Does My Head Look Big in This?

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  “Hey,” I say.

  He turns around and stares at me. “Yeah?”

  “Look, Adam,” I say, “I’m sorry for losing my temper at you but try to see it from my perspective.”

  “Which is?”

  “It’s just . . . overwhelming. Do you have any idea how it feels to be me, a Muslim, today? I mean, just turn on the television, open a newspaper. There will be some feature article analysing, deconstructing, whipping up some theory about Islam and Muslims. Another chance to make sense of this phenomenon called ‘the Muslim’. It feels like you’re drowning in it all. And Tia has been having a go at me all week about it, so when you asked it was just wrong timing, you know? That’s why I lashed out.”

  He runs his fingers through his hair. “OK, fine. I understand where you’re coming from. But you have to stop assuming I’m judging you. Look, maybe at first when you put your scarf on I went through all these different theories, but that’s all changed. Right now I’m judging you by whether you make me laugh and how smart you are and how annoying you can be when you have your smart-arse lines and go through your feminism moods and the way you’re so gutsy and stand up for yourself. All the other stuff means jack-all to me. So get it straight, OK? I like you because you’re a good friend. Not because you’re some interesting horticultural specimen.”

  I give him a funny look. “You mean anthropological?”

  We stare at each other and then break out into sheepish grins.

  17

  It’s the first anniversary of September 11. I wake up this morning to the screeching buzz of my alarm clock and want to throw it across my room. I’m so tired. I listen to tributes all morning as I get ready for school. Another bad hijab day means a long session in front of the mirror.

  I remember when it happened. My whole family stayed up all night watching the scenes on television. It was horrific. All I could think about was how a powerful country like America, with people just like those who work down Bourke or Collins Street could be hit like that. I kept thinking about those people. Mucking around at work. Probably reading a funny email. Having a whinge about their boss around the coffee machine. Telling their partners when they’d be home for dinner. I know it sounds awful, but I felt confused. Because for some reason their deaths were more shocking and disgusting and numbing than all the deaths you normally read about and see on the news. You know how it is, you turn on the six o’clock news and there are people starving and countries bleeding and people dying for the right to freedom from occupation and dictatorship and what do you do? You tut-tut and sigh. Most times I flip over to The Simpsons. That’s what got me all confused and upset. Because I couldn’t stop bawling, watching the towers come down. It was a terrible thing to happen. And a terrible thing to realize that I don’t sit through the night crying when such horrors happen all the time.

  I’m running late and miss my usual bus. When the next bus arrives I buy my ticket from a grumpy-looking driver who gives me a morning scowl as he hands me my change. The bus is full so I take a seat in the front row, diagonal to the driver, next to an elderly lady clutching an oversized canvas bag in one hand and a walking stick in the other. She’s drawn over her eyebrows in a line of thick black eyeliner. She’s wearing bright-pink lipstick. She’s got beautiful, high cheekbones that turn into small apricots when she smiles at me as I squeeze myself on to the seat, careful not to hit her feet with my bulky school backpack.

  “Morning, dear,” she says in a cheerful, grandmotherly tone of voice.

  “Good morning,” I say, smiling back at her.

  “That’s a lovely shawl, dear.”

  “Thank you,” I say, touched by the compliment.

  “I was a young girl once too you know,” she says. “And I used to work in a lovely clothes factory. Some covered girls worked there too. And some of them used to wear shawls just as you do. Oh my, the different patterns and colours and styles . . . and of course we girls would be green with envy at lunch time because they used to bring such delicious, exotic lunches with them.” She chuckles as she remembers.

  “We’d bring our boring ham, cheese and tomato sandwiches and, my goodness, they’d bring vine leaves stuffed with meat and rice or little fried koftas, they called them. Mmm. And always so sharing!” she exclaims.

  As we talk, I suddenly become aware that the volume of the radio has been raised so that it blares out through the bus. A voice on the early-morning talkback shouts words of outrage about “Muslims being violent”, and how “they’re all trouble”, and how “Australians are under threat of being attacked by these Koran-wielding people who want to sabotage our way of life and our values”. My face goes bright red, and my stomach turns as the bus driver eyeballs me through the reflection of the mirror, looking at me as though I am a living proof of everything being said. I feel almost faint with embarrassment as the angry voice blasts through the bus for everyone to hear.

  The bus driver keeps watching me, and my face burns with shame. Shame that I have let him get to me.

  I thought I was prepared for this. But here I am now, fighting back tears. The old lady beside me glances at me and I look away, focusing on a speck on the bus floor. When we stop at a traffic light she suddenly stands halfway up out of her seat.

  “Bus driver!” she yells, trying to get his attention over the noise. He looks up in the mirror and pretends not to hear.

  “Mister! Driver!”

  “Yeah?” he answers impatiently.

  “Would you please turn that nonsense down! We can’t hear ourselves talk with that rubbish on full blast!”

  He looks at her in annoyance and roughly turns the volume down. I feel like giving her a big hug. I smile at her shyly and she pats my hand.

  “I’m sixty-seven years old. And, dear, in my sixty-seven years I’ve never let politics tell me how to treat people.”

  We sit in silence and she soon begins gathering her things ready for her stop. I let her out and as she steps off the bus she looks back at me and smiles. I wave goodbye.

  Sometimes it’s easy to lose faith in people. And sometimes one act of kindness is all it takes to give you hope again.

  18

  It’s my parents’ twenty-six-year wedding anniversary tonight. Last month I overheard them tossing up the idea of celebrating with a week in Bali but my mum was worried about me coping because of my studies and my dad was worried that if they left me with Uncle Joe and his family they’d return to find me with two counts of murder to my name (three, depending on George’s mood, but Samantha would probably earn first degree on that count).

  The last time I stayed over, Uncle Joe ordered pizza with extra ham and gave me funny looks when I asked if I could make a peanut-butter sandwich instead. Aunt Mandy spent dinner trying to persuade me to convince my parents to ban speaking any Arabic in the house because it would interfere with my English skills.

  So, out of fear for my uncle and aunt’s safety, my parents’ romantic island holiday has been replaced with diamond earrings and dinner at a waterfront restaurant in South Bank.

  I know about the earrings because my dad asked me to find out discreetly from my mum what she wanted. Like that was really a dose of detective work when my mum had Tiffany brochures in her glove box, her bedside-table drawer and posted on the fridge. I know about the dinner because all day he has been stressing about whether the restaurant will be diet-friendly.

  He brought home a dozen roses and a box of carob chocolates. My mum was more excited about the fact that he thought to buy carob. She offered him one but he was adamant that his darling should keep the entire pack to herself.

  “Come out for dinner with us,” my mum says as I lie on her bed watching her apply her make-up.

  “Like I really want to sit and watch you and Dad flirt with each other.” I shudder, making gagging noises.

  She throws a cotton bud at me and I can’t he
lp but notice how beautiful she looks tonight. She’s picked out a cream, embroidered veil, with tiny roses weaved through in pale-pink and apricot silk. Her outfit is a long flowing cream top and a matching skirt with layers of chiffon.

  “You look gorgeous,” I tell her.

  “Thanks habibti. What do you say I torture your dad a little?” She has a mischievous look in her eye. “Ask him if my bottom looks big in this?”

  “That’s cruel! That’ll push him over the edge after what he’s been through picking a restaurant.”

  “You’re such a softie on him. By the way,” she adds in a casual tone, “I had a chat with Mrs Vaselli this afternoon.”

  “Oh yeah? Did she put the evil eye on you?”

  “Don’t be rude. I feel so sorry for her. Poor lady. No one visits her. And it’s her birthday today. She told me she hasn’t seen her son for years. She’s cooped up in that house all alone.”

  “Poor lady, my arse—enal.” She can give pretty good death stares, my mum.

  “What do I always tell you Islam says?”

  “Increase your children’s pocket money and achieve eternal bliss?’

  “Paradise. . .”

  “. . .lies at the feet of mothers,” I groan, completing a saying of Prophet Mohamed.

  “That’s right. Now go and give her the shawl I got her for her birthday and I might just let you touch my toes!”

  She laughs hysterically and I cross my eyes.

  “I can’t go in!” I wail. “She hates me.”

  “That’s nonsense. She’s too old to hate. Get to that age and you don’t have the energy.”

  “That’s not true. She’s got more time to draw on all her years’ conserves of energy. Trust me, she hates.”

  “Well if she does, all the more reason to cheer her up. No excuse.”

  “Well, how about this then? The other day I was standing across the road and her door was open and I could see a cross in her hallway. It was the size of the entire wall. They must have used a whole forest to carve it. There are crosses everywhere. She’s ultra Greek Orthodox. I simply can’t go in.” It was a cheap shot, but I was desperate.

  “That’s the most ridiculous excuse you’ve ever concocted. We go to friends’ weddings in churches and you went to a Catholic school – I don’t care if she offers you holy bread. You will go and you will be gracious and polite and kind, and if she’s cranky, you will give her that winning smile of yours and ask her if she’d like you to make her a cup of tea. Understood?”

  I make a face at her and she sticks her tongue out.

  She really can be immature at times.

  Mrs Vaselli lives in a massive old yellow Federation house. Her gardener keeps her front yard immaculate. One time he forgot to trim the hedges and she yelled out Greek swear words at him until he went back and finished the job.

  I ring the front door bell and count to three. If she doesn’t answer by three, I’m out of here. No way will I stay longer than three. But then I get to ten, and then fifteen, and it’s on seventeen that she opens the door.

  “What you want?” she snaps suspiciously, sticking her head round the door.

  “Hi, Mrs Vaselli. It’s Amal. From next door.”

  “Ahh. Ze smoker.”

  I don’t even bother. I lift up the present so she can see. “Er . . . happy birthday.”

  “How you know it my birzday?”

  “Mum told me. It’s from her.”

  “Huh! Zat mum of yours. A big busybody. Always try talk to me.”

  I hold back a scowl and study her black shoes instead. They’re so shiny I can almost see her moustache in the reflection.

  She opens the door and turns her back to me, walking into the house. I stand at the entrance wondering what episode of Seinfeld I’m missing.

  “Well?” she yells, turning back to look at me. “What you wait for?”

  I follow her inside, past a large dining and living room, and into the kitchen. Her house is spotless and clinical. There are no photos. No proof of her memories. Nothing to show people where she’s been, who she’s hugged and posed next to.

  She sits in a large wicker rocking chair and directs me to sit at the kitchen table, next to her. I pass her the present and take a seat. She frowns at me as she unfolds the wrapping paper.

  “Why so much sticky?” she complains as she struggles with the ribbons and tape.

  “My mum likes to wrap presents.”

  She finally gets the parcel open and takes the shawl out. It’s a cashmere knit, swirls of turquoise and green and emerald, with royal-blue tassels. She holds it up in front of her and stares at it.

  “Huh,” she grunts, folding and putting it back in the paper. “My favourite colour red.”

  I look up at the ceiling and count to ten.

  She rocks in her chair, a flat expression on her face. I tap my fingers on the table, trying not to hear my mum’s voice in my head.

  After a few moments she turns her head and looks me up and down. “Don’t you get hot in zat?”

  “Sometimes. But I don’t wear black on a hot day. I’ll wear light colours. And I don’t get burnt this way either. Anyway, it’s winter now.”

  “You too young to looking like your husband dead.”

  I grit my teeth.

  “Your dad? He hitting you wiz ze belt if you no wearing it?”

  I burst out laughing. “Of course not!”

  “Huh!” She looks at me sceptically. “You wasting your time anyway.” She glances at me from under her eyelashes as she picks the lint off her skirt.

  “How am I wasting my time?”

  “Why troubling to look like widow when you no having salvation through Jesus Christ anyway.”

  I wriggle myself in my seat, trying to hold my temper.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I snap, remembering my mum’s words.

  She looks up in surprise. “No. But you do, ozerwise you no asking. Did your mum no teaching you manner?”

  “Actually, no, she didn’t. She brought me up like a jungle girl.”

  Her eyes narrow at me and I look at her defiantly.

  “Kettle is on bench. Cup in cupboard under oven. Don’t use good china set. For guest only. Use za mug. I taking no sugar, no milk. Don’t fill za cup. And use same tea bag for boze cup.”

  I grit my teeth as I fill the kettle and switch it on. She’s yelling out orders to me, about wiping any spills and not peeping through the other cupboards. It’s all I can do to keep from exploding. I whisper every Arabic swear word I know under my breath.

  And then I see her china tea set, stacked neatly in the cupboard. A white set with lavender lilies painted around the edges. The saucers are in one pile, the cups upside down and spread out in a diagonal pattern. There’s a doily on top of the cake plate, and a cake knife sits delicately across it. I don’t think she’s used it in years. There’s something so lonely and redundant about it. And all of a sudden this feeling comes over me. I don’t care what she says. I don’t care if she demands I convert, or calls my dad a criminal, or accuses my mum of child abuse. She has a useless china tea set and she can say anything she wants. And so I make her a cup of tea and put it on the coffee table next to her.

  “So, got any biscuits, Mrs Vaselli?” I ask, flashing a wide grin at her.

  She looks up at me roughly and eyeballs me, suspicious of my tone. And then she slowly lifts herself upright in the chair and, in a gruff voice, tells me to look in the left-hand side of the pantry, and suggests that while I’m there, I should try a piece of her fruitcake too.

  At breakfast the next morning my mum shows me the earrings my dad surprised her with at dinner.

  “They’re gorgeous,” I gush. “So did you like the restaurant?”

  She looks at my dad and bursts out laughing.

  “What’s s
o funny?” I ask.

  “The restaurant was lovely. A magical night.”

  “So what’s funny?”

  “Well. . .” My dad takes a sip of his coffee. “We hadn’t even left the car park before she tells me she could do with a kebab.”

  “You didn’t?” I ask incredulously. “You ate a kebab.”

  “With the lot.”

  “The lot?”

  “I even had a fried falafel on the side.”

  “And then we get home and she asks me if her bottom looks big!” My dad rolls his eyes in bewilderment and shakes his head.

  I look at my mum.

  “I couldn’t resist,” she whispers, winking at me.

  19

  After lunch we’re sitting at our desks waiting for Mr Piper, who’s running late for class. I’m scribbling my signature over and over again in the January entries of my diary. And then I get bored and start working out my mathematical love equations with Usher and Adam.

  “Hey Amal,” Tia calls out, swinging on her chair as she turns to face me.

  “Yeah?” Like I’m really in the mood.

  “There’s this article in Marie Claire about Muslim girls getting circumcised in Nigeria.” She says circumcised loud enough for the boys to hear, knowing, of course, that they’d abort a Nintendo game to hear any part of the conversation now. Simone and Eileen are giving Tia filthy stares, but Claire and Rita are looking back at them with big smirks on their faces.

  “So are you, you know, whole down there?” She bursts out laughing, and I hear some people giggling. My eyes pass over Adam. He’s sitting at his desk, a look of shock on his face.

  My neck is bright red. Flushed so hot that I can almost feel my necklace melt down my body. I don’t know what to say. If I start explaining how it’s culture not religion, she knows she’s got to me, that I’ve dignified her with a response. But the thought of ignoring her makes me want to throw up. The humiliation of everybody looking at me, wondering if I’ve gone through with it, makes me almost giddy with sickness. I hate her. How dare she? I hate her so much my eyes feel blistered and I want to evaporate back to Hidaya, back to bed, away from this classroom of people staring at me, waiting for an answer.