Eve may have been fashioned from Adam, yet everyone knows it takes a great woman to make a decent man. Let me rephrase that, it takes a great women to understand a man. No, that’s not right either, because there are plenty of great women on earth and not enough well-understood men; thanks to a self-destructive disorder they inherit from their fathers called: “The Silent Treatment.” OK, so how about, it takes a great woman, to want to figure out how to make a great man? But that’s too many words to sound wise, and I’d be putting myself down with that statement; by assuming that I was not woman enough to figure out my husband.
Maybe I wasn't woman enough, but then again, moving out of my parents home and getting married, was the first time I'd ever experienced living with a man, and since I was only in my early twenties, I was barely even a woman!
As badly as I would like to deny it, this explanation is probably closest to the truth: I was too impatient and probably too immature to handle the burden of being a “great woman.” I felt frustrated by not having the answers or the ability to figure out the reasons for his unhappiness. After all, he was a grown man, (5 years older than me, and much more experienced in life) so only he could determine that, but he had to want to engage in that process. And he wasn’t showing any signs of wanting me to help him, or of wanting to help himself. Not that I could tell at least.
Every time I suggested marriage counseling, he would balk at the idea, which left me feeling very alone in my misunderstanding of him and our failing marriage. I sought counseling for myself to better understand him, but without his input I was left to figure a lot of things out alone; and every professional will tell you how unproductive that process is.
After I left him, I was telling my older sister how I felt like a failure due to my inability to make things better, and i'll never forget her words, which she shared very eloquently, “You signed up to be his wife, not his freakin’ shrink!” (More on her later!)
The truth is, my attempts to make things better began to seem unproductive and all in vain. I eventually felt angry for having wasted so much time trying to solve our problems. Five years of battling the same issues became monotonous. I wanted to use my energy for greater purposes. Not that saving my marriage wasn't a priority, but I felt like I was the only one who cared about trying to make it work, and was the only one putting in any effort.
I no longer felt like I had a partner in this so called partnership they call marriage. Somewhere along the line, I decided to put my energy into solving other issues, and achieving my own goals, most of which had to do with completing my education and raising our child. I concluded, why not focus my attention on things that produced tangible, positive results.
Plus, motherhood was one of the worst getting-the-life-sucked-out-of-me-lesson I'd ever experienced! No way was I going to spend the rest of my life teaching two boys how to communicate by repeating, “Use your words, please” during every tantrum. And with Hamzah there were plenty of tantrums thanks to his willful, born to rebel nature. Meaning he would either refuse to do as I asked, or do the exact opposite of what ever I asked.
Because you know, the freakin’ apple doesn’t fall far from the freakin’ tree!
Motherhood
When Hamzah finally learned to “use his words” when he got upset, it wasn’t exactly a moment of triumph. During one of our daily power struggles, at the tender age of 5, he yelled, “I wish I had a mom who knew what was inside my brain!” After he dealt that blow to my ego, and stripped me of my self-inflicted title of Super Mum, I was tempted to call child services to come and take my child away. “Because obviously, I wasn’t fit to be a mother since I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s inside my 5 year-olds brain!”
This is why it’s crucial to “figure out” your boys before they become men, and before they become some other woman’s burden. AKA: A pain in her ass!
And the fact that I’m kind enough to send out warnings like this to fellow mothers, testifies to the fact that a mother thinks about the repercussions of her bad parenting more than a father does. And here is a carefully scripted argument for all you Super Mums willing and able to contest this sound argument!
"Who has to live with all the guilt and blame when our son grows up to be a jerk? ME, that’s who! Fathers are absolved from this guilt and blame, because they spend their entire day (and sometimes weekend) away from the home, working and making sure they earn enough money to pay the bills/child support. For which I am truly grateful, except here’s a status update for your facebook:
Women are more than capable of child rearing, house cleaning (aka: domestic engineering), and working outside the home to pay the bills, thanks in-part to The Women’s Lib Movement of the 60s, as well as to their own insane desire to please everyone but themselves!”
You’re very welcome!
Fatherhood
But of course, the father’s do get plenty of credit for raising an eyebrow or two, and you know that’s hard work when you come home after a long day of...being absent from your family! Especially when you’re in your recliner in front of the television, trying to keep track of the score board that has not disappeared once from your 50 inch high definition plasma screen TV, so why the hell do you have to watch it like a hawk, and not get yourself up and out of your seat long enough to fetch yourself a refill of soda, (which btw sets a really bad example for your children; drinking soda and watching sports like it’s a religious duty) but never mind that, because the one raised eyebrow comes in really handy when your kid steps out of line or raises his voice at his mother and screams, “URRRGGHHH You’re so annoying, why don’t you just leave me alone? You don’t even know what’s inside my brain.”
I must warn all mothers who've had to suffer hearing such sentiments to please refrain from screaming, “WELL WHY THE HELL DON’T YOU BRING YOUR SELF ON OVER HERE SO I CAN EXAMINE THIS SO CALLED BRAIN THAT YOU WERE BORN WITH…[Pause, walk away, and then continue with]: ...Thanks to your father's DNA!” The last part should be mumbled under your breath, unless you can stand the look of two raised eyebrows!
Actually, on second thought, I highly discourage this sort of behavior. Mainly because your child (or his father) will definitely make that call to child services for you, and they’ll use the other line that I carefully scripted above. (The “come and take my child away…” one)!
Yeah, after careful consideration, I’m almost convinced it’s a bad idea!
Sisterhood
My purpose for this chapter is to honor my older sister, Amina, and since we’re both mothers and have at some point in our lives been faced with similar (scary) situations, the content above helps to set the stage for what I’m about to share with you.
Amena Wahid, Amena Khan, Amina Khan, Apa, M’apa, Amina Khan-Shah, or Amina Majid-Shah as her husband, Majid would like her to be known as, is my eldest sister who has spent more time perfecting the appearance of her name than any ex-con running from the law. She has 3 children and lives in Maryland, and I promise that none of the quotes above have been taken from a weekend visit to her loving home; which is free of recliners, 50 inch plasma TVs, and teeth rotting soda! (Nor was it a recount of a personal experience in my own home!)
This may sound like an overly-used cliché, and that’s probably because it is, but I’ve learned more by her example, than I ever learned from that book on sisterhood she bought for me at Borders!
My sister Amina was forced to assume a motherly role at the ripe old age of 15, when in 1988, after returning from our family vacation to Pakistan, my father sent the two of us to live with our "Uncle BK" in America. Also known as, Bucki Mamoo.
My mother has suffered from back pain ever since we were young, yet in spite of her excruciating pain, she agreed to my dad’s idea to take a vacation to Pakistan before we moved to America. This poor planning resulted in her being hospitalized in Pakistan for several weeks, which also meant having to extend our vacation to one of the hottest countries on the planet (in my under-traveled opinion). Remember, we were living in a cold and cloudy London, England at the time, and my sisters and I were too young to realize that a vacation in Pakistan in July is basically another way for parents to express how they pretty much don’t care about their kid’s health or emotional well-being. Not only were my bowels working overtime thanks to the overly-spiced food and highly contaminated water, but the sun was also busy proving to the world that global warming had started back in the summer of 1988.
Needless to say, I have yet to return to Pakistan!
Nor do I look forward to the day when I’ll have to share this experience with my own child. Of course I’ll wait until he attempts another ego-bashing moment!
Anyway, when my mother was finally released from Karachi’s Agha Khan Hospital, we returned to England with thoroughly cleansed colons! A few weeks later, my mother had her own brilliant idea; that my older sister and I should leave for America first, in order to start the new school year on time. A few days after we arrived, my father returned to England until my mother was well enough to travel again. This is what happens when you have a mother who’s all about education and a father who doesn't stay long enough to notice how scarred his daughters would be after living on a farm with their life-threatening male cousins!
They may as well have shipped us off to boarding school, because this clever idea, resulted in my sister and I living with our uncle and aunt, their 5 sons, and several of their farm animals in a rural town in Pennsylvania.
Let me repeat this in case you missed it. My sister and I, who were born and raised in London, England, in a nice suburb of London called Dulwich, where we were exposed to the arts and culture of city life; ballet, piano, horse riding lessons, weekend trips to the V & A museum, day trips to France, and no roosters waking us up at the crack of dawn, were one day just dropped off into the back-woods country of Conestoga, Pennsylvania to live with 5 boys, all under the age of thirteen. ON A FARM!
Farmhood
Five boys under the age of 13, when we were used to a four to one (females to male) ratio living with our dad in a nice suburban, Edwardian home left to us by our grandfather, in the south-east section of London.
Pakistan was beginning to look like a vacation in paradise compared to this. And our parents love for us was seriously questioned during this 6 month-trial-period of down on the farm.
To be honest, my adventurous spirit was up for anything when we got to America, as long as we didn’t have to squat over a hole in the ground to do our business like we did in Karachi.
Thankfully my uncle’s farm house came equipped with a decent well system, which allowed for a flushing toilet that civilized people like me are accustomed to. I thanked the Lord for that, because it’s really hard to have an Aha! Moment in the bathroom when you’re focusing all your attention on not losing your balance and falling into your own feces.
Surprisingly, my sister and I survived living with all boys despite their attempts on our lives; whether it be daring us to take “The Ride of Death”- swinging out of a window near the roof of their two story barn, on a small stick, tied to a well-worn rope, attached to a tree that stood only a few feet away?!? Or the relentless crab apple fights, which we never willingly participated in, yet found ourselves in the midst of once we got off the school bus, trying to dodge what felt like golf balls. Or how about the quarry that we illegally jumped the fence of, so that my cousin could talk us into risking our lives by jumping from lofty cliffs into an unknown abyss of teal colored rain water; THAT ONLY SUICIDAL PEOPLE WOULD JUMP FROM!
I suddenly remember why I stopped wishing for a brother after our move to America.
I distinctly remember the feeling of comfort my older sister provided me during our nights in a room that was actually a foyer with a curtain for a door. I don’t think I could’ve survived the experience without her. My aunt and uncle tried to make us feel welcome, but they didn’t have a lot of experience with girls, which left us pining for the gentle nature of our dad, and the emotional abilities of our mother. With all those sons, it’s not really surprising that they didn’t have a guest room either! (They've since added an extension to their home, so their foyer is now a foyer, and their sons are all grown up, less willing to take our lives, and quite charming too. All except the eldest one)!
After my parent’s finally joined us and freed us from the torment of Boyville, we moved into an 8 bedroom farmhouse built in the 1800s in a town called, Washington Boro. Adjacent to our house was a large white barn housing cows and pigs. Our front yard was essentially a 10 acre cow pasture framed by an electric fence, which surprisingly made me feel really safe! We have lots of cherished memories in our farm house because we didn’t have crab apple trees! But we did have a tire swing hanging under one of the large oaks in our front yard. We also had several acres of land behind our home, flanked by woods where we took our neighbor’s horse for long walks. (It didn’t appreciate being ridden, because I think it thought it was a mule!) On these lazy, carefree, summer days, while the horse would stop to drink from the creek, we’d splash around to cool ourselves off and study all the creek critters. I remember riding our bikes for miles around the Boro, never needing to stop and stretch like I do now! We also enjoyed picnics under the majestic trees, roller skating in the massive kitchen when my mum wasn't home, and tap dancing on the front porch. (Which I already told you about!) I now look back fondly on those days, feeling grateful for the experience.
...Except for the part where we were awoken by the sound and smell of pigs every morning, as their manure was spread to fertilize the crops we eat? Have any Muslim scholars even looked into that little factoid that I was kind enough to share? Sorry in advance for adding yet more food to our never-ending list of Haram, or forbidden, food products.
Since our neighbors were all farmers, every view from every window was spectacular. Most of our neighbors were warm and friendly, even though we were the first “people of color” to move into the neighborhood. One family even went as far as inviting us over for Thanksgiving Dinner; to prove that they weren’t scared or intimidated by us! The only other “colored folk” in the area were my mum’s brother’s who lived a few towns over!
There were however, a couple of neighbors down the street, (where we eventually moved into another 100 year-old home) who were scared of the unknown. (I.e. Paki’s) So we made sure they got to know us by inviting hundreds of relatives and family friends over at one time, lining the streets with noisy desi kids, and limousines with out of state license plates -because my father and uncles worked as limo drivers in New York City at that time. I’m sure they weren't supposed to use company cars to drive their large families all the way to Pennsylvania, but it was for a good cause: To warm our redneck neighbors to the idea of a multi-cultural America!
In case that wasn’t enough exposure, my dad would fire up the grill in our back yard to make his famous seekh kabobs and tandoori chicken. These days became known as the “Good Old Days!”
Yet I’m sure our neighbors remember them differently!
In spite of all the smelly farms and scared white people, Pennsylvania is one of the most beautiful states in America, and I often wonder if I get the chance to live in Manhattan, whether or not I will miss the rolling hills, lush green and golden acres of corn and wheat, and the bright red barns that look absolutely exquisite at sunset; which I hope to some day buy and renovate into a country home when this blog becomes a best seller! I might even add a rope swing to a tree, just for old time’s sake!
My sister Amina, who now lives between D.C. and Baltimore, always appreciates the scenic drive to our home, on our less littered highways; which don’t induce torret-like symptoms of road rage! Another reason why I should appreciate living in the country side more often!
My sudden and frequent outbursts of emotion while driving with Hamzah through a big city are usually followed by an, “Astaghfirullah” (God forgive me) and an apology to my passenger, such as, “Sorry Hamzah, that was very bad of me. I should not have said those words to the driver who suddenly cut in front of us and almost caused an accident, when all I wanted to do was get you home before the day ended. I have no right to call that person whom I don’t know, or want to know that very nasty word, because he or she (usually a he) will have to answer to God for not following the basic etiquette's of rush-hour driving. And please don’t drive like that when you grow up, because many Americans believe in the right to bare arms, and there have been several shootings of inconsiderate drivers like the freak who just saved himself 2.3 seconds of idling time by moving one car ahead of us, and who is about to get a taste of his own medicine when I race past him and cut back into the spot that I have every God given right on earth to reclaim. Is your seat belt fastened? Good! Cuz this ride is about to get interesting!”
Yep, I think I’ll stay in the boon-docks until they find a cure for me!
Amazingly, my sister and her husband have survived similar incidents, and it’s a good thing that they don't have a desire to own a handgun like I do!
Speaking of slow, painful deaths, when Amina got married in 1996, a year after I graduated from high school, I became quite depressed. So did she! I used any excuse to go and stay with her. My favorite: “Mummy and Abo, she’s living with her in-laws in a suburb of DC, she’s expecting her first child, and the smell of fried onions is making her feel even more nauseous than it did when we were kids. She doesn’t have a car to go anywhere, and I hate the idea of her being stuck in that house all day with people who don’t speak our language, (English). Not only that, but they insist that she sit on the choki (an extremely uncomfortable, home made, ply-wood, double bed found in the dinette area) decked out in the gold jewelry you guys gave her, while onlookers briefly admire the new “bahoow” (daughter-in-law) before she’s handed a stained-on-both-sides apron, a wooden spoon, and directions for how to cook the 10 dishes they’ve got going all at the same time.”
You’d be depressed too!
No singing in the rain in a white sari moment for my older sister either. Damn you Bollywood! And damn you extremely uncomfortable chokis that can be found in every desi’s home!
Before she got married, we had both been killing our time after school working odd jobs for anyone willing to pay us under-the-table. Usually creepy desi men who wanted a pretty face to sell their worthless pieces of crap and fake gold statues of Buddha. Which I personally feel are offensive, not only to my pretty face, but also to the Enlightened One!
Amina, sorry, Apa, as my younger sister and I were forced to call her after she’d had an epiphany at the age of 16 that the eldest sister should demand respect from her younger siblings, who have no right to call her by her first name even if her passport says Amina, and don’t try showing her the passport either. You’ve been warned!
I think she hoped that by calling her Apa, I might be less inclined to steal clothes out of her closet. Or lend them to my best friend who loved her bohemian chic one-of-a-kind fashions too!
So after I graduated from high school, we left the country side of Lancaster county, and moved into an apartment, to the slightly less rural, but just as redneck county of York.
Since I had nothing to do, my parent’s asked APA if I could tag along with her to work because they didn’t like the idea of me staying home alone. “Not because we don’t trust you behta, but because we don’t trust the other 6 billion people on this planet!” Or more accurately the 15-20 people in our building who might have passed by our ground floor apartment and noticed me sitting alone on the couch, watching a soap opera and eating from a box of Cheez-Its. Because that’s what kids fresh out of high school, who can’t go to college, with no foreseeable future unless they get married (again) look like.
I’m astonished that no one tried to brake in and assault me. A little offended too!
So my sister, seeing my obviously desperate state, asked if I would like to be her assistant at the junk stand! She even offered to split the pay, which meant she was willing to forgo making $5.00 an hour and instead only pocket $2.50 an hour, all because she felt I was too gifted to waste away on the couch smelling of cheese!
Apparently I had so much more to offer the world. Like fake gold jewelry, and knock-off Dooney and Bourke handbags!
So off we went every morning, Monday through Friday, all the way to Harrisburg East-Town Mall in our dad’s pride and joy: A behemoth, white with brown wood paneling, diesel fuel, loud-as-hell engine, Chevrolet station wagon. Or, “Shitty-Shitty BANG-BANG” as we liked to call it! My sister and I now suspect my dad knew what he was doing, sending us to work in a car that could only crawl up hills at 10 mph while disturbing the wildlife and residents of the back routes we were forced to take, because highways are too dangerous for unmarried girls. This is the first car my father purchased after coming back to America with my mum and younger sister Mariam.
I guess our car had to match the depiction of our farm house; Spacious, noisy, smelly, and usually owned and operated by white people!
So the money Apa earned at these jobs was voluntarily spent to help my parent’s with Mariam’s back-to-school wardrobe: a pair of black and purple leggings with matching t-shirts and scrunchies. In Mariam’s defense, all the girls in her elementary school dressed that way. Even the cool ones!
Apa always helped my parent’s with our needs, but I, being the selfish one, used my earnings to support my love of shoes. Of course at $2.50 an hour, I couldn’t buy them as often as I wanted, or from department stores, because they sold mostly leather shoes. So I was limited to the more affordable, plastic knock-offs in the size 7 aisles at Payless. But I knew how to work them! I was mindful never to squat or run in them, because the look of creased plastic isn’t as appealing to the eye as the look of a malleable, well-worn, genuine leather shoe.
In other words, never take Payless shoes with you to Pakistan…unless your relatives have installed a more civilized and less frightening above-ground toilet!
After Apa got married and left me in charge of Mariam, I didn’t change my name to Baji. (The other title reserved for middle sisters who like to be respected too.) Instead I did what she had taught me to do. I found a job in York Galleria Mall to pay for Mariam’s school needs and my shoe fetish! By this time, we had retired Shitty Shitty Bang Bang, and I was now driving a rusty brown Thunderbird, which I actually loved! I worked for an Iranian couple who were also willing me pay me under the table, and use my innocent, pretty face to attract customers to their knock-off designer wear. Nothing that I could model, because it was all gangsta wear: Baseball/trucker hats, Fubu, Tommy Hilfiger, and Nike jeans and t-shirts.
Sadly none of the “Gangstas” in York realized that this merchandise was fresh out of an illegal warehouse in NYC. They also never realized that Nike has never been known to design or sell jeans. Luckily for my boss, our customers were not interested in being informed citizens. They just saw a garment with a popular brand name plastered vulgarly all over it and went away pleased with their deal. And if a suspicious parent ever accompanied their uninformed teenager, I remembered to use the line my sister had taught me back in Harrisburg: “We purchase our merchandise directly from the designer, thereby cutting out the middle man. Then we pass those savings onto you, our customer.” (To be said/read in a Valley Girl accent!)
Sound familiar? Now you know not to buy stuff from anyone trying to charm you with this too-good-to-be-true price tag line. It’s as fake as their merchandise! Run away and call the authorities. But if the merchants look like nice, decent girls who are just working in order to kill time until they get their green card or a husband, then maybe it’s high time you realized a little knock-off never hurt nobody!
Thank you Apa, for all that you’ve done for me, and for all that you’ll continue to do for me! Like, especially after I become rich and famous. But like, don’t worry, cuz I’ll like totally pay you more than $2.50 an hour, because I’ll be totally, like, cutting out the middle man too...Uncle Sam of course! Duh!
(Also to be said/read in Valley Girl accent!)
Watch out Mariam, you're next!
