You’re going to have to make a decision.
Will Jamilah finally get a chance to say something?
I feel like I have finally made a true friend.
Keeping your distance from your friends is exhausting. It means you’re constantly acting, constantly choosing your words, and thinking about ways to avoid exposing yourself. I can’t afford to show them the real me. They wouldn’t understand my culture or my religion. I’ve done everything I can to disassociate myself from being identified as a wog. Amy likes me as Jamie. She doesn’t know about Jamilah who speaks Arabic and goes to madrasa and celebrates Ramadan and plays the darabuka and can cook Lebanese food and has a strict dad.
I wish I could talk in capital letters at school. Use exclamation marks and highlighter pens on all my sentences. Stand out bold, italicized, and underlined. At the moment I’m a rarely used font in microscopic size with no shading or emphasis.
But at least I’ve started on a new page with John. The honesty of our friendship is so raw and real that sometimes I can’t wait to open my in-box and step into a world where being Jamilah comes naturally.
Miss Sajda pulls me aside after class. I’m prepared for a lecture about the poor quality of my translation into Arabic of an article in the Sydney Morning Herald. To my surprise, however, she gives me a warm smile.
“He agreed,” she tells me.
“No way!”
She grins back. “There was a fifteen-minute interrogation session, but I passed with flying colors. Of course, whenever we get an offer to play you will have to get his permission. That goes for Mustafa, Samira, and Hasan, too. Parental consent is imperative.”
I jump up and down in delight. “I can’t believe it! You’re a miracle worker! He’s the strictest parent on the planet!”
Miss Sajda shakes her head. “My mother, God rest her soul, would have taken that title. She was a very religious Catholic. My collars always had to be high, my skirts down to my ankles, my sleeves long. I had to come home directly from school. She even wanted me to marry as soon as I turned eighteen.”
“Wow, that’s young!”
“We lived in a very affluent suburb in Lebanon and my mother was quite snobby. She was determined that I should marry into a wealthy family. One day a man named George Chaouk came to our home and proposed. He imported cars, so he was very well off. I refused him, though, and my mother was furious. I was determined to go to college. I didn’t want to be a trophy wife.”
“Did your mom forgive you?”
“It took a while. You see, George’s family was very active in my mother’s church; rejecting George was a tremendous insult to them, particularly given the fact that I was only eighteen. They thought I was arrogant and too strong-willed!”
“My dad has always insisted that we’re not to mention marriage until we have university degrees. I’m grateful to him for that.”
“Well, that’s why I’m telling you my story. My mother restricted my freedom even when I was a university student. She was overly concerned about what people would say if I was seen at cafés or with male friends. But, Jamilah, I learned not to argue over the small things. I could handle restrictions on my clothes and the time I was expected home. I saved my energy for what mattered most to me—which was to gain an education.”
“Education isn’t the issue for me,” I explain. “I just want more freedom. I can’t even talk to a boy without him going off the deep end. He’s completely caught up in how his friends will talk.”
“I know it’s hard for you. You see your friends with practically no limitations to what they can do, and you feel deprived.”
“Sometimes I feel suffocated. I’d love to invite my friends home or go out to see a movie at night.”
“Your father would have no problem opening his house to your friends. I’m sure he would love it.”
“Ha! There is no way I would.”
“Why not?”
I give her an uneasy look. “It’s…embarrassing.”
“What is?”
How can I tell her that I’m embarrassed to reveal myself to my friends? That as much as I love my identity at home and at madrasa, my relationship with my school friends is a constant struggle of deception?
I jump up from my seat and avoid her gaze. “I better get going or I’ll be late.”
She gives me a knowing look but I rush out of the classroom before she has a chance to say something.
15
I DESPERATELY NEED a plan of action. If I don’t get some freedom or independence soon, I’ll be stuck at home watching TV and surfing the Internet until graduation. That’s three years’ worth of annoying commercials, unimaginative sitcoms, and pointless Google searches. I can’t bear it.
Several strategies for getting out of the house cross my mind. I could sign up as a volunteer cleaner at our local mosque. I could donate blood every weekend. Surely Dad couldn’t forbid that!
I’m racking my brain as I sit in Bilal’s car on my way home from the bus stop. Bilal’s picked me up since it’s raining. He takes me to a McDonald’s drive-through. The girl serving us doesn’t look a day older than me. As she hands Bilal our order I have a sudden revelation. I almost knock the drink out of Bilal’s hand as I lean over him and ask her how I can apply for a job. She gives me an application form and Bilal looks at me like I have momentarily had my brain juiced.
“Are you running a fever?” he asks as we drive off.
I chew on my fries and bounce up and down excitedly in my seat. “That’s it! It’s my ticket to freedom! A part-time job! I can finally have a life outside school and home. I can earn some money! I can have an extended curfew! I can discover the recipe for Big Mac sauce and find out if the salads really are low-fat!”
He shakes his head and turns the music up. “As if Dad will let you. He gave me a hard enough time about working at Red Rooster when I was in school.”
“That’s because you spent about ten minutes per year at your desk studying. He knew you were looking for any excuse to get out of doing schoolwork.”
“Do you mind?” He looks at me in digust.
“Whssfdgt?”
“You have half a burger and ten fries in your mouth and are insisting on having a conversation with me.”
I grin at him and his head jolts to the side. “Close your mouth! Ugh! You are so revolting.”
“I love showing you my mature side,” I say, laughing. “Anyway, you have to help me with Dad. Come on, we’ll practice. Let’s do a role-play. You act as Dad and I’ll be me.”
We’re stopped at a traffic light and he bangs his head on the steering wheel and groans. “All right,” he says in a defeated tone. “Start.”
“Dad, I’d like to become more responsible and mature and learn the value of money.”
Bilal pretends to choke but I ignore him. “Accordingly, I am seeking your permission to work on a part-time basis at McDonald’s family restaurant.”
“NO!”
“Bilal, he wouldn’t yell yet. The yelling comes later. At first he’s calm and that’s the deadly part. Sheesh, has it been that long since you’ve done the begging routine?”
“Yeah, I don’t ask anymore. I just do.”
I throw a french fry at him and he nearly runs a red light trying to stop it from “soiling” his car interior.
“Please hear me out, Dad,” I continue. “Everybody knows that having a part-time job at a fast-food establishment looks good on your resumé because of the discipline and training you receive. Also, I’m highly dedicated to my studies, so if I have a job and good grades that also shows my maturity and conscientiousness.”
“What’s being unconscious got to do with it?”
“Never mind,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “Just play Dad.”
“Can I yell now?”
I look at him and smile wearily. “Yeah, the yelling would start right about now.”
Aunt Sowsan is at our place for dinner. After Shereen and I put the dishes away and make
tea for Aunt Sowsan and Dad, Shereen goes to her room to do an assignment. I sit down next to my dad and say a silent prayer that he won’t freak out on me.
I don’t even get a chance to indulge in my spiel about good grades and holding down a job. He hears me say “part-time job at McDonald’s” and shakes his head. I lose my cool. A sea of rage crashes through me and I leap out of the chair, flinging my arms around furiously. “Why do you always have to say no automatically? Not once have you ever given me the chance to plead my case to you! You don’t care one bit about what I think or feel, you just treat me like some kid!”
“No, I don’t, Jamilah.”
His voice is cool and calm and I want to scream. The anger and frustration is suffocating me, moving up my throat like a busted water main, threatening to flood the room when it finally gushes out.
“Yes, you do! No matter what I ask, you always say no. I never get the benefit of talking to you about it, or even the slightest indication that you value what I have to say. It’s just a big fat automatic no.”
“I know what’s best for you.”
I stare at him for a moment, my chest heaving up and down. Aunt Sowsan is quiet and hasn’t intervened.
“How can you know what’s best for me? You never talk to me. You never listen to me. You just give me orders.”
I run out of the room and into my bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I wait for him to storm after me to lecture me about “being rude,” but he doesn’t.
I overhear him arguing with Aunt Sowsan. I can’t make out the words clearly, though. I hear Dad say “…don’t tell me… raise…” and Aunt Sowsan saying “…nothing to be worried about…let her go…couple of days…”
Aunt Sowsan knocks on my door an hour later and asks if she can come in. I ignore her and pretend to be asleep. I’m not in the mood for hearing how I have to “understand my dad” and “see things from his point of view.”
I can understand why he won’t let me go to underage clubs or stay out late with my friends. I will give him that much. But what I can’t understand is why somebody who experienced so much in their own teenage years wants to deny his daughter any experiences of her own. My dad always tells us about all the jobs he worked when he was a young boy growing up in Beirut.
Sometimes I find my dad in the quiet of the night sitting in his armchair, puffing away at his water pipe, and drinking his sweet mint tea. The television is switched off but there is a peculiar dreamy smile on his face as he stares at the blank screen. At those times Dad tells me what his life was like growing up in Beirut before the civil war. He becomes lost in his Arabian reverie and talks to me as an equal, as an audience to be entertained and amused, not a subject to be disciplined and tamed.
I listen to him and I feel jealous, wondering what stories I will have to tell when I’m his age.
Dad drops me off at the bus stop in the morning because I’ve slept in and I’m running late. The first half of the journey is silent except for the ABC news and the occasional sound of my dad’s smoker’s cough. As we get nearer to the bus stop, my dad turns his head towards me and says: “Which McDonald’s?”
I dig my fingernails into my hands to stop myself from gasping.
“Parramatta.”
“How many days a week?”
“Two. They’re after-school shifts. And if I’m really good I can get Saturday night too, and it’s double pay.”
We’ve arrived now and I hold my breath in anticipation of his response.
“I’ll think about it,” he says and I nod, not daring to push my good fortune. I lean over, whisper a thank you, then kiss him good-bye and jump out of the car.
16
I’M UNPACKING MY books for English when Peter approaches my desk, smiles, and slides into the empty seat beside me.
“Who’s your favorite rugby team?”
I giggle nervously. “Oh, I’m not really into rugby.”
“Then you should root for the Parramatta Eels. They’re champions. Don’t ever be a Canterbury Bulldogs fan. They are our mortal enemy.”
I laugh and raise my eyebrows at him. “They’re all the same to me.”
He slams his hand across his forehead dramatically. “You’re killing me here, Jamie! There is a fundamental difference. It’s of religious significance that you appreciate this. The Eels are legends. The Bulldogs are losers. Don’t ever forget that.”
I find myself suddenly feeling confident and forgetting how cruel Peter can be. All I can think about is the fact that people are watching us.
“Oh, I don’t know, Peter, they’re both just a bunch of oversized buffoons who kick a ball and smash into each other. Oh yeah, and who wear shorts one size too small. I’m sure there are some anatomical risks there.”
He bangs his head on the desk and moans. “You need to be re-educated.”
“Mr. Clarkson, is there something you’d like to share with the class?” Mr. Arnold yells out from the front of the room. “Unless your conversation is about Charles Dickens, I suggest you zip it or you will be getting excited about lunchtime detention with me. Understood?”
The rest of the class boos and Peter stands up and takes a bow, grinning down at me.
“That’s enough of your antics, Mr. Clarkson,” Mr. Arnold says. “Now sit down and try to apply yourself, as hard as that may be for you.”
Peter sits down, the confident grin still plastered on his face as he soaks up the attention.
As we pack up our bags after class he leans over toward me. “The next time there’s a match between the Eels and the Bulldogs, you should come. You can’t be a Sydney person unless you get into rugby. You may as well move to another state.” He winks at me and walks away.
Liz applies her interpretive skills to my conversation with Peter and instantly concludes that he wants to ask me out on a date.
“He was definitely flirting,” Liz says. “I saw you both. The whole eye-contact thing when he got into trouble. When a teacher humiliates you, the first person you look at says a lot about what you think about them. Peter sought out your eyes instantly.”
I smile shyly. The more attention Peter gives me, the more the Jamilah in me fades away. I begin to believe my lies. That I’m a girl without cultural or religious baggage. That I’m Peter’s type.
“Would you say yes if he asked you out?” Amy asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. Anyway, it’s really unlikely to happen. Sure, he seems to be flirting with me, but we’re not on the same level. He wouldn’t risk his reputation.”
I’ve never had a steady boyfriend. I’ve been asked out but I’ve always turned guys down. It’s just too complicated. My dad would literally have a heart attack if he found out. It wouldn’t be worth the risk. How would we go out? What if the guy called me at home? What if I got busted? Then there’s the whole physical thing. Most guys consider it part of the relationship package. I’ve never kissed a guy. I’ve always chickened out at the last minute. The most I’ve done is hold hands. I don’t think that even counts as first base. The guy was George Fraser in eighth grade. I put a stop to that, though. His palms had sweat pores the size of golf balls. I needed to walk around with a hair dryer after holding hands with him.
I cast my mind to an image of Peter and me walking hand in hand down the tenth grade hallway. I’ve made it. Everybody laughs at my jokes, and when the joke isn’t funny I’m not a try-hard, I’m “cute.” I’m guaranteed an invite to every party. My dad’s rules don’t apply in this fantasy. Girls huddle at lunch and discuss how adorable Peter and I look as a couple. Guys treat me like one of the group. There’s no booing when I miss the ball in gym. I’m Peter’s girlfriend. I’ve cemented my position in the school hierarchy. I’m immune.
But even if the universal laws of probability were suspended for a day and Peter asked me out, he’d be asking Jamie out. He wouldn’t look twice at Jamilah.
17
From: [email protected]
To: Rage_Against_The_Ma
[email protected]
Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame-seed bun.
Guess what?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
You’re hungry?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I am officially a McDonald’s employee.
Yippee!
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Do you realize how many calories there are in your newly acquired profession?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Don’t ruin this glorious moment for me. By some miracle, my father has agreed to me working on a part-time basis at the Parramatta McDonald’s and I want to hire a hot-air balloon and shout it out to the whole of Sydney!
This means freedom and financial independence and something TO DO on a Saturday night (assuming I impress the duty manager and secure a weekend shift).
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
You’ll get minimum wage and probably afford half a DVD a week and you call that financial independence?
You’re easy to please!
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
WARNING: Do not attempt to make another sarcastic comment about my new job, because I’m in a state of bliss at the moment and will track you down and thump you in the head with a bottle of Evian if you do not congratulate me in the next e-mail and tell me that I ROCK!
Ten Things I Hate About Me Page 7