, take her inside so she can change into the shirt and pants. I’m going to clean up here.”
My mother grabs a short broom and starts to sweep my hair from the courtyard.
“I don’t need Meena’s help. I can dress myself.” The words come out with more spunk than I mean them to. I wonder if something’s happening to me already.
I go inside and find the blue plastic bag. Inside are a pair of navy blue cargo pants with four pockets, which are four more than I’m used to having, and a gray button-down shirt with a wolf patch sewn onto the left arm, just below my shoulder. The wolf looks fierce, his mouth open just enough to reveal two dramatic fangs. I try to copy his snarl. I put the pants on and feel like I’ve stepped into another world. Meena comes into the room and stares at my backside.
“I can see your whole body,” she whispers.
I’m covered from head to toe, but not with the shapeless shift of a dress. These clothes outline my form so clearly that Meena could (but doesn’t) measure the distance from my shoulder to my hip or from my collarbone to my knee. I look over my own shoulder, twisting my neck as far as it will go. I want to see my behind. I want to know what it looks like in pants. It’s hard not to feel naked. Aside from when I’m taking a bath or the day I was born, this is as naked as I’ve ever been.
“Why are you watching me, Meena? Girls shouldn’t be watching boys.” It’s not something I actually mean. The words and the boldness are things I need to try on—like the cargo pants.
“Oh, that’s just great. Now we have to deal with your attitude, too. Don’t think I’m going to treat you any differently. You’re still Obayda to me, today and tomorrow and all the days after that.”
I step in front of her, close enough that she can see the flyaway hairs she missed cutting. “What do you really think? Do I look like a boy? Am I really going to be able to do all those things Madar talked about?”
Meena shrugs. “Why not? You look like you’re one of the boys now.”
I run my hands over my head. There’s nothing to braid, brush, or tangle.
I’m not sure how I feel about this.
“But how will I know for sure that I can do all those things?”
Meena thinks for a second, tapping her finger on her rose lips. “Think of the things that only a boy could do and then go and do them. If everything goes well, then you’ll know for sure.”
She might be right. In a stroke of brilliance, I come up with a plan to test this out.
I don’t have a brother, but I’ve seen how boys pee. I saw a little boy in the market once, standing by the edge of a ditch. His mother was trying to fan out her skirt and cover him from view, but I could still see. He couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, so it was okay for me to steal a curious peek. I saw him lean his shoulders back and thrust his hips forward, and a yellow stream made a high arc before landing in the ditch.
I had a plastic gun once. A little orange squirter that I filled with water. If I squeezed it just right, I managed to hit my sister right in the ear, so I think my aim must be pretty good.
I walk into our outhouse, which is a small shack behind our home.
If I can do this, I’ll know I can be a boy.
Our outhouse is like any other outhouse. It’s got just enough room for one person to stand. There’s a hole in the middle with one brick on either side. Usually I crouch down with a foot on each brick and my pee can’t help but go into the hole right under me. Easy enough.
I stand with my back to the door. There’s just enough light filtering in through the small window on the wall to my right. I pull my new pants down and thrust my hips out, the way the little boy did. I try to peek down and see if this is going to work. Since it’s hard to see anything, I point my hips out a little farther. I hope I don’t overshoot the hole. My aim with the orange squirter was pretty good, but this is a little different.
I will do this. If I have to be a bacha posh, I will be the best bacha posh there ever was. My mother will think she’s had a son all along.
I let go and a hot stream runs down my leg, soils my new four-pocketed cargo pants, and puddles in my sandals.
Four
“I want to wait a couple of weeks before you start school. A lot has changed for you,” my mother tells me. “There are some things you need to get used to since you’re a boy now.”
My face goes red. I have a feeling she somehow found out about my outhouse experiment yesterday. My mother’s not sure what else I might try.
There are big things for me to get used to. My name is the biggest. (I’m Obayd now—good-bye, Obayda.) I wake up in the morning thinking my hair is still there, but it isn’t. I look at the closet I share with my sisters and see a short stack of clothes I don’t recognize. The dresses are off-limits, even my favorite ones. My first day at home as a boy is especially difficult since my sisters aren’t around. They started school today, but my mother wants to give me a little more time to settle into my new identity. It’s the middle of fall, and I know soon enough winter will be here, along with the three-month winter break. I wonder
if she’ll let me go to school before then.
“Madar?”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Cutting my hair and calling me Obayd . . . How is that going to bring us a brother?”
“I don’t know how it does, but it does. That’s what everyone says.”
Everyone is actually one person—my uncle’s wife.
“Like some kind of magic?”
“Something like that.” She folds my sisters’ dresses. Sleeve, sleeve, skirt. The final stack is bulky and looks like it will topple off the pile of clothes she’s made next to her.
It is my turn to pause. If my dressing as a boy is an act of magic, shouldn’t I feel something? Maybe a tingle in my toes or a whisper in my ear or something to make my senses light with the special role I’ve been assigned in my parents’ scheme? I give it a second, holding my breath. Nope, nothing.
“People say if you dress a daughter like a son, God will give you a son.”
“You said I’d be able to do things other girls can’t do and that it would be great for me. But this isn’t for me at all.”
“It’s for all of us. There’s nothing we do for any single person here. That’s what being a family is. We help each other in whatever way we can.”
I do want to be helpful.
“Do you want me to bring the clothes in from outside, Mother?”
My mother nods and points at the basket in the corner of the living room before she catches herself.
“Wait, stop! No, my son. I’ll bring them in later.”
“But they’re already dry. I can fold them and—”
She shakes her head.
“Obayd, just leave them alone and go play in the courtyard.”
I shrug my shoulders. It’s odd for my mother not to want my help with the housework, but I let it go and head into the courtyard. Alia has left two of her old rag dolls by my father’s chili pepper plants—the plants my mother now has to care for. Alia doesn’t play with the dolls, but she also can’t bear to give them away. I haven’t played with dolls in years either. They’re also off-limits now that I’m a boy, and that shouldn’t bother me, but it does. The dolls are the size of my hand, with dresses as worn as Alia’s. Their faces have been painted on with black ink, and I feel like their wide eyes are staring at me. I turn my back to them.
One Half from the East Page 2