Writing in my memoir is a lot more enjoyable now that Hamzah is a full-time student. It’s like working an 8-4 job, but without the pay check, health benefits, free coffee or stingy 30 minute lunch breaks. FYI: 30 minutes is not enough time for desi’s to re-heat and clean-up leftover korma. An additional 30 minutes would be useful to sweet-talk your co-workers, especially after subjecting them to the pungent aroma of cumin and other “garam masalas” (hot spice mixtures) on a daily basis.
And don’t bother trying to convert your desi co-workers into eating microwavable soup in a cup. (Or microwavable TV dinners). Desi’s refuse to assimilate when it comes to food. According to my grandmother, “Oobleweh kaaneh main koy maaza nahain attah hain." (Boiled food is no fun to eat).
Yes, that’s right, according to my grandmother, not only do British and American foods consist of bland ingredients boiled with "the only two spices known to white man: salt and pepper!" but according to most desi's, eating food is supposed to be fun and exciting! After all, many spices are considered aphrodisiacs, thus explaining the rapid population growth in Asian countries. (More on that later.)
I’ve found yet another clue to help solve the mystery of my singledom: I don’t like food that much. And I especially don’t like food that makes my hair and clothes reek.
More to the point: I don’t equate dinnertime with fun-times!
Anyway, back to writing in my memoir and the appreciation for the undisturbed thought processes. (I should also learn to stop interrupting myself by going off on tangents all the time!)
Before I knew the luxury of Hamzah’s eight hour retreats to school, (which I now relish and wonder how I possibly survived 24 hours a day with him, everyday, until his sixth birthday) I made sure our days were spent enjoying an educational activity, playing dress up, running or biking outside, and eating lunch; usually last night’s korma. Then I would tell him, “I’m going to do my home work now, (because I was a full-time student as well as an aspiring writer) so go and watch some TV or play by yourself.” Usually he did both, but not without interrupting me every 30 seconds. The conversations usually went something like this:
Hamzah: Umi, can you fix my cape, it keeps coming “un-velcroed.”
Me: OK, but this is the last time I’m doing it. If it happens again please change into your Shark Boy costume. (That one doesn’t have a cape that can become “un-velcroed!”)
30 second delay
Hamzah: Umi, can you wash me some grapes?
Me: Hold on, let me finish typing this sente…”
130 second delay
Hamzah: Umi, I’m DOOOOOOONNNNNNNNEEEEE!
Me: UGH! I should’ve known the grapes were a bad idea. When are you going to learn to wash yourself? (Although, I’m not sure three-year-olds have developed enough flexibility and hand-eye coordination for this task!)
Hamzah: I’m not touching my own doo-doo, that’s your job, plus I don’t know how to pour the lohta paani (watering can Muslim’s keep next to the toilet) behind me. (Like I said: lacking the flexibility. But he does yoga with me so it won’t be long now!)
Me: We need to install one of those hoses I’ve seen at the masjid. Except ours will actually work!
1 second delay
Hamzah: I SAID I'M DOOOOOOONNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEE !
Me: OK! OK!
After he’s all cleaned-up, he disappears downstairs to fight more bad guys, and I return to my memoir…for 30 more seconds.
Hamzah: Can we go to Target now?
Me: Has it already been a week?
Hamzah: “Yes, and can you buy me something this time, because when we go out and you don’t buy me something, I feel boring!” (I swear to God, he actually said that when he was 3 years old.)
I spent the next 30 minutes laughing and crying due to the realization that I had failed to teach my son the most basic of life’s lessons: You don’t buy things to prevent boredom!
Unless of course, you’re facing a mid-life crisis, have insane amounts of money, or are going through a divorce. Which -I hope- in that case, allows for the mindless consumption of any damn pair of shoes your angry, sad, dejected little heart desires.
Imelda Marcos would’ve been envious of my shoe collection!
My spirit was not the only one that I had hoped to mend with all this unnecessary (yet nice) stuff. I was also seeking to compensate Hamzah for the tremendous guilt that I was feeling for moving him away from his father and out of our home. This guilt explains the plethora of super-hero costumes, action figures, and the power-wheels truck that I'd purchased within a few months of leaving. What was I thinking? Buying him a battery-operated F-150 before he had even learned to steer a bike?
The sad reality of this situation is that neither one of us knew at the time, what I was really compensating him for: His inability to consent or dissent to the move.
Sometimes I wonder if children, even as young as three, should have a say in these matters. I’m not saying we should vote to change the legal age of a minor, (God knows not even 21-year-old’s should be allowed to drive) but I do regret not consulting with him first. Instead, I hurriedly began to load the car early one cold, November morning (as soon as Bilal had left for work) and told Hamzah to finish his oatmeal, while I continued moving our belongings out of the house. I remember he was still in his pajamas standing in our doorway, watching me as I tried to cram my favorite piece of living room furniture into the back of our SUV. His countenance was one of confusion and wonderment. I'm sure mine was too.
I finally realized my role as a mother, the day I left my husband. In many ways, it was as if I'd just given birth. Ready to defend and protect till death do us part. My son was about to witness what I was truly capable of. And so was I.
The long sleepless nights of his newborn days would pale in comparison to the long lonely nights that lay ahead. I can only pray that he appreciates my efforts in the future, and that neither one of us ever regrets my decisions; or that we at least learn to live with them.
I’ve also realized now, that the rectangular, microfiber ottoman (that I had paid for with my dowry money and forced into the back of my car) had come to signify a major part of my life. A part that I was unwilling to surrender. An object that carried more importance and memories than the man who I had desperately tried to please, and who I now found myself -in a state of panic- trying to leave.
The ottoman was a testament to my desire to remain independent, even though I was married and a “stay at home mother” (which meant not earning money or even praise for my work. Not enough from the other parent at least.) The ottoman was also a tribute to my great taste in interior decorating. The warm mocha color of this soft, functional, accent piece was a nice compliment to the cold, dark exterior of our leather sofas. But what the ottoman symbolized most of all, was my desire for warmth.
It recently dawned on me, that our living room could be viewed as a metaphor (or parable) for the failure of our marriage; a warm, cultured, (mostly) happy person, married to a self-described, “sad, lonely, angry guy who doesn’t like people very much.” I think our problem was, and still is, that we don't know how to communicate with each other.
And don’t bother trying to convert your desi co-workers into eating microwavable soup in a cup. (Or microwavable TV dinners). Desi’s refuse to assimilate when it comes to food. According to my grandmother, “Oobleweh kaaneh main koy maaza nahain attah hain." (Boiled food is no fun to eat).
Yes, that’s right, according to my grandmother, not only do British and American foods consist of bland ingredients boiled with "the only two spices known to white man: salt and pepper!" but according to most desi's, eating food is supposed to be fun and exciting! After all, many spices are considered aphrodisiacs, thus explaining the rapid population growth in Asian countries. (More on that later.)
I’ve found yet another clue to help solve the mystery of my singledom: I don’t like food that much. And I especially don’t like food that makes my hair and clothes reek.
More to the point: I don’t equate dinnertime with fun-times!
Anyway, back to writing in my memoir and the appreciation for the undisturbed thought processes. (I should also learn to stop interrupting myself by going off on tangents all the time!)
Before I knew the luxury of Hamzah’s eight hour retreats to school, (which I now relish and wonder how I possibly survived 24 hours a day with him, everyday, until his sixth birthday) I made sure our days were spent enjoying an educational activity, playing dress up, running or biking outside, and eating lunch; usually last night’s korma. Then I would tell him, “I’m going to do my home work now, (because I was a full-time student as well as an aspiring writer) so go and watch some TV or play by yourself.” Usually he did both, but not without interrupting me every 30 seconds. The conversations usually went something like this:
Hamzah: Umi, can you fix my cape, it keeps coming “un-velcroed.”
Me: OK, but this is the last time I’m doing it. If it happens again please change into your Shark Boy costume. (That one doesn’t have a cape that can become “un-velcroed!”)
30 second delay
Hamzah: Umi, can you wash me some grapes?
Me: Hold on, let me finish typing this sente…”
130 second delay
Hamzah: Umi, I’m DOOOOOOONNNNNNNNEEEEE!
Me: UGH! I should’ve known the grapes were a bad idea. When are you going to learn to wash yourself? (Although, I’m not sure three-year-olds have developed enough flexibility and hand-eye coordination for this task!)
Hamzah: I’m not touching my own doo-doo, that’s your job, plus I don’t know how to pour the lohta paani (watering can Muslim’s keep next to the toilet) behind me. (Like I said: lacking the flexibility. But he does yoga with me so it won’t be long now!)
Me: We need to install one of those hoses I’ve seen at the masjid. Except ours will actually work!
1 second delay
Hamzah: I SAID I'M DOOOOOOONNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEE !
Me: OK! OK!
After he’s all cleaned-up, he disappears downstairs to fight more bad guys, and I return to my memoir…for 30 more seconds.
Hamzah: Can we go to Target now?
Me: Has it already been a week?
Hamzah: “Yes, and can you buy me something this time, because when we go out and you don’t buy me something, I feel boring!” (I swear to God, he actually said that when he was 3 years old.)
I spent the next 30 minutes laughing and crying due to the realization that I had failed to teach my son the most basic of life’s lessons: You don’t buy things to prevent boredom!
Unless of course, you’re facing a mid-life crisis, have insane amounts of money, or are going through a divorce. Which -I hope- in that case, allows for the mindless consumption of any damn pair of shoes your angry, sad, dejected little heart desires.
Imelda Marcos would’ve been envious of my shoe collection!
My spirit was not the only one that I had hoped to mend with all this unnecessary (yet nice) stuff. I was also seeking to compensate Hamzah for the tremendous guilt that I was feeling for moving him away from his father and out of our home. This guilt explains the plethora of super-hero costumes, action figures, and the power-wheels truck that I'd purchased within a few months of leaving. What was I thinking? Buying him a battery-operated F-150 before he had even learned to steer a bike?
The sad reality of this situation is that neither one of us knew at the time, what I was really compensating him for: His inability to consent or dissent to the move.
Sometimes I wonder if children, even as young as three, should have a say in these matters. I’m not saying we should vote to change the legal age of a minor, (God knows not even 21-year-old’s should be allowed to drive) but I do regret not consulting with him first. Instead, I hurriedly began to load the car early one cold, November morning (as soon as Bilal had left for work) and told Hamzah to finish his oatmeal, while I continued moving our belongings out of the house. I remember he was still in his pajamas standing in our doorway, watching me as I tried to cram my favorite piece of living room furniture into the back of our SUV. His countenance was one of confusion and wonderment. I'm sure mine was too.
I finally realized my role as a mother, the day I left my husband. In many ways, it was as if I'd just given birth. Ready to defend and protect till death do us part. My son was about to witness what I was truly capable of. And so was I.
The long sleepless nights of his newborn days would pale in comparison to the long lonely nights that lay ahead. I can only pray that he appreciates my efforts in the future, and that neither one of us ever regrets my decisions; or that we at least learn to live with them.
I’ve also realized now, that the rectangular, microfiber ottoman (that I had paid for with my dowry money and forced into the back of my car) had come to signify a major part of my life. A part that I was unwilling to surrender. An object that carried more importance and memories than the man who I had desperately tried to please, and who I now found myself -in a state of panic- trying to leave.
The ottoman was a testament to my desire to remain independent, even though I was married and a “stay at home mother” (which meant not earning money or even praise for my work. Not enough from the other parent at least.) The ottoman was also a tribute to my great taste in interior decorating. The warm mocha color of this soft, functional, accent piece was a nice compliment to the cold, dark exterior of our leather sofas. But what the ottoman symbolized most of all, was my desire for warmth.
It recently dawned on me, that our living room could be viewed as a metaphor (or parable) for the failure of our marriage; a warm, cultured, (mostly) happy person, married to a self-described, “sad, lonely, angry guy who doesn’t like people very much.” I think our problem was, and still is, that we don't know how to communicate with each other.
His not liking people is a problem too, but I'm trying to help my ex here and act as his (unlicensed) therapist.
If only I had been able to convince him years ago, to lie down on our extra-long leather sofa, and to rest his head under one of the taupe, delicately embroidered cushions as I enveloped him in the luxurious paisley throw imported from Pakistan. The ample light -streaming in through the muted burgundy silk drapes- casting shadows on the wall, while I sat across from my patient on the soft, tufted ottoman, smiling down at Hamzah as he played quietly on the floor with a hot wheels car, focusing all his attention on the circular motion of the wheels.
If only Bilal and I had worked as well together, as our hand crafted Italian sofas had worked with my carefully selected accent pieces.
Creating an aesthetically pleasing and functional living space is easy for me, but creating a home within that space, well, that requires a talent I have yet to master.
We should have been better matched to people who complimented our various needs and desires. Obviously "arranged marriages" can sometimes fail to arrange marriages, just as "love marriages" sometimes fail to keep love (alive in) marriages.
Maybe it's the role of wife that I don't quite comprehend. Or maybe I prefer wearing one hat, (mother) as opposed to juggling back and forth between several. (Mother, wife, maid, therapist, interior designer, student, writer etc).
Will I always feel this abvilalent about my roles in life? I'm sure I'm not the only person who feels so torn about my place in society, so I'll try not to dwell on it too much!
I wonder if I had said, "Hamzah, what do you think of the idea to go and live with Naani and Naana for a little while?" If he would’ve said, “Yay! Let’s do it, let’s move in with your parents!”
Four years later, we're still living here. Happily stable for what it's worth. And aren't stability and happiness the most important "things" you can give your child?
I suppose I’ll never know what Hamzah would've said had I asked him. Sometimes it’s better that way. And sometimes it doesn’t even matter, because the result would’ve been the same regardless. Because I was the one making the decisions.
Or was I?
I believe it's called Qismat. Fate.
Back to his 30 second interruption: Can we go to Target now?
Me: OK, let’s go!
Hamzah: Can I keep my costume on?
Me: Sure! (Because I knew I would need a super-hero with me... to save me from the shoe racks!)
So we were off to Target, but he remained “boring.” And so did I! Mainly because I was experiencing a bout of, “Where the hell is my child support this month?” To which - when asked in a more polite manner - my then unemployed ex-husband responded, “If I’m not getting paid, you’re not getting paid!”
Umm hmmm! It’s gonna to take way more than therapy buddy!
___________________________________________________
If only I had been able to convince him years ago, to lie down on our extra-long leather sofa, and to rest his head under one of the taupe, delicately embroidered cushions as I enveloped him in the luxurious paisley throw imported from Pakistan. The ample light -streaming in through the muted burgundy silk drapes- casting shadows on the wall, while I sat across from my patient on the soft, tufted ottoman, smiling down at Hamzah as he played quietly on the floor with a hot wheels car, focusing all his attention on the circular motion of the wheels.
If only Bilal and I had worked as well together, as our hand crafted Italian sofas had worked with my carefully selected accent pieces.
Creating an aesthetically pleasing and functional living space is easy for me, but creating a home within that space, well, that requires a talent I have yet to master.
We should have been better matched to people who complimented our various needs and desires. Obviously "arranged marriages" can sometimes fail to arrange marriages, just as "love marriages" sometimes fail to keep love (alive in) marriages.
Maybe it's the role of wife that I don't quite comprehend. Or maybe I prefer wearing one hat, (mother) as opposed to juggling back and forth between several. (Mother, wife, maid, therapist, interior designer, student, writer etc).
Will I always feel this abvilalent about my roles in life? I'm sure I'm not the only person who feels so torn about my place in society, so I'll try not to dwell on it too much!
I wonder if I had said, "Hamzah, what do you think of the idea to go and live with Naani and Naana for a little while?" If he would’ve said, “Yay! Let’s do it, let’s move in with your parents!”
Four years later, we're still living here. Happily stable for what it's worth. And aren't stability and happiness the most important "things" you can give your child?
I suppose I’ll never know what Hamzah would've said had I asked him. Sometimes it’s better that way. And sometimes it doesn’t even matter, because the result would’ve been the same regardless. Because I was the one making the decisions.
Or was I?
I believe it's called Qismat. Fate.
Back to his 30 second interruption: Can we go to Target now?
Me: OK, let’s go!
Hamzah: Can I keep my costume on?
Me: Sure! (Because I knew I would need a super-hero with me... to save me from the shoe racks!)
So we were off to Target, but he remained “boring.” And so did I! Mainly because I was experiencing a bout of, “Where the hell is my child support this month?” To which - when asked in a more polite manner - my then unemployed ex-husband responded, “If I’m not getting paid, you’re not getting paid!”
Umm hmmm! It’s gonna to take way more than therapy buddy!
___________________________________________________
Intermission
(Meaning this is the half way mark of this very long chapter, so it's a good time for a bathroom break or a cup of tea. Don't forget to wash up after yourself!)
___________________________________________________
During the eight (glorious) hours a day that Hamzah attends school, I have also found the opportunity to sit and discuss with my grandmother, Mama, what life was really like back in the “good old days.” These discussions were spurred by my sincere interest to discover what women did "back then," and whether girls were as boy-crazy as they are today. (And vice versa).
If Indian movies are any indication - and they are NOT - then women busied themselves by singing and dancing in lush meadows and hilltops, and spent their evenings picking out the 30 or more outfits they’d be wearing for their three-hour dance routines.
Since reality is less excruciating to watch, I asked Mama how she spent her days, before she was married at the tender age of 16. And before you decry child brides, check your own family tree. Women from all nations were married off extremely young in the past. Europeans even crowned and married off 6 year-olds. So I don’t wanna hear it! (And yes, I know what century it was.)
My grandmother told me about the daily visits from private tutors and music instructors. Her father was a wealthy business man, whose land and wealth were stolen from him, and from most of the Muslims who were forced into exile after the British left India; but not before they pillaged the Sub-Continent.
The Queen of England’s crown serves as a bitter reminder of the colonists and their plundering days. This might help to explain why Indians and Pakistanis look so pissed off when they’re touring the Tower of London. My mother was fuming when she took us there, but I thought it was because she forgot our journals…which you’ll understand in a minute, depending on how fast you read.
My relatives say, that even though my great grandfather had tried to make another life for himself in Pakistan, he still died penniless due to his kind heart. I have yet to resolve my feelings about my great grandfather’s generous spirit; because I have to admit, a trust fund would’ve been nice. OH, come on! Like the thought wouldn't have crossed your mind too!
I’ll eventually get over the disappointing fact that I have to work to earn my own living; like the rest of (damned) middle and lower-class society!
Mama also told me that before the proliferation of televisions and computers, parents actually encouraged their children to learn about arts and sciences. Remember those subjects? No, Microsoft Paint doesn’t count as exposure to art! For example, they learned how to needle-point, speak another language, (in addition to the two or three they already spoke fluently) how to play an instrument - no music banning fundamentalists amongst my ancestors - and how to recite poetry, (mostly Persian poetry by Rumi) and of course, how to cook. Some things will never change!
By asking Mama these questions, I confirmed my notion that girls were not as boy-crazy as they are today. (And vice versa).
And do you want to know why?
Because they didn’t have time to be! They were always in the presence of adults, (teachers, relatives, etc) learning wonderful things, and this left little time for giggling about the opposite sex. These extra-curricular activities were not the only obstructions to their giggling bliss. Walls acted as barriers too; in the way of, “all girls” or “all boys” schools. (Again, check your history books, because the West believed in segregation too, and not just between different races.)
However, this separation was accomplished by more than a pair of curtains hanging from a bent metal rod; as can be seen in various mosques around America.
During visits to my mosque, I’m always amused when I catch someone peeking through these home-made panels. I’m not sure what to make of these screens, but I do know they incite more curiosity. I’ve even heard some of the youth ask where all the good-looking ones are, as they peer through the gaping holes. Tut, tut, tut!
Yes, I’m outing my own people again!
Message to the elders: We are as "Westernized" as you never expected us to become when you chose to immigrate here and send us to co-ed schools! (BTW that word, "Westernized" drives me freakin' insane. Just look at the state of Pakistan, and some of the countries in the Middle East and you'll know why! (You'll also realize why the elders left their homeland!) Yeah! What do you have to say for yourselves now Aunty and Uncle?)
After further discussions with Mama, I realized another reason why girls and boys weren’t as “hormonal” as they are now. (I won't be getting into the debate over hormones fed to livestock; which is rapidly advancing the onset of puberty and causing many health concerns).
The youth of yesteryear knew that marriage was right around the corner, and that meant they'd be spending the majority of their lives with each other. So why rush the depression!
What’s worse?
a.) Knowing before-hand that the opposite sex is psycho, yet still pursuing a marriage contract?
Or
b.) Keeping your distance from them, and then having the crap shocked out of you when you tie the knot at your sweet sixteen party?
Fools rush in!
So it turns out, I hadn’t been doing enough extra-curricular activities or “seenah and perohna” (sewing and stringing pearls) as my grandmother had done in her youth. Maybe that’s why I had more time to notice the one and only cute boy in our Mosque.
Long before the installation of the shoddy green curtains on the rusty pole, I attended Sunday school in what was referred to as: “The little white box in Harrisburg.” During recess, (on the 6 x 4 plot of weeds) I set my sites on Mr. 5’10” and found all 5’10” of him breath-taking! He was the tallest one in the crowd, and the only one who knew how to throw and catch a football. Then he moved to another state, and I tried to convince my parents to move there too. Unsuccessfully!
They never did quite figure out my fascination with that state (which will remain unspecified because Mr. 5’10” is now married with children, and I’m stroking my own ego here with the notion that he might actually read a memoir written by his ex stalker).
Can too much time on your hands really be the reason for these hormonal accelerations?
But when we lived in England, our mother made sure our schedules were packed, and even then I spent hours a day, day-dreaming about Mr. Soul Mate Whose Gonna Sweep Me Off My Feet (and drive a BMW and live in unspecified state, cuz deep down I knew we would move to America eventually). I guess it’s true what they say, you make time for the things that matter the most!
Too much time you say? Well, mummy had us taking private French lessons, ballet, tap, (upon my pleading because I loved the sound of the shoes) violin, recorder, (mandatory for any child growing up in England) and piano (which from my previous chapters you know was torture). My mother was ever hopeful that one of us would turn out to be a prodigy in at least one avenue of the arts! We even had to take notes during our week-end trips to all of London’s museums. My sisters and I had to study the artwork and write down (in our home-made journals) why we liked a certain piece of art, and why it spoke to us!
The other visitors must have thought we were on a school trip, but no, this was actually my mother’s idea of a fun-filled weekend adventure. Finally ending at the museum gift store where she treated us to a postcard or bookmark of the artwork that we had been forced to write a thesis on.
I can’t wait to move to a big city, and abuse my own child like this. (When he’s old enough to spell Renoir, of course!)
That reminds me of the trip I made in 2008 to New York City with Hamzah, Nabeeha, my niece, and Yousuf, my nephew (ages 11, 8, and 6 at the time). I showed them all the cool cites in Manhattan, and our last stop was “my turn.” This means: I took them to FAO Schwarz, Central Park, Times Square and McDonald's, so it was “my turn” to do something that excites me.
So we went to The Guggenheim Museum!
Those mandatory museum trips obviously inspired my passion for expressionist artwork. (Thank you mummy!) And my recent trip to London rebirthed my affection for architecture, which is why I was eager to visit the only monument to be found in NYC by Frank Lloyd Wright.
You can imagine the children’s sullen expressions as they reluctantly stepped inside this abstract looking shell (that didn’t have a play area, sell candy, or fast-food). And how thrilled I was to see their faces suddenly illuminate, transfixed by the spectacular, spiraling, seven floors of this architectural masterpiece. But it didn't take long for their disgruntled and annoyed looking faces to return; after I read the “no running up or down the spiral staircase” policy. I believe their response to that policy was, “This place sucks!” (Out loud! Much to my embarrassment.)
They also didn’t appreciate being reprimanded for standing too close to a Van Gogh masterpiece. I forgot to tell them that the wide tape mark on the floor meant: Stand back or get reprimanded by a dude who takes his job way too seriously! I believe their response to that rule was, “Museums suck and so do the people in those ugly blue blazers!”
I felt an obligation here, to hustle the children into a quiet corner and help them understand the reasons behind all these "suckish" rules. So I put it in monetary and threatening terms, (terms that children can relate to) as in, "This painting is worth $50,000,000.00 and none of us can afford to pay for something like this if it gets damaged, so I'll probably end up in jail, and do you want me to be taken off to jail while you're left in this big city alone?" WELL? DO YOU?
Then they understood why the "dude" took his job so seriously. And why I took mine -as chaperone-seriously too!
To which they responded, "What the heck? Why would you bring us to a place like this then, we're just kids! Sheeesh!" (At least they knew not to say hell or Jeez!)
As punishment for their audacity to embarrass me for yet a third time, I made them look at every piece of art, and walk all the way up and down each dizzying spiral.
Of course they tried to be creative and work into a fast trot on the way down, but when one of those “ugly blue blazers” came into view, they quickly resumed the look of well-mannered, civilized, private-elementary school-trip students!
Mission Accomplished! Like mother like daughter.
On our way out, I handed them a free map of the museum as a souvenir, because the price of bookmarks has risen enormously since the 80's! And because I was taught that you have to work hard to earn such rewards! "No thesis, no postcard for you!"
(To be said like the soup nazi from Seinfeld.)
So even though my sisters and I were being bussed all over London to these extra-curricular activities, I was still secretly pining for Russell. The suave, brown-haired boy in my primary school who never tried to catch me when we played “kiss-chase.” And I wasn’t playing hard to get either. I would run towards him when he was "it," but deep down I knew what turned him off and sent him running in the opposite direction: The smell of korma. (Goat meat fried in onions and garam masala.)
I wonder how I’d fare on a vegan diet.
To which they responded, "What the heck? Why would you bring us to a place like this then, we're just kids! Sheeesh!" (At least they knew not to say hell or Jeez!)
As punishment for their audacity to embarrass me for yet a third time, I made them look at every piece of art, and walk all the way up and down each dizzying spiral.
Of course they tried to be creative and work into a fast trot on the way down, but when one of those “ugly blue blazers” came into view, they quickly resumed the look of well-mannered, civilized, private-elementary school-trip students!
Mission Accomplished! Like mother like daughter.
On our way out, I handed them a free map of the museum as a souvenir, because the price of bookmarks has risen enormously since the 80's! And because I was taught that you have to work hard to earn such rewards! "No thesis, no postcard for you!"
(To be said like the soup nazi from Seinfeld.)
So even though my sisters and I were being bussed all over London to these extra-curricular activities, I was still secretly pining for Russell. The suave, brown-haired boy in my primary school who never tried to catch me when we played “kiss-chase.” And I wasn’t playing hard to get either. I would run towards him when he was "it," but deep down I knew what turned him off and sent him running in the opposite direction: The smell of korma. (Goat meat fried in onions and garam masala.)
I wonder how I’d fare on a vegan diet.
© 2010 by Rabiya Khan
