Happy Thanksgiving

Happy belated Thanksgiving. I had a wonderful week with friends and family which is what I am most thankful for. My hubby’s 15 year old niece was with us for a week. We had so much fun. I feel bad, though, because we were so busy in the final stages of our move, that she had no choice but to help out (cleaning fridge, windows, etc.) But, she is such a good girl, she never complained. My hubby’s family is so sweet and down to earth and open minded, it never ceases to amaze me.

At one point of conversation, my niece said something to the effect that her cousin (who is first generation born-American) said “those Americans were acting so crazy buying up everything.” My niece, who is also American born, was relaying a story about how funny it is to them how crazy people can act when shopping the day after Thanksgiving.

Fair enough. I imagine people who shop the day after Thanksgiving are crazy, but they are “people” not “Americans”. I pointed this out. I asked her and my hubby when they think that people start feeling like they are the Americans that they technically are. She was so embarrassed and said that it was wrong for her to say something like that because it infuriates her when people tell her that she is not an American. I explained to her that it was harmless latent racism and that I wasn’t trying to make her feel bad, but was curious as to how first generation Pakistanis truly felt.

I think, like all generation before us that settled in America, it does take a couple of generations until one truly feels they are “American” first and then their parent’s or grandparent’s homeland is the root of culture. But, with prevalent racism in America around people of color and people who practice Islam; coupled with the fact that some new communities tend to be so close knit, it is hard to for individuals to define themselves.

Another point of interesting conversation was Thanksgiving. My niece, who has grown up in America loves Thanksgiving as my hubby does as well. We had a wonderful feast with my relatives inside my Aunt and Uncle's home. As always, each person was very careful to not include pork in any of the dishes. No the turkey was not halal and yes there was an abundance of alcohol, but we all tolerated one another, loved one another and in the end said a prayer of thanks to one God. We are a family, albeit a diverse family, but we are all thankful to our God for our family, health, COUNTRY, and freedom.

When we returned, my niece was chatting away with some of her Pakistani friends from school. They, too, are either American born or studying at American schools. She asked them what they did for Thanksgiving. One girl responded, "We don't celebrate Thanksgiving, remember!" As to suggest that my niece might have forgotten that they (either Pakistanis or Muslims, I'm not quite sure of the context of "they" in this one)don't celebrate Thanksgiving. My niece laughed because like I said, my sister-in-law has raised her and her siblings in America and they have always celebrated Thanksgiving.

I would be interested in hearing what anyone who might read this dull blog might have to say on this topic.

Hideaway Marriage

We decided to elope. We had not yet received blessings from his side and we were fearful of what the INS might send him back to Pakistan. At the time there was a “special” investigation for all men of a certain nationality and age as a result of a clean-sweep after 9/11.

We did not tell anyone of the elopement including my Mother and my friends. We did not want anyone to think that we married just for legal reasons. Matter of fact, my DH pretty much left the planning all to me. He kept saying that he wanted me to be sure that I wanted to go through with this. He did not want me to ever feel like he was pressuring me because of his situation.

So I scheduled a justice of peace ceremony in a small town two hours away from where we were. I scheduled it in the middle of the week and called in sick to work. The night beforehand, I bought a new dress from a department store. The dress was short and black with red flowers.

The morning of our marriage, there was a huge blizzard. All of the schools and major highways were closed. The State Highway patrol issued a warning and urged everyone to stay off the roads. We waited until three hours before we had to be there and decided to go ahead with plans. It took over three hours to get to the bed and breakfast in which we had scheduled our ceremony.

The officiator and our witnesses (the owners of the bed and breakfast) were waiting for us. We literally drove in and rushed into the ceremony. I had to wear boots with my dress because the snow was so high.

The ceremony was so intimate and beautiful. It was held in front of a fire place in a log cabin that was over 150 years old. The readings that this stranger picked were beautiful. It is a night that I will cherish forever. After the ceremony, we were served a private dinner with just the two of us and the warm fire.

The next month, my DH’s parents came to visit. They stayed in OUR new condominium while I stayed elsewhere. This time I was going to meet his parents, but I had no idea where or how the situation would transpire.

The night we were to meet, I was asked to show up at our nightly hang out which was the local coffee house. The goal was to make the situation as casual as possible. So, all of my friends were ordered to be at the coffee shop acting like this was any other night.

My DH brought his parents in as a drop in. They did not even know that I was to be there. So there I am waiting to meet my father-in-law for the first time ever and he didn’t even know it.

My DEAR, sweet hubby introduces us and then conveniently disappears by sitting at another table with our friends. So there I am sitting at a table with my mother and father-in-law who had just been ambushed. THANK God that my mother-in-law is the most awesome person in the world. She took charge and took a hold of the situation. It was so brief and awkward. I know, not quite Bollywood style, but that was it. At the end of the night, Abu said something along the lines of, “so you want to marry my son…” and gave me a laugh and smile.

I felt so bad for them. They had never dreamed that their only son was to marry this white Christian woman. Worse off, I was a couple of years older than him and an American.

So now what? How do we transition from this point into the married couple that nobody knows that we are????

The Next Few Months

He fell into a deep depression. He was faced with pressure from the INS because he had now overstayed his student visa. This posed a barrier in his ability to do much of anything including working and traveling back home. He had virtually cut off all ties to his homeland and the US didn’t want him either.

I urged him to shed the shield and to spend more time teaching me his religion, culture, etc. We spent countless winter nights cooking Pakistani food, drawing out the family tree, practicing Urdu words. We would go on magic carpet rides back to his homeland as he described his childhood, his grandparents and his sisters. Everything seemed to unreal and fairytale. At times I would doubt and he would go out of his way to prove to me it was real.

I grew up in such an ordinary, mundane world, that I could not imagine his tales of friends that were models, being on TV commercials, having royalty in the family, etc. to be true. In silence, I battled with truly believing that he loved me. Me, a lowly and ordinary girl from the burbs. Of course I questioned his intentions. But, when he opened his heart and shared his love for his homeland and all those living there, I knew that our pending marriage was not in “green card” vain.

I was more worried of his depressed state. He felt so alienated and alone. He may never have his parents’ blessings. And having been here since he was 16, he was truly caught between two worlds. He left there as a Pakistani child and became an American man. At that point, he had not been home for nearly three years.

We spent hours reading Rumi and discussing the Prophet and his Message. I was teleported back in time and experienced the miracle through my hubby-to-be’s passion for Islam.

Despite all of the uncertainty, I knew one thing for sure; that he is an honest, sincere man and that he loved me.

Back to the Love Story

Things were very quiet after his Mom left. Two months later, we took a road trip to visit his old college town and rescue some stuff from storage. My dh surprised me by arranging one of the most romantic evenings ever. He took me to a restaurant at a nearby small town. He arranged for private seating on the third floor. There was music set up and fresh flowers on the table. He got on his knees and proposed to me. There was no ring, but I could not have been happier. He said that he knew that the situation was not the best with his family and all, but that he knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. He had been at this restaurant before, as a college student, and he had said that he would propose to his wife there-and that he did!

He could not afford a ring and it was not “official”, so it was our secret to keep.

After a year of dating, his parents came for another visit. I was “on call” waiting to see if his father would meet me. Between his Mom’s visit and this one, his parents did not speak of this situation; I think that they were waiting for me to just go away. His father did not agree to meet me. They fought the whole week. Finally, he gave an ultimatum. He told them they had to accept the fact that we were together or they would lose him.

His parents left and we did not meet. I was crushed.

On Halloween, my dh gave me a ring and we made the announcement to my world. It was so hard to explain that his parents had not given us their blessings. But, he knew that it was part of my culture to provide a ring and announce the engagement.

He did not speak to his parents for the next few months.

You May Want To Go Around, It's A Long Whine

dis·or·der (ds-ôrdr)
n. A lack of order or regular arrangement; confusion.
A breach of civic order or peace; a public disturbance.
An ailment that affects the function of mind or body: eating disorders and substance abuse

Each of us has a disorder or two. I am having a bad day after having seen two different doctors, today. I have cried and my heart is very heavy. I need to look upward and get past this.

Hello, my name is Baji. I have binaural hearing loss. I have had this since I was four years old. I have worn a hearing aid since then. Refusing to allow me to believe that I am disabled or crippled, my Mom helped me to create one of my biggest secrets.

I am thankful for this. I am a success story, I guess. Mom went through great lengths to help me conceal this. I never wore my hair up in fear of showing off my disorder. I remember on picture days, my Mom would send me to school with my hair up sans hearing aid and I would bumble around like a fool. She shielded me from the mean kids, although occasionally it would get out. I was beaten up by a few neighborhood boys who took a whiffle ball bat (no, not Run DMC here) to my ear repeatedly. It is still beyond me as to why humans can be so mean like that. Kids teased me, and I never had a lot of friends.

My brother was my savior. He was my hearing guide so to speak. From the age of three on, he would be my interpreter, telling my Mom and other relatives and friends what I wanted to ask for or say. I was painfully shy. When we were older, good friends like lemondaisy knew of the disorder, but did not care. I was always surrounded by other disorder lies. In high school, I started to come out of my shell. This was because my big brother let me hang out with his friends. This is probably the reason that I have always had so many male friends.

My Mom, bless her, used to make me practice my speech. She would stand in one room and say words and I had to repeat them without seeing her. I have a great knack of reading lips and facial/emotional expressions. This is one of many reasons I chose social work as a profession.

I cannot complain. I am proud to say that I have gone through college, including grad school, without any special assistance. I would wager to say that most of my friends and professors really had no idea of my disorder.

But, the aging faucet has started to drip. It is inevitable. The prognosis is that my hearing is worsening. I have been avoiding this for far too long. I know that I have to have a second aid to assist my right ear. I have found order in my chaos, and this knew prognosis throws a wrench in it all. For some reason, I have convinced myself that I with two aids, then I am surely disabled.

The odds of someone noticing an aid is doubled. I can no longer use a telephone like a normal person. I can no longer lay my head on my honey’s lap while watching a movie. I can no longer avoid the awful beeping feedback of when someone hugs me by automatically guiding the hug to my right side. I can no longer take in “natural” sounds unaided by technology.

But you see in my magic trick, I have also created quite a scene. I am the fool in my own movie. My denial has kept me from my full potential. My denial causes great embarrassment for myself and my love ones. My denial causes me to be quiet or defensive. I have noticed my friends’ and loved ones concern. I am holding myself back by not hearing to my full potential.

I am scared that I will become more disordered. I am grasping at straws. What if it gets worse? My husband has been such a great supporter and source of strength, but what if the disorder becomes a disability. What if it embarrasses him? What if he leaves me? What if my children are affected by this? What if they are embarrassed?

What if I become stronger with overcoming this? What if I become a source of inspiration for someone someday? What if my faith is being tested and is enhanced.

How dare I quip about something so minute when there are people with much more serious ailments? I think I should stop the tears and count my blessings that I have so little to worry about and that I am able to afford hearing aids and that I am blessed to have the opportunity to serve others.

The Beginning II

For the next seven months or so, N and I were dating and his parents were unaware. N lived with his cousin at the time. His family started to get suspicious as he was spending more and more time with me and they were having a hard time reaching him. I found out recently that his cousin caught a lot of flack for covering for us. Apparently one of my dh’s sisters blamed his cousin for allowing N to be with a gori. Because his cousin was much older, he was considered an older brother and was expected to shield him from evil such as my kind.

N’s parents came to visit and I was not a topic of conversation. My Mom did not understand this and started to become quite scared. She told me I should end everything before I got in too deep and became hurt. She told me that it would never work. For the first time in my life, I disrespected my mother and screamed, “This is the man I am going to marry.” I left the house and we did not speak for a few days. She called later and from that point on she understood I meant business.

N’s mom came by herself to visit. My DH decided that it would be best for me to meet her first. He knew that the only saving grace was for his mother to give some mark of approval in order to get his dad or sisters on board. Which by the way, he is the youngest with three elder sisters.

I was so nervous to meet his mother. We went shopping for the perfect outfit. We discussed the plan for the meeting, etiquette, what not to discuss, etc. I could not sleep for days. And, of course I really was unable to communicate with him while his mom was visiting.

So we decided I would come for dinner. I offered to bring desert. One thing you must know about me, is that I did not cook until recently. So I decided on the easy American way, which was to pick something up at the bakery.

I entered the apartment and N’s cousin was gone. I quietly sat on the couch for what seemed an eternity. N was in the back room with his mother (mind you, I still had not seen her). I had no idea of the gravity of the situation!

Finally my future MIL entered the room as graceful as a queen. Rule number one broken: I just sat there saying “hello”. She just stood there dumbfounded. I was so stupid and disrespectful for not standing! I was so confused and stupid.

We had a great meal. My MIL has wonderful table manners and kept the conversation going. Rule number two broken: do not attempt to impress by leaving the fork aside to use roti to break the kofta while nervous, because it will land on your lovely skirt (btw, the skirt was N’s idea, not mine - long skirt that is).

After dinner I presented my oh-so-impressive dessert-strawberries and cool whip on stale angel cake. How embarrassing that I could not even cut the strawberries properly.

Rule number three broken: The first time you drop an Urdu phrase into conversation, it should not be your knowledge of the origins of the word pajama (pai jama). This leads to an embarrassingly long silence as your future MIL ponders as to how the conversation of pajamas came up between her son and this freakish, sloppy, unsophisticated gori that is being presented to her.

I was so embarrassed that I promptly exited at the first chance I could. I left so abruptly with another rude gesture of a goodbye that you would give to the mailman that you see each day.

That night I pondered my gaffs and beat myself up repeatedly. I drove to the 24 hour drugstore and bought the most beautiful thank you card I could find. I had a magnificent letter drafted in my head. What I penned was more along the lines of “I’m so sorry to have been so rude and rushed off…. I assure you that I was nervous as hell because I do love your son who is the most awesome man on the planet, which I am sure you are aware of or you would never have agreed to meet me….blah.blah.

She read the card and I was invited t come back over for tea the next evening. You better believe that I jumped out of my seat when my future MIL entered the room that time. She told the most fascinating stories and I listened in awe for hours.

N’s cousin was shocked as hell when he returned from his weekend away (aka, I better get the hell outta here) to find me there having tea.

More of this later…

The Beginning

I was born in white suburbia, "Wonder Bread Country". My childhood was that of a middle class blue collar family. We had our issues with alcoholism and mental illness, which definitely helped shape the person I am now.

I would spend my summers riding my bike to the local pool proudly baking in the sun. By the end of the summer, my bronze skin could win me a prize at a coppertone commercial try-out. In the evenings, the kids would play hide and seek; running through the safe suburban blocks. Eventually, the boys began to discover that they did indeed like girls and we were flattered and at their mercy.

The girls would get together and play house with dolls and barbies. I was a kid of the eighties and the names I chose were of popular teen sitcom characters. I liked Sam and Jo for the girls and Corey for the boys. Sometimes I would select a boy's name to depict my crush of the month. I would pretend to be Chinese or Indian, because I thought that those women were so colorful, graceful and beautiful. I would wrap a pretty sheet as a kimono or put a red dot on my forehead as a symbol of marriage.

I started dating boys in middle school and my mom was okay with that. She recently told me that was her way of spoiling me. She felt guilty that my father was dead and she wanted me to be happy and to get married off. But, for some reason, I never imagined that I would marry my highschool or college boyfriend. I had bigger ambitions, and I was not going to marry out of highschool and have two point five children living in the Wonder Bread box.

I went on to college. The first college I went to was an urban business school and for the first time ever, I was a minority. The experience was both scary and exciting. After my freshman year, I transferred to a state school. For the first time in my life, I was exposed to different cultures. I was very intigued and sought out new culturally-based experiences. During my junior year, I was one of ten people selected to go on a "non-denominatinal" ministry trip to Puerto Rico. This was my first experience out of the country. I loved it! I had a roomate from Japan during my senior year and the year following.

After grad school, I was visiting my best friend (since highschool). Her neighbor was over. He sat very quietly in the corner. I really did not pay any attention to him that night. I thought he was a little odd because he was so quiet. She said he was from Pakistan. I honeslty didn't know mush about that country and just overlooked the whole evening. But then, each time I was there visiting, so was N. He began to talk more and I was fascinated by his intelligence, charm and of course the accent!

The three of us rushed to one another the day of September 11, 2001. We sat in my friend's apartment glued to the t.v. We were shocked. We discussed the tragedy and politics and human emotions for hours upon hours. We were suppoting N as he waited for a phone call. His parents had flown into Washington DC that day and he still had not heard from them.

The next day, I called him to offer support and see how he was doing. That was the first time that we had interacted outside of my friend's apartment. He began calling me every day. For most people, Septemeber 11 is only a day of national tragedy., For me, it was the day I began to fall in love with my husband and to see a whole new world. Our relationship was pretty much secret for a few months.

I decided that I would introduce him to my Mom as a friend first. I didn't want any of the biases to exist prior to meeting him. The day after she met him, she said "I love that one friend of yours...." She fell for him, too. He reminded her of her highschool sweetheart.

My mom is first generation Italian, so she fell for his dark eyes and hair and olive skin. His "old world" charm was reminiscent of my Mom's past. As she and all of her peers had pareants that were "Fresh of the Boat" (FOBs) or "With Out Papers" (WOPs). My mom and my brother knew that we were dating, but his family did not.

More of the story...

June Day

I sit here "indian style" on the floor of what used to be my newlywed room. I called it the June Room because the color of paint is called June Day. It is Spring green on the cusp of Summer. It is very bright and anyone who knew me pre N, would have never guessed this color or this life that I have chosen.

The color, just as the purchase of this condo, just as the elopement to my husband were all very risky propositions. In the end, my MIL eneded up having my Nikkah jora stitched with the same "June Day" color. It is vibrant like my MIL. She had an old Urdu word that was used to describe the color of rice stalks before they mature. N doesn't even know the word, I'll have to ask my MIL again, because it is special to me. This green has since then become my favorite color and will always remind me of our humble, but daring beginnings.

Last night, after the last item had been loaded on the truck, N and I sat quitely observing the walls of the home we had together created. He exclaimed, "Baba, look at how far we have come." I cried. Lately, we have been passing ships in the night and it has been more like old married couple bickering to make this move happen then friends on a journey. He then went on talking about how this move was going to remind us of why we chose one another and bring us closer together. He said that he was excited about the journey and the new beginnings. We talked about the next three to four years and Inshallah, having children.

I told him that I wasn't feeling well physically and emotionally and despite his exhaustion, he said he would make dinner. He made Keema Pollack with dal and chaval. I was in heaven! This is the ultimate comfort food. It is without a doubt, my number one favorite. Who would have ever thought? So that reminded me of the question posed about how much of my dh's culture, religion, etc. have I incorporated in my life.

I love that topic. I think I could write for hours, but I won't bore you. I will put some thought into that and post in the next day or two. Off to pick up my babies (billys) from grandma's .

Going Postal

Aisha from It’s My Life posted a very lovely story about one man’s (her father) quest to promote the USPS Eid Stamp. This story reminded me of an experience that I had, so I thought that I would share.

A year ago, I was at a post office near my work. This post office is an urban office in a very poor neighborhood. The woman ahead of me was at the counter. She points to a poster which has pictures of Hanukah, Christmas and Eid stamps and a caption something along the line of “Express your self this holiday season.” The woman asks the clerk, “Do you know what this says?” pointing at the Eid stamp. He replies saying that he does not.

She “informs” him that the stamp says “Americans are Pigs” in Arabic. The clerk ignores her and proceeds with the task at hand. She becomes very angry, raises her voice and demands that he take the poster down and remove the Eid stamps from the office. The clerk asks her to watch her tone. She becomes belligerent screaming racial profanities left and right. The clerk becomes visibly angry, throws her mail back at her and tells her to leave or he would call the police and reminds her that her threats are a federal offense.

The whole post office staff and customers come to a standstill. The woman exits. My heart is pounding. What do I do? In a blind rage I run outside after her. I tell myself that when I reach her, I will set an example by educating her and showing her that not all Muslims hate Americans, etc.

Once outside, I see that she has created a soap box of sorts and she already has a crowd of people around her. She is yelling and screaming and telling everyone to protest the post office and that she read something on the internet that says that the stamp says that “Americans are Pigs” as well as the date in which the terrorists took the Twin Towers.

I cut through the people go up to her and tell her she is absolutely wrong and that the message is of one of God and peace. She exclaims, “You’re wrong, those Arabs don’t believe in God.” I lost it. I screamed, “Don’t you dare tell me what I believe in! You are the one terrorizing and spreading hatred.” Then I marched off.

Of course I am not Arabic, but for the first time, I inadvertly claimed to be a Muslim.

Eid Mubarak

Eid Mubarak (Belated). N had planned to come into town for Eid. We had said that we would host a small gathering at our place to celebrate with friends. My friend, and former co-worker, made the offer to host it at his house. He knew that we are so busy and we would have to move out all of our packed boxes, etc. in order to host. This was such a kind gesture and I am so grateful.

N and I made Chicken Biryani and Bhindyi. I wore a new purple jora that Appa had given me. My man looked so handsome in Shalwar Kameez. My friend is a doctor, so his guests were mostly doctors of Pakistani and Indian descent. We ate, ate, and ate some more. It was a great time and a blessing to not have to host the party at our condo.

At times it is still a struggle to cross barriers. One woman in particular was very hard to crack. I tried to make small conversation and I complimented her several times. Each time she responded in a very matter-of-fact way and she appeared “high and mighty.”

Me: Oh this is lovely, did you make it?
She: Yes.
Me: Oh, it tastes very good, what do you call this dish?
She: Potatoes and Peas
Me: (Knowing that is some type korma, but not sure exactly) Yes, it is very good, but what do you call the dish?
She: Potatoes and peas.

Now, throughout the night I made every humble attempt to use Urdu/ Hindi words and was blending in, I thought, quite nicely as I greeted everyone properly and prepared desi food, etc. But, every attempt I made with this particular woman was met with failure. I’m not sure if she was being mean and trying to make a point; seeing as the very first question out of her mouth to my husband was “where did you meet your wife?” Or did she make the assumption that I was completely ignorant and culturally insensitive despite my appearance and mannerisms?

Me: Oh your bangles are so beautiful, my MIL and SILs have bought me several sets. Um, um I forget the word, what do you call them?
She: Bangles.
Me: Yes, bangles.

And it’s not as if she could not speak the language, because she and he friends would speak it to dear hubby.

Chaalo

Last week N and I drove one of our cars and some of our belongings to our new home. In true Pakistani style, we did not depart until 3 pm which meant arriving at 4 am. You know what, I really can’t complain, because I think night-time driving just might be the way to go. On the way I got a call from a prospective employer and an interview was arranged for the following day at 10 am. Nothing like a three hour nap before an interview!

On the way to the interview, the cabby was saying all kinds of bad things about the agency and trying to dissuade me from going there. He was saying how bad the conditions were for the clients and how dirty the place was, etc. I was a bit skeptical going in. Once inside, I was surprised to see how clean and well organized everything seemed. Everyone from low level to high level staff to clients seemed to get along with one another. The overall energy felt very positive. I think the interview went well. The job will be interesting and aligned with my previous experiences, but definitely more low- key and stable. If offered, I think I will take it (I need something a little slower for right now).

So we got the keys to the new place. It is awesome. I have space to store kitchen gadgets plus a washer and dryer. Wahooo! The new place also has a second bathroom off the guest room which will be awesome for our long-term guests like my in-laws and my Mom.

I was pretty sad about leaving my family and friends, but I am accepting it now and putting on my brave face. Life with N is a blessed one and we will, Inshallah, be traveling many places and experiencing many wonderful things.

Chaalo

Let’s Go

Marked separation from sense of place,
and familiarity of one’s tribal space

Clear allegiance in our pledge to be dear wife,
a sense of knowing in their strife

Of boys of young who left homeland for a piece of the pie,
and grapple between their mother’s cries and opportunistic skies