“See? All that hippie stuff has made you forget the birds and the bees. You see, one day Mom and Dad conceived you and then…”
She shudders and yells out to me to shut up.
“So you’ll talk to him?”
She looks at me and then nods.
“You’re not so bad after all!”
Shereen peeks her head around my door later that evening.
“I tried.”
“And?”
She casts her eyes down. “Sorry, Jam.”
21
YOU MIGHT AS WELL hook me onto a fishing line and throw me into the harbor. My life is well and truly over.
Miss Sajda rushes into our classroom at madrasa this evening, her face exploding into a wide grin. Mustafa, Samira, Hasan, and I are sitting around a table. They’ve been telling me about a CD of rap “ballads” titled Whassup With That? that they have produced. They say “produced” as though they’ve struck a record deal, when all they did was hang out at a café in Leichhardt writing out a rap song on loose napkins about racism, pride, and baggy hipster jeans.
“Whassup, Miss Sajda?” Mustafa asks.
“Your band is wanted!”
“Where?”
“Who?”
“No way!”
We sit up in our seats, fidgeting with excited anticipation as we wait for her response.
“I sent out flyers about the band to all the local schools. Guildford High is holding their tenth-grade formal in June and they want to hire a band with, and I quote, ‘Middle Eastern music.’ Apparently the teachers have noticed quite a bit of racial tension among some of the students and feel that they need a reminder about the importance of multiculturalism. Isn’t it fantastic?”
It’s all I can do to stop myself from passing out.
“Did you say Guildford High?” I whisper in a strained voice.
She nods but then, noticing my pale face, says: “Is something wrong, Jamilah?”
I gulp down hard. “That’s my school. And my formal.”
“Wow! What a nice coincidence!” Samira says.
“You’ll be famous!” Hasan says. “That’s so cool.”
“It’s a disaster,” I say.
“Why?” Miss Sajda asks.
I slump down into my chair and groan, hiding my face in my hands. “An absolute disaster,” I repeat miserably.
Mustafa sits up in his chair. “It’s an amazing opportunity, Jamilah! Don’t tell me you’re going to back out! Are you worried about your dad? I’m sure he’ll agree. It’s your formal. You’re going anyway, so what’s the big deal?”
I let out a short, cynical laugh. “Who said I’m going?”
“Oh,” he says quietly.
“Would you like me to talk to him?” Miss Sajda asks.
I look up at her. “No, thanks. I’m going to have to fight for this on my own.”
I arrive home from madrasa and find my dad watching the news. I sit next to him.
“How was madrasa?”
“Great.”
“You’re enjoying playing in the band, aren’t you?”
“I love it. We’re good too. You’d be proud of us.”
“That’s my girl. Maybe you’ll get to perform at some weddings or the Arabic Festival. But only once in a while. I don’t want it to become a regular thing.”
“Speaking of performing, Dad,” I venture, my voice shaking slightly, “we’ve already received our first offer.”
He turns down the volume on the television and looks at me with delight. “Really? That’s wonderful. Where?”
“Actually, Dad,” I stammer, “it’s the strangest coincidence. My tenth-grade formal is being held in June and the teachers have requested that our band perform.”
“Formal?”
“Yes, my formal.” I nervously clear my throat.
He leans back in his chair and sighs. “Ahh, the one you sent Shereen to talk to me about.”
I avert my eyes. “Can I go?”
“Is it mixed?”
“What do you mean?”
“Mixed between boys and girls?”
“Well, yes, the male gender will be present.”
“I won’t allow it, Jamilah.”
“But, Dad! Everyone’s going!”
“Jamilah, we’re different. These formals are not proper environments for respectable girls and boys. There will be alcohol, dancing.”
“Of course they won’t serve alcohol.”
“I’m sure the kids will somehow manage to get their hands on alcohol either before or after the party. Jamilah, dating and dancing with boys are not for you.”
“I’ll be the biggest loser in my class.”
“Only if you allow people to think that you feel deprived. If you’re proud of your beliefs then nobody will dare to say anything. People are guided by your attitude. You need to learn that.”
“Can’t you just back down for once? Please, Dad? How can I let the band down? They’re all so excited!”
“Look, Jamilah, I have certain principles and rules and I won’t compromise on them. For you to go to the formal is out of the question. I do not trust these sorts of events. As for the band, I’ll let you play with them but you have to leave when they leave.”
“But, Dad!”
“Enough, Jamilah!” he cries. “All you do is argue with me! Why can’t you ever respect my will?”
“Why can’t you ever give any consideration to mine?” I run to my room, throw myself onto my bed, and burst into tears.
22
EVER SINCE THE day Mr. Anderson opened his big fat mouth about the formal and threw my life into a meat grinder, my class has been acting like we’ve been offered tickets to the Oscars. I can’t count how many times I’ve had to pretend to enjoy participating in heated discussions about whether a limo is sexier than a BMW; where the after-party should be held and who will supply the booze; and, most importantly, who will be our dates.
Until now, I’m quite confident that nobody suspects that while the rest of my class will be dancing to a funk remix and maxing out their digital camera capacity, I will be at home glued to my computer desk, ferociously taking my anger out on my keyboard as I bore John to death with my sad, pathetic existence.
In homeroom this morning Mr. Anderson drops the bombshell about an “ethnic band” being hired to play at the formal.
“They’re an up-and-coming young local group, all of Middle Eastern background. It should be a lovely treat for you all.”
Peter snorts out loud. “Middle Eastern music? I thought the formal was supposed to be fun.”
My heart starts thumping in my chest.
“It’s hard to appreciate good music when your head is full of sawdust,” Ahmed says.
“Oh, do you have time to be a music critic in between making bombs?”
Ahmed stands up. “Why don’t you come here and say that to my face?”
“That’s enough!” Mr. Anderson cries. “Both of you keep your mouth shut.”
“He started it!” Ahmed yells. “He’s a racist pig!”
“Who are you calling a pig, you dumb Leb?”
“Right! I’ll see both of you in detention at lunchtime. Let this be a lesson to you all. I will NOT accept such conduct in my classroom.”
There are murmurs of “how unfair,” “he started it,” “uncalled for.” Mr. Anderson flashes the class a devastatingly chilling look and everybody stops talking.
“An ethnic band?” Liz says, a weird look on her face. “I wonder what that will be like.”
“So what?” Amy says. “I don’t know what the big deal is. As long as we get to dress up, I couldn’t care less what music there is.”
“Yeah, but what if it’s all belly-dancing music?” Liz scrunches up her face. “I wouldn’t have a clue!”
I can’t take this. “I’ve got to go!” I rush off and bump into Ahmed on my way to the bathroom. His fists are clenched tight and he looks furious.
“You were there, Jamie. Do you t
hink I deserve detention?”
“Not at all,” I say.
“Peter is the biggest jerk and I get the same punishment as him. It’s so unfair.”
“Mr. Anderson was probably just trying to make a point about speaking aloud in class,” I say lightly. “You know how he is when it comes to not putting our hands up…I’m joking,” I say as I see he’s still scowling.
“It’s not a joking matter. Just because I refuse to put up with Peter’s prejudice, I get punished. I’m not going to apologize for my background.”
“But you know he gives you a hard time about it, so why can’t you just ignore him?”
His eyes widen in disbelief. “Ignore him? No way! I was born here and I deserve the same respect he demands. I’m not going to be made to feel like I’m some tourist without a visa who needs to be thrown out of the country. You wouldn’t understand what it feels like to be constantly treated like a negotiable citizen.”
How wrong he is. And how lucky. The same prejudice and bigotry that silences me, vocalizes him. And even though my silence protects me, I’m the one walking with my head down.
The bell rings after science the next day and I’m packing my books away, listening to Peter tell me about his new PlayStation, when Timothy walks up beside my desk and stands there, waiting patiently for me to finish. We’ve arranged to meet up to do some Internet research at the library for our Gandhi assignment. Peter stops talking and looks Timothy up and down.
“What do you want?” Peter asks in a surprised tone.
“Nothing,” Timothy answers. “Just waiting for Jamie.”
Peter looks at me incredulously. “Is something going…?”
I give him a mortified look and quickly correct him. “No, no! Nothing like that. Of course not!” I say it so vehemently and quickly that I don’t have time to think about the consequences. But it’s too late anyway: The damage has been done. Timothy raises his eyebrows at me and walks off.
OK, I’ll admit it. I’ll admit that I don’t have the guts to run after him. I am officially walking around without a spinal cord. Peter turns back to me and chuckles.
“Ha! You crushed Goldfish, you ice queen.”
“We’re working on our history assignment…” And then, for a single moment, a touch of courage rises within me. “He’s not such a bad guy, you know.”
“Do you have the hots for him or something?”
“No.”
He looks at me closely. “Yeah, you don’t look like the type who has bad taste.”
The courage falls away. I look down at my hands, feeling like I’m betraying Timothy.
“You know what’s nice about you, Jamie? What makes you different from the other chicks in this class?”
“What?”
“You’ve got no confidence in yourself.”
“Huh?”
“You’re so shy and awkward and quiet. It’s such a refreshing change from all the chicks who are so out there.” He rolls his eyes. “All they do is whine about guys not respecting them and taking them seriously. They’re always out to prove themselves. They want to be defined. You, on the other hand, seem happy just floating along. You have no idea how cool that is.” He flashes me a large smile and walks out of the room.
I walk slowly to the library. No confidence. Shy and awkward. Floating along. I’ve attracted the attention of Peter Clarkson for all the wrong reasons. Although I’ve tried so hard to hide my identity, I never imagined I had reduced myself to a passive, mute chick.
Timothy is sitting at a computer. He has his MP3 player on and is tapping his foot to the music. I approach him cautiously and sit down beside him.
“Sorry about before…I didn’t mean to…I hope you’re not hurt.”
“You’ve got to care in the first place to get hurt.”
I’m taken aback and look down at my hands. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
He clears his throat and swings back on his chair. “I meant I don’t care about Peter.”
“Oh.”
“It’s obvious you do, though.”
“What?”
“And I find that surprising.”
“Hey, you don’t know me well enough to judge me.”
He stares at me. “Fair enough.” He pauses. “But I do know that you’re not part of his cheerleading squad every time he decides to mouth off. You’re an uncomfortable spectator. Am I right?”
“That’s pretty presumptuous of you.”
“So I’m wrong?”
“Well, no. Yes. I mean, that’s not the point!”
“Look, sorry, I can see this bothers you. Let’s talk about something else.”
“OK, how about we turn the microscope around on you? Why don’t you care what people think about you? That’s not normal. Actually, it’s quite arrogant. You’re not such an amazing person that you can avoid putting in some effort into attracting people!”
“Relax. I understand the whole ‘no man’s an island’ thing. Certain people’s opinions I care about. If I respect somebody then of course I want their approval. But I’m not going to be a phony in order to score brownie points with somebody I don’t respect. I’m selective. That’s the difference.”
“Well, sorry, I’m not as brave and strong as you. Why don’t you just bottle yourself and market yourself at the perfume counter? One spray and we can all be as cool and confident as Timothy!”
“Hey, relax, I’m not judging you.”
“You’re not judging me? You do it so well you could be eligible for a Supreme Court appointment!”
He gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry if that’s the way I’ve come across.”
I look at him closely and then half smile. “It’s OK. I have a lot to be sorry for too.”
23
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
My dad and I were supposed to spend the weekend together. Yet he still managed to book himself for the whole weekend. His itinerary:
Friday night: Law Society dinner
Saturday morning: Sleep in and get over a hangover
Saturday: Lunch with some of his work colleagues on an all-day harbor cruise
Sunday morning/afternoon: Sleep in and nurse a hangover
Sunday night: Cocktail function
Children under 18 not allowed.
Children over 55 allowed.
I felt like the commercial breaks in his weekend. The only time he had available for me was when we crossed paths in the hallway or in the hour he had to get ready before leaving. He would call me to his room. I would sit on the edge of the bed and watch him as he put on his designer tie/designer polo shirt /designer socks.
You know something, Jamilah? Without fail he manages to get under my skin. Right under the fatty and muscle layers. He is only capable of communicating with me by lecturing me about my lack of ambition and my “pathetic resistance” to his dream of me following in his footsteps and becoming a lawyer in his firm.
Boy, does he piss me off.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
So your dad wants you to be a lawyer? What’s wrong with that? Everybody’s always so cynical about the legal profession, but they’re not such a bad group, are they? I’m sure they also give their seats up to pregnant women on trains and don’t take the sherbet lollipops from the charity box without dropping thirty cents in.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I have nothing against lawyers per se (that’s lawyer lingo my dad taught me through example: “You are not stupid, per se”; “I am not drunk, per se”). Mom is a lawyer too. She works for legal aid. Don’t go awww on me. It’s not as romantic or righteous as you may think. There are times she comes home from work swearing about “stupid greedy plaintiffs” and “corrupt insurers.” She started idealistic and now is proba
bly worn out.
But I still think she believes in it. If I’ve learned anything from her, it’s that you have to believe in what you’re doing or you might as well find employment picking up dog poo from park gardens.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
So what’s the objection to law?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
It’s not an objection to law. It’s an objection to my dad’s legal path. He wants me to be in a law firm where the size of your office, the extent of your stationery drawer, and the direction your window faces are as important as the quality of your work.
He quit his last firm because he didn’t feel respected. Note: He was a partner. He had a parking space which, on an annual basis, costs the same as an average house mortgage. But he didn’t have a harbor view. That counted as a “lack of respect” because at his firm having a harbor view was the definitive indication that you had MADE IT.
Now that basically comes with a lot of butt-kissing and lower-back issues from sitting at a computer for an unholy amount of time each day. Not to mention having a house you treat as a hotel and a family you treat as hotel staff (I was the concierge).
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I don’t think my dad believes in what he does. What’s there to believe in when you’re a taxi driver? I believe in providing a quality transportation experience to commuters and I believe that they have the right to travel through Sydney’s streets with respect and dignity and air-conditioning and low-volume radio?
Maybe some people don’t have the luxury to plan their careers according to their beliefs.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Do you have a boyfriend?
From: [email protected]
Ten Things I Hate About Me Page 10