Love, InshAllah

by Nura Maznavi

  Lina and Baba went inside as soon as we arrived at Aunt Marwa’s house. Hadi and I stayed in the car, waiting to make our entrance. It was our first moment alone, but I hoped he wouldn’t ask me to marry him then. I wouldn’t be pleased if he’d let a perfectly good day in Disneyland pass, only to ask me in the car. There was only one opportunity left now. He had to ask me at the party, and he had to do it right.

  When Mama gave us the signal, we walked through the front door together. Arabic music, heavy with the beat of drums and tambourines, was playing on the tape deck plugged in beside the door. The women in our families sent their tongues to the roof of their mouths to welcome us with their ululating cry. Hadi’s grandmother threw a mix of candy and coins over our heads as we sat on the chairs parked at the front of the room. Our families and guests crowded in on the sofas and folding chairs along the living room’s perimeter.

  Hadi’s father took the microphone plugged into the stereo and welcomed our guests, before announcing that we’d be exchanging our rings. I took a deep breath. My special proposal had to be now. Oh, my God. Yes. It was now. Hadi took the ring box his mother handed him and turned around in his seat. Wait a minute. Why wasn’t he kneeling like an American boyfriend would? Get down on the floor, man. Please.

  Oh. No.

  It was worse than I’d thought. Hadi leaned in and was whispering something about spending the rest of his life with me. Why was he whispering?

  “Say it loud,” Baba called out from across the room.

  I smiled awkwardly and prayed. Please, God, make him say it out loud.

  “Say it loud,” Baba called out again.

  “Yella,” everybody chimed in.

  This was so embarrassing. Hadi was supposed to profess his undying devotion to me so that my family would finally understand why it didn’t matter that he wasn’t sayyid or fair-skinned. His love for me was so beautiful and pure that it trumped all other status-bolstering criteria.

  “Will you marry me?” he whispered.

  There it was. The question. It was over. The words were spoken, and they could not be taken back. My long-awaited moment had been cheek-reddening and dull. What now? Was I supposed to whisper, too?

  “Yes,” I said, because there was no other answer to give at that point. I smiled so no one would suspect that I was unhappy, but my heart wobbled with disappointment and I felt a burning in my nose that meant I was dangerously vulnerable to tears.

  Don’t go there, I spoke to myself firmly. Your only chance for a beautiful proposal is gone, but your chance to have fun at your only engagement party is not. Smile and be happy now. Be sad about the proposal later.

  Hadi opened the velvet ring box sitting on the gold tray his mother brought to him. My ring. Yes. Everything would be fine as soon as I started wearing my ring.

  The ring was awful. I grinned like a beauty queen, but my mind raced, No, no. The two trillion cut diamonds sandwiching the brilliant round center stone had all the shine of dirty glass. Stop it. Stop it. Don’t think like that. You love it. You have to. It’s the only ring you have. Okay, you love it. Yes, I love it. Who am I trying to kid? I hate it! Try a different angle. Maybe it’s okay from a side view. Phew. Yes. A side view is okay. Look at it from the side, always the side.

  Arabs wear their engagement rings on their right hands and then switch them to their left on the day of their wedding. When I pushed Hadi’s ring past the joint on his right ring finger, the ladies in the room gave another ululating cry. Hadi’s grandmother returned to shower us with an additional handful of coins and candy.

  Mama ushered us into the family room, bringing along the tape deck. As the music grew louder, the guests migrated about the house. Those who thought it was okay to listen to music and dance in mixed groups of men and women stood up and formed a circle around Hadi and me, clapping as if to cheer us on. Those who had no objection to music but frowned upon dancing in mixed groups stayed in the living room or mingled around the appetizer table set up in the hallway. Those who thought music was haram stepped outside, far away from the grasp of its sinful notes.

  Since we’d announced our engagement the month before, Mama, Lina, and I had practiced dancing on the weekends. There was an aroosa, a bride, in our house now, and so there was a reason to play music and celebrate. Mama would tie a scarf tightly around my hips and coach me.

  Hadi had not received similar instruction. On the phone, he had told me that he did not like dancing, nor did he care to learn. I’d insisted it was because he didn’t know how. I’d teach him, and he’d like it. Now, for my sake, he stood in front of me. I told him to extend his arms, but instead of picking up on the classic Arab male shoulder shimmy, he moved his arms up and down like a bird trying to take off in flight.

  I’d always pictured marrying someone who loved to dance. During the parties in our honor, we’d dance and laugh, our heads thrown back, ours smiles wide, just like the happy couples in movies and magazines. My groom was supposed to be so excited to be with me that he wouldn’t be able to contain his energy.

  But three disappointments in one evening were far too much for a bride during the most important time in her life. The negative thinking had to stop. The party was fun; family had flown out; Mama and Marwa had gone to so much trouble; and Hadi looked so handsome in his new suit. I loved the contrast of his dark skin against his crisp, off-white dress shirt. Hadi Ridha was cute, and we were going to be happy together.

  After the party, Hadi drove Baba, Lina, and me back to our hotel. He dropped them off in front of the lobby so that we could be alone while he escorted me back to my family’s room.

  Hadi opened the car door for me and then offered me his coat—a long, forest green leather overcoat that someone had led him to believe was acceptable for a five-foot-eight-inch twenty-one-year-old to wear. I took it even though it made me look like a Christmas tree. We walked in silence until we’d stepped into the glass elevator on the face of the building. Hadi reached out for my hand, leaned over, and whispered, “I love you so much.” This time, his whispering didn’t bother me. His voice was too sincere to judge and so heartfelt that I thought I detected the slightest hint of a crack.

  I put my head on his shoulder because a moment like this called for reciprocation. “I love you, too,” I said.

  I meant it in the only way I was capable of meaning it then. I knew I didn’t love him completely or unconditionally. I was too young to love anyone in that way. But I loved him for loving me, for being the one to play the part of the groom while I played the role of the bride.

  “It’s about time you said it,” I said to lighten a moment that suddenly felt heavy with emotion.

  “I’ve always felt it. For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved you. I was just waiting for us to be official before I said it out loud.”

  The elevator doors opened, and we stepped into the open hall overlooking the parking lot. I paused and took in a breath. I’d been so preoccupied with how Hadi had asked me and what my family thought of him that I’d paid little attention to what he had said when he’d offered me my ring. Only now did it occur to me that I’d underestimated the sentiment behind his words, the time he must have spent considering them.

  “Why did you wait so long to tell me? It’s not against the rules to love someone.”

  Our hands still linked, Hadi answered, “Because that’s the kind of thing that you should only say to your wife, so I wanted us to be officially together before I said it.”

  I nudged Hadi forward with a slight swing of our hands. “So, if we didn’t get engaged, you wouldn’t love me.”

  “No. I’d love you. I just wouldn’t have ever told you.”

  “I see,” I said, stopping outside the hotel room door.

  “What? You think it’s silly?”

  “No, I guess I’m surprised. I didn’t know you had such strong feelings about this.”

  “You know what else I have strong feelings about?”

  I knew, but I didn’t know if I wa
nted to hear him say it. I had spent months thinking of how Hadi should profess his love to me, but I had given little thought as to how I’d respond. A lifetime of being taught that a girl was supposed to be shy and withhold emotion in the presence of a boy had left me at a loss.

  “What?” I asked.

  When Hadi answered with the anticipated “You,” I smiled demurely and opened the door

  The First Time

  Najva Sol

  I am old enough to know it is supposed to be a secret. The first time I ask a girl to let me touch her between the legs, I stand awkwardly in her room in the mountains near Karag in Iran. It is summer; we are both muddy-tan and salty from playful attempts to build a dam of branches in the nearby stream. She is wearing a thin cotton tank top, practically a soft sheet of paper. We are friends, but I want us to be closer. I have just discovered my clitoris. I think we can share it, like Barbies. I am six years old.

  It isn’t anything special, just the normal curiosity of hands going between and in, the sensation similar to finding a new fingertip, a new way to touch. In Iran, even the innocence our age affords us is not enough to shield us from the nagging bug-bite feeling that what we are doing is not for our parents to know. While we discover our bodies, our small frames hide inside the girl’s closet, with space to spare.

  I move from Iran to America at seven years old. I don’t keep the girl’s name, but I keep the memory.

  The first time I kiss a boy, I am in seventh grade and I think I must be the last girl left in my little suburb in Maryland who still doesn’t have that business taken care of. His name is Akbar—wayward curls, lanky body, and skin the color of a shish kebob. He is in my class at school, has a nipple piercing, listens to Nirvana, and says he likes me.

  When I ask my strict Muslim dad about going to watch a movie with some girls and boys, his ears steam, his neck bulges, and his disapproval erupts. There is no sex until marriage; there is no dating; while I live under this roof, boys are not to be my friends.

  My mom sneaks me to the movie. She can hear me on the phone after dinner every night, telling this and that friend that I can’t make it to meet the group at the park or the mall. Maybe it’s the feminist in her, or maybe she takes pity on me. Maybe being the wild child with two older brothers made her know enough to let me run free.

  She drops me off in front of the neighborhood hot-dog joint, where I promptly join in on a six-person triple date. Akbar buys me a dog and a large Coke. We all shuffle our scuffed skater shoes and wide-leg jeans a few doors down to the local movie theater. We watch Center Stage, and right there, in between the blatant popcorn throwing and subtle armpit sweating, he presses his lips on mine. His tongue attempts to deep-sea dive into my throat. I don’t like it very much, but I think to myself––Finally.

  The first time I have sex with a boy, I am mostly just glad it doesn’t hurt. I’m fifteen, and weave a teenage web of elaborate sleepover lies and ruses. This night my friend Vanessa drags me to get wasted with seniors from a nearby school who are friends with her boyfriend, Mike. I drink piss-flavored keg beer and write my number on a cute tattooed redhead’s shirt in Sharpie. I giggle with him as we make fun of everyone who isn’t us. Later I dance with a blond, blue-eyed boy who is Mike’s friend, but I keep wishing I were kissing the redhead. We leave for the blond’s house, where we are all staying. I don’t know if the driver is sober, but I know that I am not.

  The blond and I make out on the couch, and I suddenly find myself naked. He poses the question––may I? He has a condom. I can’t think of a good reason to say no, so I say yes. In the morning, I take his sweater and tell my friend all about it. It’s no big deal, I say. I mean it, too. I’m just glad it’s over.

  The first time a girl offers to go down on me, I am still fifteen. The invitation comes from my friend Samantha, who lives next door. We are smoking pot while her parents are out. The sunset is a melting sherbet and I’m telling her how I don’t think I like sex with boys that much. I can’t orgasm. It’s not that I don’t know how to reach my peak alone, but the other two times I tried sleeping with boys, I couldn’t seem to get it right––like math equations where dyslexia ruins my answer no matter how well I grasp the theory.

  “Do you want me to try? I’d love to,” she says.

  I consider it for a moment––I had forgotten girls were an option.

  “No, thank you,” I reply. I don’t mean to be rude, but she isn’t my type. I begin to wonder what my type of girl would be.

  The first time I like sex with a boy, I have almost given up on its ever happening. I am eighteen and it’s Valentine’s Day. This day is also the first time I have ever said “I love you.” My boyfriend, Alex, is visiting New York for the weekend from Maryland. In preparation, I have kicked out my roommate for the night, waxed, purchased strawberries and whipped cream, and bought a pair of fancy black heels. After traipsing around downtown Manhattan to hookah bars and cafés in said heels, I am ready to be taken. He undresses me slowly, as if I am an old book that may turn to dust. He takes his time with me, and when we are both beginning to see stars in our eyes, I whisper in his ear, “I love you.” His eyes lock on to mine and he says, “Me, too.”

  We sit together for a while, naked. This is it, I think. This is love. This is my future. This is the boy I’m going to marry. He has dropped out of high school. I tell my parents about him, but they are not as impressed as I had hoped. Every time my father calls, he asks me what I’m doing with my life. Living, I respond. Our conversations are short, and I stop mentioning details other than class and weather. My mother asks about Alex all the time, and warns me that he’s no good.

  Alex tells me that he isn’t intimidated by my attraction to girls. He is far away and I am young, so I sleep with one and think it’s my first time. I forget to count all the childhood explorations. The girl has pink, mermaidlike hair, I have a curly purple mane, and we bond over Facebook. We are best friends the entire school year, living in the same dorm, sharing coffee at 5:00 am when projects are due, reading too much Chuck Palahniuk. Finally, sweetly tipsy, the last night of freshman year, we fall into bed together. It is easy and satisfying, like a chocolate bar from a vending machine. Ohhhh, I think to myself, this is what sex is like for most people. It’s cut short due to roommates and train schedules, but I want more. I want to sleep with a girl who isn’t just a friend.

  I tell Alex about the incident while we’re in a car. He isn’t heartbroken, but he isn’t cheering, either. He grips the steering wheel tighter. It is not long until he asks me if I would prefer him with a more feminine figure. I am compelled to be honest. He closes the relationship. No more, he says, just me. I begin to wonder how long we can last. I can’t stop craving girls.

  The first time I tell my parents I’m queer, I’m twenty-one, and I’m not the one admitting anything. It turns out they have been checking my web history and reading my blogs for years––more specifically, the posts after I broke up with Alex and dated a string of girls. I come back to my hometown for Thanksgiving, as always. We gather under the premise that we are discussing my career. We meet in public, at a higher-end chain café. It’s odd to walk in and see them, tea in mugs, a pastry casually lounging on a plate, as though they aren’t recently divorced, don’t live in separate houses, don’t curse each other under their breath. When my parents, my sober Iranian Muslim parents, tell me they know Everything, I panic. I have never met a gay Iranian.

  What do you mean, Everything? It’s pointless to ask. If they read my blog, they know about the drugs and the booze and the girls and the boys, normal by America’s MTV standards, but not for an Iranian family that refuses to have a cable TV sully the living room. My childhood drug talk can be summed up in one line: If you take drugs, you are a failure. My childhood sex talk was: Don’t do it. This is where we left off, and here is where we pick it up again.

  Do they hate me now? I feel my heart do jumping jacks. My dad speaks first.

  “You’re going to have to ch
oose,” he says. “When you have a husband you can’t just be AC/DC.”

  What is he saying? Is that a drug term? It takes only a few seconds to realize he means bisexual. I stay silent while they speak, throat full of gravel.

  Then there’s a pause, and my words sputter out: I don’t think you should plan on me getting married, certainly not to a man. I am not ashamed of the people and ways that I love. I am not planning on hiding it anymore. I can be gay, and a good daughter, and a good person. Right?

  I cringe, throwing a boomerang speech, anticipating it back in my face. My mother’s eyebrows are furrowed and her mouth is slack. My father’s eyelids crumble like ancient ruins. Lips move and sounds come out. Yes, they say, you can be. It’s the tone parents use when their kid single-handedly causes the soccer team to lose the state championships. I am not a star player, but they will sit in the bleachers for my team. What? Really? They aren’t disowning me. I am shaky with disbelief. Perhaps their years of spying have given them time to grow accustomed to the idea. Wearily, my father tells me he just wants me to be happy. My mother nods, but then chimes in, “But I don’t think we should tell anyone just yet. I mean, it’s nobody’s business, really.”

  The first time I realize I don’t have to keep my secret, I am drinking a peppermint mocha and trying not to cry. For fifteen years, I have been afraid there is not enough room in my parents’ hearts, in my family, my Iran, or my religion, for my truth. I am no longer the little girl hiding in the closet. Who knew how elastic parents could be? How they could wrap around the largest letdown? Perhaps the rest, too, has more stretch. Perhaps someday, I think, I will, with my own full shape, fit into all the spaces that seem, at first glance, too small for me.