I grew up sincerely believing that I was the only girl in America that had a father that did what mine did. Well, my sisters and I shared this poor excuse for a man but you get my meaning. It just wasn't possible for there to be ANOTHER father out there that took the abusive liberties that mine did on a daily basis.
I realize, of course, that that isn't true but when your a child your world consist of you and those who affect it on a daily basis. Generally your immediate family. Your world IS your family. The rest of the world is "fairytale". What I mean by that is your world is centered on what happens to YOU...nothing else matters. Even if there was another little girl out there suffering as I suffered, she never crossed my mind because I was busy surviving my own Hell on Earth.
Once I grew up and opened my eyes to the rest of the world and learned that, yes, in fact there were lots of fathers just like mine. Some even worse, if that was possible. Far too many to be sure. The news metes out a daily litany of fathers who have done horrendous things to their own children as well as to children that belong to friends, family and strangers alike. If we are to believe the media then our next door neighbor, that friendly teacher in school all the kids love, the local Boy Scout leader, and even our local respected religious leader, is just a child predator that hasn't been caught yet. It's only a matter of time.
Of course this was brought home even more so when I discovered that my own husband (ex) was a wolf in sheep's clothing as well. Apparently that old adage that we "marry" the parent that had the most impact on us as children holds true. I sincerely hope that isn't completely true as my own children are reaching marriagable age and I would hate for that particular adage to become a family tradition of sorts. So far, it's not looking good.
Anyhow, the point of this post is to relate something that crossed my mind last night while working in the store. What I saw and how I reacted to it.
A man came in with a boy around 7 years old. At first all seemed well. The man was choosing what he wanted...and the boy was trailing behind silently watching him. The man kept asking the boy if he wanted this or that and the boy would always say no. For some reason this struck me as odd...what kid anywhere says NO when offered candy, gum, chips etc? I paid more attention as my radar was on now...something just felt "off" to me.
At first I thought they were related, father son sort of thing, but then through their exchange I realized the boy was the son of the man's friend/girlfriend (not exactly sure) The boy kept saying, "my mom" doesn't like me to have that stuff...regarding whatever the man would offer him.
Finally they came up to the counter. The guy had brought many different sort of things to buy...most of them were things he had offered to get the boy but which the boy had refused...still he got them. This seemed odd to me as well. (don't ask me why)
He asked the boy one last time if he wanted anything and the boy said that he had his own money as his mom had given him some. The guy paid for his things and they turned to leave. It was then that the guy reached out to put his hand on the boys shoulder and the boy virtually flinched under his hand. It was a hard thing for me to watch knowing what I know about the world...and about many of the men who walk among us disguised as men but really harbor beasts within them.
Now, granted I could have been reading way too much into what I witnessed. Also, it's hard to convey the atmosphere that the boy just didn't want to be with the man for whatever reason. Not to mention the guy was trying so hard to "reward" the boy with some sort of treat that the boy had already claimed he wasn't allowed to have.
So here are my questions.
1. I quite often find myself watching grown ups with children now all the time. Generally in ordinary settings but I now watch with the eyes of a "been there done that" attitude...in that in my eyes, you can't trust anyone anymore with children. I seem to be hyper vigilant to every little nuance, every little word, body movement, innuendo (in my mind anyhow) that plays out between an adult and child. I quite often hear or see things that make me want to react...but then I stop and ask myself...am I REALLY seeing or hearing that...or is my previously abused self and mother of abused children making myself see or hear that? It's a question I ask myself ALL the time.
2. Short of asking the boy outright, "son, do you want to be with this man," which could open a whole can of worms (if I'm wrong...and even if I'm right) what else could I do if I feel something is "off"? What would you do if you witnessed a scene between an adult and a child that just left you feeling odd?
I don't trust men anymore. Period. I don't want to view ALL men as potential abusers...but so far in my small world...that is what they have always turned out to be and so I find myself looking at a perfectly normal man and wondering if he's as normal on the inside as what he portrays on the outside. I can't help it...I've been reprogrammed to be suspicious of even the most "innocent" looking of men.
In one way I'm sure this a good survival instinct...being alert to potential danger etc can't be a bad thing...but it actually colors my view of the world now. The eyes I look out from are now jaded and sceptical about the inherent "goodness" of man. I think to myself that the "good" guys are few and far between and the bad guys are around every corner and under every bed. I don't want to be like this...but there it is.
I also happen to know that there have been times we absolutely knew we should have said something, did something, reacted in some way to something we witnessed...and yet we held back for fear of being called out on it. We then regret our inaction and vow to do better next time. With children it is always a hard decision to make because not only are you accusing an adult and causing drama there..you are dragging a child into that drama...for better or for worse (better if your right, worse if your wrong)...so you hesitate...and watch as that child walks away with what you hope to God is not another abuser in disguise.
What do you do people? How do you decide when and if you should stand up and say something? How do you decide that it's YOUR responsibility to say, "hey now, what the hells going on here?" The ramifications of that statement can be devastating to all concerned.
I don't feel good about watching that little boy walk away with that man. It didn't feel "right" to me...but I couldn't pinpoint anything specifically that was "wrong"...it was more how the whole little scene played out that didn't sit well with me.
Then again...it could have just been a 7 year old that didn't like his mother's new boyfriend and was showing it in his small rebellious way?
*I only refer to men as abusers as that is MY particular experience. I DO know that women abuse as well. For my purposes of this post regarding MY experiences...I only speak of men as abusers.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
When someone who should love you....hurts you...
Most of my life I've only ever had a few people in it that I considered "loved" or "friends". My family consisted of my mother, two sisters, father and a brother that I've barely seen my whole life(extended family doesn't count here as my father rarely let us visit with them and they NEVER came to visit us). My circle of friends has always ALWAYS been very small due simply to the fact that, first my father then my husband, created an environment around me that only allowed a few friends in.
There was a time in my life when I was so lonely and isolated that I would accept virtually anyone that showed a half decent interest in me as a friend. Later I would realize it was half hearted and not worth pursuing, but desperation would keep me "chasing" after relationships that just weren't there. More out of the need for friendship then because I felt they were really interested in maintaining a relationship with me. This usually resulted in me being hurt in one way or another...but lessons learned aren't always learned easily.
Being married to my ex for so long and subject to his families ill treatment of me taught me one thing...it's far better to ignore such behavior then to react to it. It's far easier on the mind and heart to remove yourself from that situation then to stay right in the middle of it hoping it will change. Once someone has made it plain that the relationship You thought was there (or should be there)...or a relationship You thought was always going to be there...no longer interest them...then why stick around waiting for them to change their minds? Especially when they make it abundantly clear through their actions (though rumor spreading or hurtful words etc) that they are "done"?
This was a very slow lesson for me to learn. I had to be hurt by a lot of "friends" and in some cases, "family" before I learned this lesson well and good. Why should I pursue the relationship when they have made it clear they are done with it? Understand?
This lesson slammed home to me once and for all (and for good) the night I discovered what my oh so wonderful ex had been up to with our children. His subsequent reaction to "being caught" was one thing (and expected considering his past indifference to feelings of guilt) but the reaction from so called friends and family and a whole sale abandonment of those same friends and family came as a shock...and a hard lesson learned.
A relationship isn't always what YOU think it is..and it's true "depth" can be brought to light in a nanosecond...then all is laid open and the "truth" of it is there spotlighted under a very harsh and painful light.
It was during this painful insight...this harsh lesson learned...that I made a promise to myself. One I have stayed true too for the most part...I would no longer allow a "friend" or "family member" in my life that has made it abundantly clear their side of the relationship doesn't mean nearly as much to them as it does/did to me. I made/make this decision based on how they treat me, my kids, or those I hold dear. I realize not everyone gets along ALL the time so petty things and minor hurts and disagreements are not my "judging" criteria. Oh no, this person has to "really mean it"...and by that I mean go out of his or her way to hurt me, my kids, or someone I hold dear.
Now, I have lost some "friends" along the way this past few years. People who I considered friends but their behavior proved they were only in it for the short haul. Never mind, life goes on and I'm much better off without that drama in my life. My new motto, "no more drama", has served me pretty well (except for things I have no control over) and, for the most part, I don't look back.
I know I know, some of you are reading this thinking...damn, doesn't she give people a chance or what? People make mistakes, say shit, do things that hurt you etc so what's up with her? She isn't perfect either I damn well bet. Why so harsh and quick to jump ship?
I hear ya. And you would be right if your thinking that. I'm not perfect, nor do I wish to be. How boring that would be. However, I do make an effort to NOT hurt people on purpose...and if I do...I also make an effort to show remorse and apologize if possible.
Hurting on purpose is what I'm talking about here people. When YOU go out of your way to hurt someone you are supposed to love or be friends with on purpose...then YOU are showing through your actions that YOU no longer have a vested interest in maintaining that relationship anymore. Right? Otherwise, why cause the hurt...ON PURPOSE???
Those are the sorts of people that gotta go....no more drama remember? I've been hurt enough, my kids have been hurt enough, by so called "friends" and or "family". So, my promise to myself is...cut off relations with those sorts of people no matter WHO they are to me, or supposed to be anyhow.
Now, what this post boils down to is this. Someone extremely close to me (not saying who just now) has hurt me very deeply. I'm talking, came out of left field, no idea what the hell got into him/her, but this person deliberately and ON PURPOSE set out on a campaign to hurt me, and my kids, as much as possible.
And it worked. The knife in my heart barely has anything left to hold on to as what's left is shredded and weeping.
It hurt that bad.
And still hurts.
And will keep on hurting until I die...yes...that bad people.
And so, this person has been cut from my life full stop. No turning back. No chance for reconciliation...and the one reason that made up my mind is this. Once you have made up your mind to deliberately and ON PURPOSE hurt someone so bad and so deeply without a thought to the obvious consequences...then obviously your half of the relationship was over in your mind. I mean seriously, do people who do that sort of thing think an apology will suffice and things will go back to "normal"? Of course not. Never again. Trust is gone. If you can do it once you can do it again (which is why I wonder why spouses that have been cheated on think the cheater will never cheat again..if they can do it once they can do it again).
A friend of mine said, after hearing my story,.."Don't worry...after some time has passed you will call him/her. You get use to it".
You get use to it? I don't want to get use to it. I don't want to constantly worry that this person is "storing" everything I say or do as fodder for later attacks, or "plotting" to hurt me again on a whim. I don't want to have to worry that my heart has a knife over it just waiting to be pierced....again...and again...and again. Because if they did it once...they can do it again. No more drama remember?
Why would I want to "get used to that"?
So my question is people...do you believe in cutting people from your lives...people who are supposed to be friends and or family? Specially when they are very very close to you and to lose them in your life is a BIG thing...but in your mind a necessary thing? Can you do it? Should you do it?
Forgiving is one thing...forgetting is something else all together.
*sigh*
There was a time in my life when I was so lonely and isolated that I would accept virtually anyone that showed a half decent interest in me as a friend. Later I would realize it was half hearted and not worth pursuing, but desperation would keep me "chasing" after relationships that just weren't there. More out of the need for friendship then because I felt they were really interested in maintaining a relationship with me. This usually resulted in me being hurt in one way or another...but lessons learned aren't always learned easily.
Being married to my ex for so long and subject to his families ill treatment of me taught me one thing...it's far better to ignore such behavior then to react to it. It's far easier on the mind and heart to remove yourself from that situation then to stay right in the middle of it hoping it will change. Once someone has made it plain that the relationship You thought was there (or should be there)...or a relationship You thought was always going to be there...no longer interest them...then why stick around waiting for them to change their minds? Especially when they make it abundantly clear through their actions (though rumor spreading or hurtful words etc) that they are "done"?
This was a very slow lesson for me to learn. I had to be hurt by a lot of "friends" and in some cases, "family" before I learned this lesson well and good. Why should I pursue the relationship when they have made it clear they are done with it? Understand?
This lesson slammed home to me once and for all (and for good) the night I discovered what my oh so wonderful ex had been up to with our children. His subsequent reaction to "being caught" was one thing (and expected considering his past indifference to feelings of guilt) but the reaction from so called friends and family and a whole sale abandonment of those same friends and family came as a shock...and a hard lesson learned.
A relationship isn't always what YOU think it is..and it's true "depth" can be brought to light in a nanosecond...then all is laid open and the "truth" of it is there spotlighted under a very harsh and painful light.
It was during this painful insight...this harsh lesson learned...that I made a promise to myself. One I have stayed true too for the most part...I would no longer allow a "friend" or "family member" in my life that has made it abundantly clear their side of the relationship doesn't mean nearly as much to them as it does/did to me. I made/make this decision based on how they treat me, my kids, or those I hold dear. I realize not everyone gets along ALL the time so petty things and minor hurts and disagreements are not my "judging" criteria. Oh no, this person has to "really mean it"...and by that I mean go out of his or her way to hurt me, my kids, or someone I hold dear.
Now, I have lost some "friends" along the way this past few years. People who I considered friends but their behavior proved they were only in it for the short haul. Never mind, life goes on and I'm much better off without that drama in my life. My new motto, "no more drama", has served me pretty well (except for things I have no control over) and, for the most part, I don't look back.
I know I know, some of you are reading this thinking...damn, doesn't she give people a chance or what? People make mistakes, say shit, do things that hurt you etc so what's up with her? She isn't perfect either I damn well bet. Why so harsh and quick to jump ship?
I hear ya. And you would be right if your thinking that. I'm not perfect, nor do I wish to be. How boring that would be. However, I do make an effort to NOT hurt people on purpose...and if I do...I also make an effort to show remorse and apologize if possible.
Hurting on purpose is what I'm talking about here people. When YOU go out of your way to hurt someone you are supposed to love or be friends with on purpose...then YOU are showing through your actions that YOU no longer have a vested interest in maintaining that relationship anymore. Right? Otherwise, why cause the hurt...ON PURPOSE???
Those are the sorts of people that gotta go....no more drama remember? I've been hurt enough, my kids have been hurt enough, by so called "friends" and or "family". So, my promise to myself is...cut off relations with those sorts of people no matter WHO they are to me, or supposed to be anyhow.
Now, what this post boils down to is this. Someone extremely close to me (not saying who just now) has hurt me very deeply. I'm talking, came out of left field, no idea what the hell got into him/her, but this person deliberately and ON PURPOSE set out on a campaign to hurt me, and my kids, as much as possible.
And it worked. The knife in my heart barely has anything left to hold on to as what's left is shredded and weeping.
It hurt that bad.
And still hurts.
And will keep on hurting until I die...yes...that bad people.
And so, this person has been cut from my life full stop. No turning back. No chance for reconciliation...and the one reason that made up my mind is this. Once you have made up your mind to deliberately and ON PURPOSE hurt someone so bad and so deeply without a thought to the obvious consequences...then obviously your half of the relationship was over in your mind. I mean seriously, do people who do that sort of thing think an apology will suffice and things will go back to "normal"? Of course not. Never again. Trust is gone. If you can do it once you can do it again (which is why I wonder why spouses that have been cheated on think the cheater will never cheat again..if they can do it once they can do it again).
A friend of mine said, after hearing my story,.."Don't worry...after some time has passed you will call him/her. You get use to it".
You get use to it? I don't want to get use to it. I don't want to constantly worry that this person is "storing" everything I say or do as fodder for later attacks, or "plotting" to hurt me again on a whim. I don't want to have to worry that my heart has a knife over it just waiting to be pierced....again...and again...and again. Because if they did it once...they can do it again. No more drama remember?
Why would I want to "get used to that"?
So my question is people...do you believe in cutting people from your lives...people who are supposed to be friends and or family? Specially when they are very very close to you and to lose them in your life is a BIG thing...but in your mind a necessary thing? Can you do it? Should you do it?
Forgiving is one thing...forgetting is something else all together.
*sigh*
Sunday, August 29, 2010
You Bring Your Book...and I'll Bring Mine.
A PROPOSAL FOR AN INTERNATIONAL HOLY BOOK BURNING DAY
Come one...Come all
The net is alive with talks about this church in Gainesville, Florida that wish to hold an, International Burn A Quran Day, to "commemorate" the Sept. 11, 2001 tragedy that struck America specifically, and the world community as a whole.
Apparently the Dove World Outreach Center, headed by Pastor Terry Jones, believes it is the duty of Christians to educate the people about Islam...and show that it is a "religion of the devil"...it "leads people to hell" so the "fire is where it belongs"...hence the desire to publicly burn it on live T.V. etc.
Now let me get this straight...this is a Pastor...a religious figure (of sorts)...with a flock of sheep I'm assuming? Supporters hanging on his every word, if his Facebook page highlighting his "day" is anything to go by.
This is a man who claims he is upholding the word of God...by openly and willfully orchestrating an event that will surely cause, at the very least, discord and unrest, hurt feelings and continued "othering"...and at the very worst, injury and or possibly even death? I hate to admit that the Muslim world is not known for taking criticism lightly. Ahem!
Now, here is my personal opinion about book burning...whether the book is "holy" or just on a list of "oh no our kids can't read that" genre.
A book from God...or a book from Man, is a thing, an object....ink and paper with words on it. You want to burn that book...by all means, go ahead. Here, let me hold that gas can for you while you light up. Be careful you don't set yourself on fire...wouldn't want that to happen now would we. *dripping sarcasm inserted here*
I could care less if a group of hateful people want to burn a book that is held by another group of people to be valuable or worthy of some sort of sanctity and worshipful status. Just because YOU hold that book in high esteem does not mean I must as well. Freedom of " the choice is mine" far as I'm concerned.
All this little charade will do is highlight how intolerant one Pastor and all his followers are towards others...and how so very far they are from the teachings of their own Holy Book.
So...burn away Pastor...I prefer your hate be directed towards a benign object rather than a human being...after all...it is the MESSAGE in the book that should be more important to Muslims...than an actual ink and paper object. Right?
This misguided Pastor can burn a million Quran's...hell he can burn every single Quran on this planet...and what will that do to Islam...what will it do to the Message? Will it instantly cease to exist because now it is a "pile of ashes"?
Don't think so.
Now, here is what I propose. Two things.
1. Now I know it will be hard....really REALLY hard...for Muslims around the world to NOT turn this incident into a full scale riot SOMEWHERE on this planet. I'm fairly sure that the Muslim media will swarm the T.V. channels and net with this hateful display of intolerance...just as Fox News does when it concerns Muslims or Arabs (Fox seems unable to tell the difference)...and thus causing the "faithful" Muslims of the world to riot...burn...destroy..and possibly kill other human beings in their quest to show their extreme displeasure at having the Holy Word Of God desecrated in some fashion. I know it will happen. I do....but.....
Wouldn't it be so great if not a single Muslim anywhere so much as raised an eyebrow...not so much as sniff in protest (highly unlikely I know but bear with me). So when all was said and done and Quran ashes are blowing in the breeze and one hate filled Pastor is looking around with his smug smile and expecting hoards of Muslims to descend and give credence to his "Islam is from the devil" propaganda crap...and all he sees is...wait for it...Tolerance.
Then HE will be shown as the intolerant ass that he is...and the Muslims he wishes to shame and antagonize will be shown as the tolerant followers of their faith THEY strive to be seen as. (well most of them anyways).
2. A little more physical activity involved in this one (I know it's pretty damn hard to do NOTHING when emotions are involved as indicated in the first point)...I would like all the Muslims in that particular area to gather up all the Bibles they can find...and go join this Pastor Terry Jones on his "book burning day" and hold their own little bonfire. Hey, Freedom of Speech or what ever the hell Freedom is being expressed by one Pastor Terry Jones and his little debacle, goes both ways.
You burn MY book...I burn YOUR book...lets call it an Interfaith Book Burning Day. (insert koom-bye-yah music here)
Everyone bring what ever holy book concerning whatever religious affiliation it expounds upon, down to the book burning party. One great big bonfire will be arranged...along with marshmallows and hot chocolate... and we will set the world on fire...so to speak. ALL religions will be treated exactly the same...that is what Freedom is all about...right?
So...Pastor Terry Jones...are you prepared to see a bunch of "hell seekers"...oops I mean Muslims....pile up some Bibles and set them on fire...and not so much as raise an eyebrow in protest?
Or does Freedom to burn Holy Books only extend to those not associated with Christianity?
Waiting.....
Come one...Come all
The net is alive with talks about this church in Gainesville, Florida that wish to hold an, International Burn A Quran Day, to "commemorate" the Sept. 11, 2001 tragedy that struck America specifically, and the world community as a whole.
Apparently the Dove World Outreach Center, headed by Pastor Terry Jones, believes it is the duty of Christians to educate the people about Islam...and show that it is a "religion of the devil"...it "leads people to hell" so the "fire is where it belongs"...hence the desire to publicly burn it on live T.V. etc.
Now let me get this straight...this is a Pastor...a religious figure (of sorts)...with a flock of sheep I'm assuming? Supporters hanging on his every word, if his Facebook page highlighting his "day" is anything to go by.
This is a man who claims he is upholding the word of God...by openly and willfully orchestrating an event that will surely cause, at the very least, discord and unrest, hurt feelings and continued "othering"...and at the very worst, injury and or possibly even death? I hate to admit that the Muslim world is not known for taking criticism lightly. Ahem!
Now, here is my personal opinion about book burning...whether the book is "holy" or just on a list of "oh no our kids can't read that" genre.
A book from God...or a book from Man, is a thing, an object....ink and paper with words on it. You want to burn that book...by all means, go ahead. Here, let me hold that gas can for you while you light up. Be careful you don't set yourself on fire...wouldn't want that to happen now would we. *dripping sarcasm inserted here*
I could care less if a group of hateful people want to burn a book that is held by another group of people to be valuable or worthy of some sort of sanctity and worshipful status. Just because YOU hold that book in high esteem does not mean I must as well. Freedom of " the choice is mine" far as I'm concerned.
All this little charade will do is highlight how intolerant one Pastor and all his followers are towards others...and how so very far they are from the teachings of their own Holy Book.
So...burn away Pastor...I prefer your hate be directed towards a benign object rather than a human being...after all...it is the MESSAGE in the book that should be more important to Muslims...than an actual ink and paper object. Right?
This misguided Pastor can burn a million Quran's...hell he can burn every single Quran on this planet...and what will that do to Islam...what will it do to the Message? Will it instantly cease to exist because now it is a "pile of ashes"?
Don't think so.
Now, here is what I propose. Two things.
1. Now I know it will be hard....really REALLY hard...for Muslims around the world to NOT turn this incident into a full scale riot SOMEWHERE on this planet. I'm fairly sure that the Muslim media will swarm the T.V. channels and net with this hateful display of intolerance...just as Fox News does when it concerns Muslims or Arabs (Fox seems unable to tell the difference)...and thus causing the "faithful" Muslims of the world to riot...burn...destroy..and possibly kill other human beings in their quest to show their extreme displeasure at having the Holy Word Of God desecrated in some fashion. I know it will happen. I do....but.....
Wouldn't it be so great if not a single Muslim anywhere so much as raised an eyebrow...not so much as sniff in protest (highly unlikely I know but bear with me). So when all was said and done and Quran ashes are blowing in the breeze and one hate filled Pastor is looking around with his smug smile and expecting hoards of Muslims to descend and give credence to his "Islam is from the devil" propaganda crap...and all he sees is...wait for it...Tolerance.
Then HE will be shown as the intolerant ass that he is...and the Muslims he wishes to shame and antagonize will be shown as the tolerant followers of their faith THEY strive to be seen as. (well most of them anyways).
2. A little more physical activity involved in this one (I know it's pretty damn hard to do NOTHING when emotions are involved as indicated in the first point)...I would like all the Muslims in that particular area to gather up all the Bibles they can find...and go join this Pastor Terry Jones on his "book burning day" and hold their own little bonfire. Hey, Freedom of Speech or what ever the hell Freedom is being expressed by one Pastor Terry Jones and his little debacle, goes both ways.
You burn MY book...I burn YOUR book...lets call it an Interfaith Book Burning Day. (insert koom-bye-yah music here)
Everyone bring what ever holy book concerning whatever religious affiliation it expounds upon, down to the book burning party. One great big bonfire will be arranged...along with marshmallows and hot chocolate... and we will set the world on fire...so to speak. ALL religions will be treated exactly the same...that is what Freedom is all about...right?
So...Pastor Terry Jones...are you prepared to see a bunch of "hell seekers"...oops I mean Muslims....pile up some Bibles and set them on fire...and not so much as raise an eyebrow in protest?
Or does Freedom to burn Holy Books only extend to those not associated with Christianity?
Waiting.....
p.s.
Dear God...please forgive the idiots You have created for they know not what they do while "defending" your Word...a word that has apparently been written several times in several Books...end result...not ONE God but Your God and My God and let's all hate each other in the name of Some God...
Please feel free to send your Wrath to straighten these haters up.
Sincerely
Coolred
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
So you wonder where Ive been???
I apologize for my long absence....I had house guests for a month (lots of material to write about THAT...but no time) and my laptop has decided it has pretty much had enough. Very touch and go with it. Not capable of writing a full post on it anymore...so I dont even try. *sigh*
I started college back today (stress much) and so have access to the library and so hope to post more often once again. Hoping to buy a new laptop very shortly as well...a MUST with college.
I will continue with the recent "story" I was in the progress of writing...but will probably throw some college and family stuff in there along the way.
Once again...for any readers that are hanging tough (all 6 of you)...just a wee bit longer and regular posting will resume.
Stay tuned and thanks for sticking around. Hope it will be worth it.
I started college back today (stress much) and so have access to the library and so hope to post more often once again. Hoping to buy a new laptop very shortly as well...a MUST with college.
I will continue with the recent "story" I was in the progress of writing...but will probably throw some college and family stuff in there along the way.
Once again...for any readers that are hanging tough (all 6 of you)...just a wee bit longer and regular posting will resume.
Stay tuned and thanks for sticking around. Hope it will be worth it.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
When all the little things add up to One Defining Moment...pt 5
I grew up in a house in which my father didn't believe in sleeping in or idle time for the most part. If we weren't actually busy doing something when he came into the room...then we damn sure acted like we were. I spent my childhood outside chopping wood or hauling coal for the house stove. I helped my father in the yard making those 6 ft high fences he loved so much, digging post holes or nailing up slabs of wood, or hauling new timber from the truck. I shoveled snow, put up skirting on our trailer each time we moved, or climbed up on the roof of our homes or garages etc to help him fix holes or set down tar paper. I was physically fit at a kid...much more than most of the girls my age...and many of the boys as well.
When I entered the military I had no problem full filling the morning exercise stint. An hour of push ups, sit ups, jumping jacks etc....followed by a 5 mile run. No problem. I wasn't even winded by the time we rounded the final curve. I was in the best shape of my life...I just didn't know it at the time as I had always been in pretty good shape anyways.
I arrived in Bahrain almost 4 months pregnant, but I wasn't even sporting a little bump at this time. I was wearing a size 10/12 (I have always preferred loose clothing) and my entire wardrobe consisted of t-shirts, jeans and pajamas. No dresses, skirts or shorts because I loathed wearing such things and wasn't about to start now.
So, to come from this background of hard work and being physically fit and having the great outdoors at my disposal and then to be thrust into a single little room that didn't even have space to do a jumping jack was like a slap in the face. For the first time in my life I had absolutely nothing to do and no place to do it. Each morning I would wake up, get dressed in my jeans and t-shirt...then sit on my bed and....that was it. I had nothing more active to do then visit the bathroom or go out onto the roof and look out into the street. The only time I could get any form of physical activity is if my husband or his sister took me out somewhere....so of course I had to wait for one of them to decide to do that.
An entire day could pass by and I had nothing more to show for it then a few steps one way or the other...and as my cautions were thrown aside and I ventured more often downstairs...then going up and down the stairs was about the most exercise I got.
It was during this first month or so in Bahrain that I learned something about myself. All my life I had pretty much eaten what I wanted without gaining too much weight. There was a period of time in my early teens that I put on some "pudge" but it didn't last long and I figure it was due to puberty...other than that I could eat and never worried too much about my waist line. I quickly learned that all the hard work my father had me doing was probably the reason I could eat and not gain weight...I was busy burning lots and lots of calories. Not to mention when I was young "junk food" was an exception in our house and not the norm as it seems to be today. We ate fairly healthy food growing up and junk food was still a treat that was greatly appreciated when it was given.
Changing cultures and countries means, for many of us, changing the food we eat on a regular basis. I would be willing to bet for all of my 18 years of life previously I had eaten rice a dozen times. Rice was just not something we ate a great deal of in my house (not sure about the rest of American homes). I learned right away that Arabs love rice, and they have about a 100 different ways to prepare it. Within that first month in Bahrain I would bet we ate rice about 5 or 6 times a week for lunch...along with either meat or chicken on top of it. Included in this meal were greens (aka salad) that were very unfamiliar to me but seriously looked like grass and weeds. They were very bitter to my taste buds and I would never be able to tolerate them.
As I mentioned before, each morning I would wake up and get dressed in my jeans etc but eventually found it very difficult to sit on the floor for any length of time while wearing jeans. It made eating nearly impossible for me as the waistband pressed against my stomach (which was expanding alarmingly by now) and chaffed other areas. I told my husband one day about this and that evening he came home with some jelobias (traditional house dresses Bahraini women wear). The first time I saw these dresses I thought they were nightgowns...just more elaborate...all though some are fairly plain and are worn only at home for daily wear...others are decorated and expensive and are worn for visiting or parties etc.
I was actually excited when he first brought them too me as the idea of just wearing a nightgown all day rather appealed to me and my little bump I was developing by now (let's ignore the fact that it was weight gain as well). I rushed to remove my jeans and put on one of these jelobias...and that would be the last time I wore jeans for many many years. My removal of my jeans that day and the donning of that jelobia was almost as significant as when I first was made to wear the hijab a few years later...it was as if once the jeans were removed I couldn't put them on again...or in the case of the hijab...once it was on I couldn't remove it.
My husband threw away all my jeans declaring that it would just be more comfortable for me to wear the jelobia from now on...not to mention that women in Bahrain didn't wear jeans. (they did of course...just not Bahraini women) Not only was this another defining moment in our marriage (wearing jeans is a very American cultural habit) in which he changed something about me that was a part of who I was...it also signified a turning point in my weight gain. As most of us know, wearing pants is a great indicator in warning us about weight gain. If our waist band gets a bit tight...we take it easy on our food choices until they loosen up again. However, wearing a jelobia takes away that waistband indicator and a few pounds of weight gain are hardly noticed...then a few more and a few more...until before you know it you've gained 20 pounds and don't know how it happened.
Also, because I had never worried about gaining weight before I had no clue about portion control and calories etc. I just ate until I was full and, without a waist band to tell me for the most part, quite often ate more than I needed of course. Mix that in with my husband bringing home sacks of junk food everyday and my extreme boredom...I suddenly found the only thing I could pass the day doing was eating...and I did. Mix that in with a developing pregnancy and by the time I went to have my first pre-natal checkup I had already gained 15 pounds...and I was only 4 months along...barely a month in Bahrain.
By the time I delivered my first born in late October, I had gained nearly 80 pounds...and would never be able to lose it all due to my inactive lifestyle. To this day I struggle with my weight...and it's a battle I am constantly losing. I ate from boredom, I ate from stress, I ate from loneliness, I ate because I had nothing else to do for the most part. Eating WAS my main activity for much of those first few years in Bahrain.
Obesity is a huge problem in the Arab world, among both men and women but mainly among women due to their enforced sedentary lifestyle. I happen to know that many Bahraini women rather liked not doing much all day everyday. They had housemaids to do everything they needed, from cooking and cleaning to practically raising their children...so much so I often had the ugly little thought that these same women would of gladly had their housemaids sleep with their husbands just to do away with that little bit of physical activity as well if they could have...since gossip told me they didn't much care for sex anyways.
As I mentioned before, by the time I had my first pre-natal check up I had already gained 15 pounds...and I had no idea then that my weight gain was actually just another means my husband had of controlling me.
Fat women are unappealing to other men...and thus less likely to cheat...or so he believed. More on that later.
When I entered the military I had no problem full filling the morning exercise stint. An hour of push ups, sit ups, jumping jacks etc....followed by a 5 mile run. No problem. I wasn't even winded by the time we rounded the final curve. I was in the best shape of my life...I just didn't know it at the time as I had always been in pretty good shape anyways.
I arrived in Bahrain almost 4 months pregnant, but I wasn't even sporting a little bump at this time. I was wearing a size 10/12 (I have always preferred loose clothing) and my entire wardrobe consisted of t-shirts, jeans and pajamas. No dresses, skirts or shorts because I loathed wearing such things and wasn't about to start now.
So, to come from this background of hard work and being physically fit and having the great outdoors at my disposal and then to be thrust into a single little room that didn't even have space to do a jumping jack was like a slap in the face. For the first time in my life I had absolutely nothing to do and no place to do it. Each morning I would wake up, get dressed in my jeans and t-shirt...then sit on my bed and....that was it. I had nothing more active to do then visit the bathroom or go out onto the roof and look out into the street. The only time I could get any form of physical activity is if my husband or his sister took me out somewhere....so of course I had to wait for one of them to decide to do that.
An entire day could pass by and I had nothing more to show for it then a few steps one way or the other...and as my cautions were thrown aside and I ventured more often downstairs...then going up and down the stairs was about the most exercise I got.
It was during this first month or so in Bahrain that I learned something about myself. All my life I had pretty much eaten what I wanted without gaining too much weight. There was a period of time in my early teens that I put on some "pudge" but it didn't last long and I figure it was due to puberty...other than that I could eat and never worried too much about my waist line. I quickly learned that all the hard work my father had me doing was probably the reason I could eat and not gain weight...I was busy burning lots and lots of calories. Not to mention when I was young "junk food" was an exception in our house and not the norm as it seems to be today. We ate fairly healthy food growing up and junk food was still a treat that was greatly appreciated when it was given.
Changing cultures and countries means, for many of us, changing the food we eat on a regular basis. I would be willing to bet for all of my 18 years of life previously I had eaten rice a dozen times. Rice was just not something we ate a great deal of in my house (not sure about the rest of American homes). I learned right away that Arabs love rice, and they have about a 100 different ways to prepare it. Within that first month in Bahrain I would bet we ate rice about 5 or 6 times a week for lunch...along with either meat or chicken on top of it. Included in this meal were greens (aka salad) that were very unfamiliar to me but seriously looked like grass and weeds. They were very bitter to my taste buds and I would never be able to tolerate them.
As I mentioned before, each morning I would wake up and get dressed in my jeans etc but eventually found it very difficult to sit on the floor for any length of time while wearing jeans. It made eating nearly impossible for me as the waistband pressed against my stomach (which was expanding alarmingly by now) and chaffed other areas. I told my husband one day about this and that evening he came home with some jelobias (traditional house dresses Bahraini women wear). The first time I saw these dresses I thought they were nightgowns...just more elaborate...all though some are fairly plain and are worn only at home for daily wear...others are decorated and expensive and are worn for visiting or parties etc.
I was actually excited when he first brought them too me as the idea of just wearing a nightgown all day rather appealed to me and my little bump I was developing by now (let's ignore the fact that it was weight gain as well). I rushed to remove my jeans and put on one of these jelobias...and that would be the last time I wore jeans for many many years. My removal of my jeans that day and the donning of that jelobia was almost as significant as when I first was made to wear the hijab a few years later...it was as if once the jeans were removed I couldn't put them on again...or in the case of the hijab...once it was on I couldn't remove it.
My husband threw away all my jeans declaring that it would just be more comfortable for me to wear the jelobia from now on...not to mention that women in Bahrain didn't wear jeans. (they did of course...just not Bahraini women) Not only was this another defining moment in our marriage (wearing jeans is a very American cultural habit) in which he changed something about me that was a part of who I was...it also signified a turning point in my weight gain. As most of us know, wearing pants is a great indicator in warning us about weight gain. If our waist band gets a bit tight...we take it easy on our food choices until they loosen up again. However, wearing a jelobia takes away that waistband indicator and a few pounds of weight gain are hardly noticed...then a few more and a few more...until before you know it you've gained 20 pounds and don't know how it happened.
Also, because I had never worried about gaining weight before I had no clue about portion control and calories etc. I just ate until I was full and, without a waist band to tell me for the most part, quite often ate more than I needed of course. Mix that in with my husband bringing home sacks of junk food everyday and my extreme boredom...I suddenly found the only thing I could pass the day doing was eating...and I did. Mix that in with a developing pregnancy and by the time I went to have my first pre-natal checkup I had already gained 15 pounds...and I was only 4 months along...barely a month in Bahrain.
By the time I delivered my first born in late October, I had gained nearly 80 pounds...and would never be able to lose it all due to my inactive lifestyle. To this day I struggle with my weight...and it's a battle I am constantly losing. I ate from boredom, I ate from stress, I ate from loneliness, I ate because I had nothing else to do for the most part. Eating WAS my main activity for much of those first few years in Bahrain.
Obesity is a huge problem in the Arab world, among both men and women but mainly among women due to their enforced sedentary lifestyle. I happen to know that many Bahraini women rather liked not doing much all day everyday. They had housemaids to do everything they needed, from cooking and cleaning to practically raising their children...so much so I often had the ugly little thought that these same women would of gladly had their housemaids sleep with their husbands just to do away with that little bit of physical activity as well if they could have...since gossip told me they didn't much care for sex anyways.
As I mentioned before, by the time I had my first pre-natal check up I had already gained 15 pounds...and I had no idea then that my weight gain was actually just another means my husband had of controlling me.
Fat women are unappealing to other men...and thus less likely to cheat...or so he believed. More on that later.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
When all the little things add up to One Defining Moment...pt 4
A week after the wedding/engagement party, in which I had my first taste of henna (aka black mess plopped into my hand), a week in which I basically sat upstairs in my room watching the hands on the clock move until he came home...he came home and told me we were going out. Yippee!!! I was like a child on an outing....excited and full of questions. He took me to a large pet store owned by a friend of his. He knew I liked animals and actually took me there just to look at them while he discussed some business with his friend. As soon as we pulled up into the large parking area and got out of the car, a little scrap of a puppy came strutting around the corner straight for us. He appeared to be about 8 to 10 weeks old and showed no fear as he stopped a few feet in front of me and gave me a once over. He was adorable with his brown scruffy coat and evil little twinkle in his eyes. I couldn't really tell what sort of dog he was but it seemed he was rather like a golden retriever mix.
I fell in love on the spot....and I wanted him.
I immediately begged my husband to buy him for me and was so happy at the thought of having a companion...something to liven up my day and make me laugh. The way he scampered back around the corner had me grinning from ear to ear already. I was determined not to leave without this little puppy that already had engraved himself on my heart.
Husband told me that Muslims are not real big on dogs..many of them considered dogs forbidden to own...so having one in the house might be a problem for him (all though he himself didn't mind dogs). Not to mention the fact that we didn't have a yard to speak of...just the roof. I heard all that but it went right in one ear and out the other...I wanted that puppy despite the cons.
We went inside and he found his friend and asked about the puppy. His friend told him that the puppy had been specially bred and ordered by another Bahraini and had arrived a few days ago but that the Bahraini had changed his mind and refused to come get him. In other words, the pet store owner was stuck with him because nobody wanted to pay the high price of having a specially bred dog. The puppy was a mix between a German Sheppard and golden retriever (I have no idea why that particular mix was required but I didn't care just then) and was left to run in and out of the store as he pleased as it was geared more for fish, birds, and other caged or tank animals.
It was during this exchange that I came to first learn about Arab generosity and largess. For anyone that doesn't know...Arabs are hands down the most generous people when it comes to giving up something they own to someone else. When I say give up I mean, give YOU simply because they wish you to have it...they want you to be happy with something you might have admired...and it's very hard to refuse something once an Arab offers it to you because they will basically pack it up and put in your hands, car...whatever. They don't take no for an answer...or you have to really refuse to take it and be insistent.
This gift giving isn't seen the same way as how I understand many Americans view it. For instance, one time I was with my husband admiring some full blooded Arabian horses that a friend of his owned...one of them was just exceptionally beautiful. Took my breath away how he flexed his neck and cantered around neighing and snorting. His mane was blowing in the breeze and he looked so damn proud of himself. Amazing!!! I whistled at the horse and he immediately came to the railing and gave me his head to pet. Without thinking I said out loud...more to myself really...that I would die to have a horse like this (we had horses when I was young so wasn't a novice around them and can ride) and almost before the sentence was out of my mouth his friend shouted at one of his employees to bring around the horse trailer and load up the horse for me. NO LIE PEOPLE!!! He was smiling from ear to ear and giving orders for this beautiful horse, obviously a prize of his, to be given to ME. My husband had to do some serious refusing to get his friend to change his mind. Not even telling him that we lived in a very tiny house with NO place to keep a horse stopped him..."I will keep him here and you come see him...but he's yours to do with as you please"...was his answer.
Flattered as I was I knew I couldn't accept such a gift. We barely escaped with the friendship still intact he was so upset at my refusal to accept the horse. When it comes to Arabs...that is not the exception...that is the norm. For most of them, what they own is just a loan from God...it doesn't really belong to them and so giving it away isn't viewed the same way as, I'm sure, many Americans would view it...and it truly does upset them when you refuse the gift...not because you are refusing it really but because they feel they now "own" something that really should belong to someone else now (the one that admired it or whatever). It really is hard to explain unless you understand the Arab thought process on this sort of thing. (not all Arabs are like this but it really is a an amazing trait shared by many)
However, on this particular day I had no idea about Arab generosity and was wondering just how much this puppy was going to cost...that is if my husband agreed to buy him. The friend had ordered the puppy and agreed to sell him to the other Bahraini for BD550 (around $1200) as he had to pay to bring him into Bahrain, vet care, papers etc. My heart plummeted because I knew we didn't have that kind of money...least of all for a dog.
Just when I figured all was lost...I saw money changing hands (NOT BD55o either) and the puppy was collected and put into my arms. I was too happy for words and didn't quite understand how he came to be mine so quickly...but I wasn't sticking around for minds to be changed...I practically ran to the car and waited for my husband to come out.
When he did he told me his friend had given the puppy to me as he seen how much I wanted him (WOW) and the BD25 he gave his friend was for the paperwork he would need for vet care and the food he had bought.
I didn't really care about all that...all I cared about was the squirming body, wagging tail, and wet little tongue kissing my face. I actually felt happy for the first time in the 2 weeks I had been in this country. I had a puppy. It was a good day.
We got home and I entered the house remembering what he had said about Muslims and dogs...wondering what they would say. I was determined to keep him upstairs ALL the time if I had too...just taking him out with us when I could. I was pretty damn tense about it but it turns out they were pretty cool about the new member of the family. His mother took the longest to warm up to him...she would never really like him to come into the majlis or anywhere she prayed...so on the rare occasions that he did go downstairs...he just ran back and forth between the doors of the rooms...sticking his head in and grinning at everyone...tongue hanging out and tail wagging.
I named him King and little did I know just then that scrappy little puppy would grow up to be a beautiful copper colored, broad chested, just as regal as his name sounded, with a chest full of long blond hair and an actual mane of hair on his head and down most of his back. Hair that was longer than the rest of his body and which would actually stick up when he was tense or on alert...just like a lion's mane. He was awesome and I loved him a lot.
King did so much for me that first year in Bahrain. I laughed whenever I took him out and this little tiny puppy actually made grown men leap out of the way, falling over themselves to get away from him. His yippy little barks chasing them as they literally fled my little lion. I was amazed that people were so afraid of him...this little puppy that couldn't hurt them if he tried....but it was true what my husband had said about dogs...most Muslims hate them...won't have anything to do with them...and are just plain scared of them because of that.
Remember the story about me and the meat market...well try imagining that same scenario but with me coming in with a puppy in my arms. I went with his sister again and I figured that since cats were in abundance, not to mention the multitude of flies that didn't seem to phase anyone...that a puppy in my arms was no big deal.
I was wrong. It was if I had brought in a rat with the plague or something. Looks of horror were everywhere and people scattered like bowling pins...I seriously wanted to laugh at the complete insanity of it but figured it wasn't the best time for laughter...so retreated back to the car and waited. Never took him there again.
As he grew, his full beauty started to show itself and he was awesome to look at. A real show dog if I had been inclined...or if Bahrain had such things back then. (with the huge influx of foreigners like Brits etc...dogs are more popular in Bahrain now..and they do have shows etc for them) The family became more comfortable with him, the nieces came upstairs to play with him a lot (helping to break some barriers between us) and we took him out with us whenever we could. (he loved chasing the seagulls at the beach or pawing at the crabs).
If there was one drawback to King it was his inability to get along with Indians...or Hindis as Bahrainis called them. I have no idea why he found them intolerable...or even how he knew a Hindi from a Bahraini or any other nationality...but it never fails that if one came to the door and knocked...he turned from a docile loving dog into a ferocious lion...hair all up..mane at attention. He was a sight at times like this...and it took a lot to calm him down...and he never reacted that way to any other people. I never understood it. He also never acted that way outside the house...he was curious about people...and of course they would still flee in horror when he playfully approached them...but he was never vicious with anyone outside our home...only when they came to the house..and only Hindis.
I was very lonely that first year in Bahrain...no friends really..just people he introduced me too but nothing after that. I had little contact with my family then...and spent a great deal of time alone upstairs as already his mother and sister were set on making me as miserable as possible...so King really saved me in many ways. He gave me a reason to get up in the mornings when nothing else really seemed worth it. He made me laugh when laughing was the last thing I felt like doing. He sat beside me on the bed and just having him there was enough to push the loneliness away for awhile.
When my first baby was born...and grew...he allowed her all sorts of indignities with him. She pulled his hair..climbed over him etc and he never so much as raised an eyebrow to her. He was so patient with her and he was still pretty much a puppy at this point..barely a year old...he was a wonderful dog...a wonderful pet...and pretty much my only real companion back then...then one day he was gone.
His father was a rare presence in the house for all the years he was alive back then. He came from work...smoked his pipe and watched the news while eating his dinner...then went to the beach where he sat with friends or tinkered with his boat. I had very little to do with his father in general but he was never mean to me...and on a few occasions even reprimanded his wife and daughter to treat me better as I had left my whole family and country and this family was the only one I had now etc...and he tolerated King for the most part..though spent little time around him.
One night King was barking at something...he usually didn't bark that much and I had no idea why he was barking so much this night. He just wouldn't quit...then suddenly it was all quiet and I assumed he had given up and calmed down so I didn't bother going to check on him (he was outside on the roof) The next morning when I went to bring him in for breakfast he wasn't there. I looked downstairs and he wasn't there either. I asked the nieces where King was...did my husband take him out or something?
They didn't seem to want to answer me and it was awhile before the youngest told me that her grandfather (my FIL) had opened the door in the night and kicked him out because of his barking.
I was shocked. That was MY dog. He had no right to throw MY dog out of the house. I ran upstairs and threw on some clothes with the intention of going out to look for him. It would be the first time I ventured out alone and had no idea where I was going to look etc but I knew I was going...regardless of the consequences. When I stomped downstairs the neices tried to convince me to stay...they were horrified at the idea of me going out alone...but could see I was determined...so one of them came with me.
We walked all over the neighborhood for 2 hours looking for him...we asked boys if they had seen him and were given a mix of information which lead to nothing. It was very hot and I was burning from the sun...but kept searching. My heart was squeezing closed at the idea that I wouldn't be able to find him...that he was lost to me. I knew how the locals treated dogs...especially the boys. Throwing rocks at them or locking them inside make shift enclosures then setting it on fire. I had seen this with dogs and cats...and was horrified at the treatment animals received here...not to mention the police routinely shot dogs they found outside. Most of the time not even bothering to check if the dog was actually dead from the shot...so it wasn't unusual to see wounded dogs...or dogs lying in the street...shot but still alive. Nobody caring about them. I had to find him.
At some point my husband came screeching up in his car...jumped out and stormed over to me...he shouted at me for coming out in the street without him. I felt like a child caught by her parent...he embarrassed me so much in front of all the people looking on. His niece was nearly in tears and we were ordered back to the car. I pleaded with him to let me look for King but he was so mad at me leaving the house that he wouldn't listen to anything I said.
We arrived back at the house and with much door slamming and shouting I was told never to leave the house again without either him or his sister. I was made to feel like a prisoner that had tried to escape. I was mortified and hurried to my room so I wouldn't cry in front of them...and to cry over my lost dog. My companion and friend.
I never saw King again...but I've never forgotten him....and my relationship with his father....and with my husband...was never the same after that.
I fell in love on the spot....and I wanted him.
I immediately begged my husband to buy him for me and was so happy at the thought of having a companion...something to liven up my day and make me laugh. The way he scampered back around the corner had me grinning from ear to ear already. I was determined not to leave without this little puppy that already had engraved himself on my heart.
Husband told me that Muslims are not real big on dogs..many of them considered dogs forbidden to own...so having one in the house might be a problem for him (all though he himself didn't mind dogs). Not to mention the fact that we didn't have a yard to speak of...just the roof. I heard all that but it went right in one ear and out the other...I wanted that puppy despite the cons.
We went inside and he found his friend and asked about the puppy. His friend told him that the puppy had been specially bred and ordered by another Bahraini and had arrived a few days ago but that the Bahraini had changed his mind and refused to come get him. In other words, the pet store owner was stuck with him because nobody wanted to pay the high price of having a specially bred dog. The puppy was a mix between a German Sheppard and golden retriever (I have no idea why that particular mix was required but I didn't care just then) and was left to run in and out of the store as he pleased as it was geared more for fish, birds, and other caged or tank animals.
It was during this exchange that I came to first learn about Arab generosity and largess. For anyone that doesn't know...Arabs are hands down the most generous people when it comes to giving up something they own to someone else. When I say give up I mean, give YOU simply because they wish you to have it...they want you to be happy with something you might have admired...and it's very hard to refuse something once an Arab offers it to you because they will basically pack it up and put in your hands, car...whatever. They don't take no for an answer...or you have to really refuse to take it and be insistent.
This gift giving isn't seen the same way as how I understand many Americans view it. For instance, one time I was with my husband admiring some full blooded Arabian horses that a friend of his owned...one of them was just exceptionally beautiful. Took my breath away how he flexed his neck and cantered around neighing and snorting. His mane was blowing in the breeze and he looked so damn proud of himself. Amazing!!! I whistled at the horse and he immediately came to the railing and gave me his head to pet. Without thinking I said out loud...more to myself really...that I would die to have a horse like this (we had horses when I was young so wasn't a novice around them and can ride) and almost before the sentence was out of my mouth his friend shouted at one of his employees to bring around the horse trailer and load up the horse for me. NO LIE PEOPLE!!! He was smiling from ear to ear and giving orders for this beautiful horse, obviously a prize of his, to be given to ME. My husband had to do some serious refusing to get his friend to change his mind. Not even telling him that we lived in a very tiny house with NO place to keep a horse stopped him..."I will keep him here and you come see him...but he's yours to do with as you please"...was his answer.
Flattered as I was I knew I couldn't accept such a gift. We barely escaped with the friendship still intact he was so upset at my refusal to accept the horse. When it comes to Arabs...that is not the exception...that is the norm. For most of them, what they own is just a loan from God...it doesn't really belong to them and so giving it away isn't viewed the same way as, I'm sure, many Americans would view it...and it truly does upset them when you refuse the gift...not because you are refusing it really but because they feel they now "own" something that really should belong to someone else now (the one that admired it or whatever). It really is hard to explain unless you understand the Arab thought process on this sort of thing. (not all Arabs are like this but it really is a an amazing trait shared by many)
However, on this particular day I had no idea about Arab generosity and was wondering just how much this puppy was going to cost...that is if my husband agreed to buy him. The friend had ordered the puppy and agreed to sell him to the other Bahraini for BD550 (around $1200) as he had to pay to bring him into Bahrain, vet care, papers etc. My heart plummeted because I knew we didn't have that kind of money...least of all for a dog.
Just when I figured all was lost...I saw money changing hands (NOT BD55o either) and the puppy was collected and put into my arms. I was too happy for words and didn't quite understand how he came to be mine so quickly...but I wasn't sticking around for minds to be changed...I practically ran to the car and waited for my husband to come out.
When he did he told me his friend had given the puppy to me as he seen how much I wanted him (WOW) and the BD25 he gave his friend was for the paperwork he would need for vet care and the food he had bought.
I didn't really care about all that...all I cared about was the squirming body, wagging tail, and wet little tongue kissing my face. I actually felt happy for the first time in the 2 weeks I had been in this country. I had a puppy. It was a good day.
We got home and I entered the house remembering what he had said about Muslims and dogs...wondering what they would say. I was determined to keep him upstairs ALL the time if I had too...just taking him out with us when I could. I was pretty damn tense about it but it turns out they were pretty cool about the new member of the family. His mother took the longest to warm up to him...she would never really like him to come into the majlis or anywhere she prayed...so on the rare occasions that he did go downstairs...he just ran back and forth between the doors of the rooms...sticking his head in and grinning at everyone...tongue hanging out and tail wagging.
I named him King and little did I know just then that scrappy little puppy would grow up to be a beautiful copper colored, broad chested, just as regal as his name sounded, with a chest full of long blond hair and an actual mane of hair on his head and down most of his back. Hair that was longer than the rest of his body and which would actually stick up when he was tense or on alert...just like a lion's mane. He was awesome and I loved him a lot.
King did so much for me that first year in Bahrain. I laughed whenever I took him out and this little tiny puppy actually made grown men leap out of the way, falling over themselves to get away from him. His yippy little barks chasing them as they literally fled my little lion. I was amazed that people were so afraid of him...this little puppy that couldn't hurt them if he tried....but it was true what my husband had said about dogs...most Muslims hate them...won't have anything to do with them...and are just plain scared of them because of that.
Remember the story about me and the meat market...well try imagining that same scenario but with me coming in with a puppy in my arms. I went with his sister again and I figured that since cats were in abundance, not to mention the multitude of flies that didn't seem to phase anyone...that a puppy in my arms was no big deal.
I was wrong. It was if I had brought in a rat with the plague or something. Looks of horror were everywhere and people scattered like bowling pins...I seriously wanted to laugh at the complete insanity of it but figured it wasn't the best time for laughter...so retreated back to the car and waited. Never took him there again.
As he grew, his full beauty started to show itself and he was awesome to look at. A real show dog if I had been inclined...or if Bahrain had such things back then. (with the huge influx of foreigners like Brits etc...dogs are more popular in Bahrain now..and they do have shows etc for them) The family became more comfortable with him, the nieces came upstairs to play with him a lot (helping to break some barriers between us) and we took him out with us whenever we could. (he loved chasing the seagulls at the beach or pawing at the crabs).
If there was one drawback to King it was his inability to get along with Indians...or Hindis as Bahrainis called them. I have no idea why he found them intolerable...or even how he knew a Hindi from a Bahraini or any other nationality...but it never fails that if one came to the door and knocked...he turned from a docile loving dog into a ferocious lion...hair all up..mane at attention. He was a sight at times like this...and it took a lot to calm him down...and he never reacted that way to any other people. I never understood it. He also never acted that way outside the house...he was curious about people...and of course they would still flee in horror when he playfully approached them...but he was never vicious with anyone outside our home...only when they came to the house..and only Hindis.
I was very lonely that first year in Bahrain...no friends really..just people he introduced me too but nothing after that. I had little contact with my family then...and spent a great deal of time alone upstairs as already his mother and sister were set on making me as miserable as possible...so King really saved me in many ways. He gave me a reason to get up in the mornings when nothing else really seemed worth it. He made me laugh when laughing was the last thing I felt like doing. He sat beside me on the bed and just having him there was enough to push the loneliness away for awhile.
When my first baby was born...and grew...he allowed her all sorts of indignities with him. She pulled his hair..climbed over him etc and he never so much as raised an eyebrow to her. He was so patient with her and he was still pretty much a puppy at this point..barely a year old...he was a wonderful dog...a wonderful pet...and pretty much my only real companion back then...then one day he was gone.
His father was a rare presence in the house for all the years he was alive back then. He came from work...smoked his pipe and watched the news while eating his dinner...then went to the beach where he sat with friends or tinkered with his boat. I had very little to do with his father in general but he was never mean to me...and on a few occasions even reprimanded his wife and daughter to treat me better as I had left my whole family and country and this family was the only one I had now etc...and he tolerated King for the most part..though spent little time around him.
One night King was barking at something...he usually didn't bark that much and I had no idea why he was barking so much this night. He just wouldn't quit...then suddenly it was all quiet and I assumed he had given up and calmed down so I didn't bother going to check on him (he was outside on the roof) The next morning when I went to bring him in for breakfast he wasn't there. I looked downstairs and he wasn't there either. I asked the nieces where King was...did my husband take him out or something?
They didn't seem to want to answer me and it was awhile before the youngest told me that her grandfather (my FIL) had opened the door in the night and kicked him out because of his barking.
I was shocked. That was MY dog. He had no right to throw MY dog out of the house. I ran upstairs and threw on some clothes with the intention of going out to look for him. It would be the first time I ventured out alone and had no idea where I was going to look etc but I knew I was going...regardless of the consequences. When I stomped downstairs the neices tried to convince me to stay...they were horrified at the idea of me going out alone...but could see I was determined...so one of them came with me.
We walked all over the neighborhood for 2 hours looking for him...we asked boys if they had seen him and were given a mix of information which lead to nothing. It was very hot and I was burning from the sun...but kept searching. My heart was squeezing closed at the idea that I wouldn't be able to find him...that he was lost to me. I knew how the locals treated dogs...especially the boys. Throwing rocks at them or locking them inside make shift enclosures then setting it on fire. I had seen this with dogs and cats...and was horrified at the treatment animals received here...not to mention the police routinely shot dogs they found outside. Most of the time not even bothering to check if the dog was actually dead from the shot...so it wasn't unusual to see wounded dogs...or dogs lying in the street...shot but still alive. Nobody caring about them. I had to find him.
At some point my husband came screeching up in his car...jumped out and stormed over to me...he shouted at me for coming out in the street without him. I felt like a child caught by her parent...he embarrassed me so much in front of all the people looking on. His niece was nearly in tears and we were ordered back to the car. I pleaded with him to let me look for King but he was so mad at me leaving the house that he wouldn't listen to anything I said.
We arrived back at the house and with much door slamming and shouting I was told never to leave the house again without either him or his sister. I was made to feel like a prisoner that had tried to escape. I was mortified and hurried to my room so I wouldn't cry in front of them...and to cry over my lost dog. My companion and friend.
The thing that hurt almost as much as losing my much loved dog...was the fact that my husband said nothing at all to his father about his actions. King was my dog...losing him left a huge hole in my heart. While I wrote this post tears were streaming down my face at the remembered pain I felt then...and apparently still feel...over the loss I suffered. And this loss was only one of many that this family inflicted on me in so many ways. So many times things were taken from me...my identity...my name...my future...my family....my freedom...without so much as a single thought as to how it would make ME feel. I was the last one consulted when another piece of me was ripped off...I was the only one who felt the loss of me...of what belonged to me...of what meant anything to me.
Much of my pain that stems from living in Bahrain comes from the fact that for nearly 20 years...my happiness...my contentment...my hopes and dreams...my very existence...was held in the hands of 3 people (husband, mother in law and sister in law) who cared little if nothing about me, the person. I was a possession to my husband...and an object for abuse from those two women..for what reason I don't know. Losing my dog was not seen as a big deal to anyone but me...because what mattered to me...what hurt me...was inconsequential to them....and that never changed.
I never saw King again...but I've never forgotten him....and my relationship with his father....and with my husband...was never the same after that.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
When all the little things add up to One Defining Moment...pt 3.
I sat on my bed and cried for the first of many many times during my life in Bahrain. I felt alone and unable to make sense of where I was and how I had arrived in that place. I wondered why my new mother in law hadn't asked anything about me (asked niece to ask me that is...with her hesitant and simple English). In fact, nobody had showed the slightest interest in me while we all sat waiting for lunch. Isn't that the whole game of getting to know someone...asking about them, their family, how you met their son? Anything???
I really wanted to call my mother right then but there wasn't a phone in the house. Because of the $2000 bill he had made calling me before, the house phone had been turned off. No mobile phones back then and, I would come to learn, that public phone booths that were in working order were hard to find. Destruction of public property in Bahrain was a common occurrence. Also, calling America from Bahrain back in the 80's cost a hell of a lot more then than it does now. Phone calls home would be rare and at one point I would actually go a whole year without hearing from my family.
I waited for him to come home so I could have someone to talk to. When he finally arrived he wasn't very happy. It seems his mother had given him an earful about me...already? It seems that me wearing shoes into her majlis wasn't acceptable...AND eating with my left hand even less so. My husband asked me if I were left handed. After all this time he didn't know what hand I primarily used? Reminded me once again how little we knew of each other. I'm right handed but I do use both hands to eat with when called upon...why? Well, turns out Muslims don't eat with their left hands, something about eating with devil...that hand being dirty...using it to wash up with in the bathroom etc. Ok. I get that...but what has that got to do with me? I'm not a Muslim, and I generally wash my hands after going to the bathroom as well...so? He told me it was considered bad manners to eat with the left hand in front of Muslims......
Hmmm? So not greeting me when I newly arrived from the airport is ok...but eating with my left hand is considered rude? I didn't like where this was going. I asked him why his mother got so mad at me...how was I supposed to know all that as nobody had told me. He said something I would hear a hell of a lot over the years..until I wanted to scream.
She is an old woman, just let her have her way. It's easier.
First of all, she couldn't have been more than early 50's then...and does "old" age give one the right to be rude? And secondly, I had to "correct" my behavior to please them?...but it sounded like they didn't have to do the same to please me? Not good.
Then I asked him how come they were calling me Layla? Who was Layla? Didn't they know my name was Lee Ann? He said that he told them my name was Layla because saying Lee Ann would have been difficult for them. But I don't want to be called Layla...that's not my name. I wouldn't even realize someone was talking to me if they called out Layla. 18 years of my life I've been Lee Ann...like it or not...that's me. Not to mention, Layla and Lee Ann didn't sound all that different...one couldn't be anymore difficult to say or remember than the other. Right?
Unlike me, who now had to learn and say a whole houseful of strange on the tongue sounding names...were they going to change their names to make it easier for me? hmmm?
It did no good to argue my case. From that very first day I was Layla, and Layla I would remain...and little did I realize just then that it was only the first step in erasing the American born and bred me...and turning me into his idea of what a good little Muslim/Arab wife should be.
The destruction of my identity had begun with my name and would continue until I met a lady 20 years later who asked my daughter what my name was and my daughter said, Layla, and she said...is that her American name, and my daughter said "no, that's just what everyone calls her." This lady, soon to be my very best friend, said....I want to know what her REAL name is. She was the first person that had even bothered to ask me what my real name was in all that time. It felt so strange to hear my name coming from her mouth after hearing Layla for so long. Eventually her whole family called me Lee Ann...and somehow it helped the transformation from the enforced Layla back into my much missed Lee Ann to take place.
But I digress. More on that later.
My husband showered and laid down to take a nap. Something he would do pretty much everyday after he came from work. Bahrainis were big siesta takers..the heat of the day making it nearly impossible to enjoy yourself outside for any length of time. It also meant the rest of the house also went to sleep. I was not a nap taker...and so quite often prowled restlessly around...waiting for someone to wake up so I could have some company. This was pre-computer and Internet days, pre-bookshops with books I could read days....pre having anything to do but watch t.v. channels that had nothing but football or news on them...in Arabic....days.
Those early years in Bahrain gave new meaning to the word "bored". Some days I would quite literally go to bed at night having done nothing more energetic or intellectual then reading the labels on medicine bottles or food containers. It WAS that bad at times. I lived in a very small little house in a small little room. I had no books, no t.v., no phone...and nobody to talk to for the most part. They didn't speak English very well (all though in time I would learn that his sister actually spoke very passable English...just chose not to with me) and, of course, I didn't speak Arabic. For days on end the only time I would speak was when he was home...and awake.
Bored.
The next morning he told me his sister was going to take me out with her so I could see more of Bahrain. I was excited to be able to see more of my new surroundings in the light of day...having only seen it in the dark coming from the airport. We sat in the car not saying a word and she stopped at the local meat and vegetable market. For those unfamiliar with this set up...it's a very large open area with many vendors selling pretty much the same thing...and screaming to get your business. It's loud, messy, smelly, and with about a million flies and as many cats wandering around trying to get a meal.
It's chaotic and your eyes get tired trying to take it all in.
Did I mention it's generally about 95% males?
Did I mention that of the 5% females that might be there...4.99% of those were wearing the black abaya and hijab and (even more often the niqab)...one of them wasn't...me.
Friends, I wish I could adequately describe the scene that unfolded next as we walked in out of the bright sunshine into this loud smelly building. The noise level is deafening...the voices all shouting to be heard over each other..the various push carts and slamming doors...the few kids running and screaming...and the occasional small pickup that inched its way in to off load some more produce.
Noisy.
And then it wasn't. Simply put....all noise stopped. Almost as if the conductor of a symphony had tapped his wand for attention...and all band members had stopped practicing, tuning, or otherwise engaging with their instruments to give him their full attention.
It turns out I was the band leader...the meat market vendors and customers were my symphony...I had their full attention....a 1000 pair of eyes on me waiting for my cue. Talk about nerve wracking.
The quiet was shattered when an orange came out of nowhere...rolling along the floor to stop quietly at my feet. I have no idea if it was rolled deliberately at me or just happened...whatever it was it signalled for the "music" to start...and the quiet was destroyed at the market returned to its business.
All eyes were still on me..as they would be wherever I went for a good long while (me, the invisible middle child, suddenly found more attention than I ever dreamed possible...irony?)
On the way out of the market I saw a little tiny bookstore. I asked his sister if we could check it out. I had no idea of her level of English then so spent quite a bit of time speaking dysfunctional English with her assuming she couldn't understand me...before realizing that she could. At any rate, we went inside and it was a small dusty little shop that had about 3 things in English. Just little kids books for learning English. Nothing else. However, there was one book that had English and Arabic phrases...English on one side and Arabic transliterated on the other. I took that book assuming it would help me learn some Arabic. Turns out it was Egyptian Arabic...and Bahrainis would laugh whenever I attempted to twist my tongue around a phrase I had painstakingly learned.
Bahraini and Egyptian Arabic sound nothing alike and each makes fun of the other for the most part. However, Egyptian Arabic is considered the fall back Arabic dialect...if you can speak that just about anyone who speaks Arabic can understand you...though you might not be able to understand their dialect as there are many Arabic dialects....and Arabic itself is just a hard language to conquer...speaking personally.
Instead of going home she took me to a clothing store and I had never before seen such a chaotic shopping atmosphere before. Women with children in tow were blazing trails through the store...literally picking up and then throwing back clothing as they "shopped"? It was NOISY and children ran EVERYWHERE. Eating sweets and touching all the garments...throwing their refuse all over. Employees (I assumed) were running behind them picking up the garbage or removing soiled clothing...but not saying a single word to the women....such as ...mind your children?
I stood there in complete silence...amazed at this level of rude behavior. I know for a fact that in America you would be summarily shown the door if this sort of behavior occurred...yet the employees were completely silent...other than the raised eyebrows and clenched teeth that were quickly seen then gone.
His sister told me that we were going to a wedding so I should choose something to wear. A wedding? Whose? I had never been to a wedding before...much less a Bahraini wedding...but I was pretty sure these sorts of dresses weren't worn to weddings. Hmmm? These were just ordinary wear anywhere sorts of clothes....but what did I know. I ended up choosing a shirt and long skirt...making sure it didn't have food stains on it.
Later that night we all prepared to go to a wedding. It would be my first experience at Arab "timing". Arabs view time rather differently then Americans...or anyone else as far as I know. They are pretty laid back about time and never consider a meeting, date, appointment, or even a wedding, to have a "fixed time". It's pretty much whenever they show up. For us time conscious Americans it can be something incredibly hard to get use to...but eventually you do..you have no choice. Arab time in the middle east is what everything runs by....except the banks..that's something else.
We show up at his aunts house...one of his cousins is getting married...this is, in fact, her engagement party. Not the actual wedding, all though it is seen as being legally valid...when its over, they are considered married but probably won't live together just now. Rather hard to explain.
If anyone has ever been to a an Arab wedding/engagement party then you know how absolutely ear shattering the music is. It was impossible to hear my own thoughts the music was so loud. Ironic in a country in which so many consider music forbidden (something else I would learn eventually). Women stopped chatting (how could they hear each other I wondered) and turned to look at me. While the music didn't stop, a sudden silence did occur...as most of the ladies turned to take in this new face. A few women were introduced to me...but their greetings and names were lost to the music....I was introduced as Layla. *sigh* The nieces ran off to be with cousins and his sister went and sat with some women. I was left standing there alone, and had no clue what to do with myself.
An elderly lady came and took my hand. She had one of the softest hands I had ever felt. She had a kind face and was speaking to me a mile a minute...in Arabic mind you. It seemed to not occur to her that I had no idea what she was saying to me...even if I could hear her properly. She indicated for me to sit and then sat beside me....still chattering away. She took my hand, spread the palm open, then plopped a huge disgusting black mess into it....then closed my hand around it. All the while smiling and chattering. I wanted to snatch my hand away and get that "gunk" off..whatever it was it smelled horrible. Sort of like gasoline and lemons....but she held it firmly...smiling and chattering. Eventually her attention was taken by another lady and she left me (I would later learn she was one of his aunts..one of the few people in his family that would be nice to me...though in the few years she was alive...my Arabic would never be good enough then to really converse with her. She was known as Solt-Arab..or Radio Arab...because of her non-stop talking).
Once she left me I was completely alone...surrounded by what must have been 200 people. Ladies in fancy dresses, wild make-up, crazy hair styles (for me anyhow)...children running everywhere...music so loud my ear drums were thumping in my head...and I felt alone. We were inside the house but in a courtyard type setting so I could look up and see the moon. It was full and white...and had a strange glow about it. I felt tears sliding down my face and I couldn't stop them. The overwhelming sense of loneliness was ridiculous considering all the people I was among...but other than the curious glances and hesitant smiles now and then...nobody approached me.
It was a situation I would learn (sort of) to get use to.
I really wanted to call my mother right then but there wasn't a phone in the house. Because of the $2000 bill he had made calling me before, the house phone had been turned off. No mobile phones back then and, I would come to learn, that public phone booths that were in working order were hard to find. Destruction of public property in Bahrain was a common occurrence. Also, calling America from Bahrain back in the 80's cost a hell of a lot more then than it does now. Phone calls home would be rare and at one point I would actually go a whole year without hearing from my family.
I waited for him to come home so I could have someone to talk to. When he finally arrived he wasn't very happy. It seems his mother had given him an earful about me...already? It seems that me wearing shoes into her majlis wasn't acceptable...AND eating with my left hand even less so. My husband asked me if I were left handed. After all this time he didn't know what hand I primarily used? Reminded me once again how little we knew of each other. I'm right handed but I do use both hands to eat with when called upon...why? Well, turns out Muslims don't eat with their left hands, something about eating with devil...that hand being dirty...using it to wash up with in the bathroom etc. Ok. I get that...but what has that got to do with me? I'm not a Muslim, and I generally wash my hands after going to the bathroom as well...so? He told me it was considered bad manners to eat with the left hand in front of Muslims......
Hmmm? So not greeting me when I newly arrived from the airport is ok...but eating with my left hand is considered rude? I didn't like where this was going. I asked him why his mother got so mad at me...how was I supposed to know all that as nobody had told me. He said something I would hear a hell of a lot over the years..until I wanted to scream.
She is an old woman, just let her have her way. It's easier.
First of all, she couldn't have been more than early 50's then...and does "old" age give one the right to be rude? And secondly, I had to "correct" my behavior to please them?...but it sounded like they didn't have to do the same to please me? Not good.
Then I asked him how come they were calling me Layla? Who was Layla? Didn't they know my name was Lee Ann? He said that he told them my name was Layla because saying Lee Ann would have been difficult for them. But I don't want to be called Layla...that's not my name. I wouldn't even realize someone was talking to me if they called out Layla. 18 years of my life I've been Lee Ann...like it or not...that's me. Not to mention, Layla and Lee Ann didn't sound all that different...one couldn't be anymore difficult to say or remember than the other. Right?
Unlike me, who now had to learn and say a whole houseful of strange on the tongue sounding names...were they going to change their names to make it easier for me? hmmm?
It did no good to argue my case. From that very first day I was Layla, and Layla I would remain...and little did I realize just then that it was only the first step in erasing the American born and bred me...and turning me into his idea of what a good little Muslim/Arab wife should be.
The destruction of my identity had begun with my name and would continue until I met a lady 20 years later who asked my daughter what my name was and my daughter said, Layla, and she said...is that her American name, and my daughter said "no, that's just what everyone calls her." This lady, soon to be my very best friend, said....I want to know what her REAL name is. She was the first person that had even bothered to ask me what my real name was in all that time. It felt so strange to hear my name coming from her mouth after hearing Layla for so long. Eventually her whole family called me Lee Ann...and somehow it helped the transformation from the enforced Layla back into my much missed Lee Ann to take place.
But I digress. More on that later.
My husband showered and laid down to take a nap. Something he would do pretty much everyday after he came from work. Bahrainis were big siesta takers..the heat of the day making it nearly impossible to enjoy yourself outside for any length of time. It also meant the rest of the house also went to sleep. I was not a nap taker...and so quite often prowled restlessly around...waiting for someone to wake up so I could have some company. This was pre-computer and Internet days, pre-bookshops with books I could read days....pre having anything to do but watch t.v. channels that had nothing but football or news on them...in Arabic....days.
Those early years in Bahrain gave new meaning to the word "bored". Some days I would quite literally go to bed at night having done nothing more energetic or intellectual then reading the labels on medicine bottles or food containers. It WAS that bad at times. I lived in a very small little house in a small little room. I had no books, no t.v., no phone...and nobody to talk to for the most part. They didn't speak English very well (all though in time I would learn that his sister actually spoke very passable English...just chose not to with me) and, of course, I didn't speak Arabic. For days on end the only time I would speak was when he was home...and awake.
Bored.
The next morning he told me his sister was going to take me out with her so I could see more of Bahrain. I was excited to be able to see more of my new surroundings in the light of day...having only seen it in the dark coming from the airport. We sat in the car not saying a word and she stopped at the local meat and vegetable market. For those unfamiliar with this set up...it's a very large open area with many vendors selling pretty much the same thing...and screaming to get your business. It's loud, messy, smelly, and with about a million flies and as many cats wandering around trying to get a meal.
It's chaotic and your eyes get tired trying to take it all in.
Did I mention it's generally about 95% males?
Did I mention that of the 5% females that might be there...4.99% of those were wearing the black abaya and hijab and (even more often the niqab)...one of them wasn't...me.
Friends, I wish I could adequately describe the scene that unfolded next as we walked in out of the bright sunshine into this loud smelly building. The noise level is deafening...the voices all shouting to be heard over each other..the various push carts and slamming doors...the few kids running and screaming...and the occasional small pickup that inched its way in to off load some more produce.
Noisy.
And then it wasn't. Simply put....all noise stopped. Almost as if the conductor of a symphony had tapped his wand for attention...and all band members had stopped practicing, tuning, or otherwise engaging with their instruments to give him their full attention.
It turns out I was the band leader...the meat market vendors and customers were my symphony...I had their full attention....a 1000 pair of eyes on me waiting for my cue. Talk about nerve wracking.
The quiet was shattered when an orange came out of nowhere...rolling along the floor to stop quietly at my feet. I have no idea if it was rolled deliberately at me or just happened...whatever it was it signalled for the "music" to start...and the quiet was destroyed at the market returned to its business.
All eyes were still on me..as they would be wherever I went for a good long while (me, the invisible middle child, suddenly found more attention than I ever dreamed possible...irony?)
On the way out of the market I saw a little tiny bookstore. I asked his sister if we could check it out. I had no idea of her level of English then so spent quite a bit of time speaking dysfunctional English with her assuming she couldn't understand me...before realizing that she could. At any rate, we went inside and it was a small dusty little shop that had about 3 things in English. Just little kids books for learning English. Nothing else. However, there was one book that had English and Arabic phrases...English on one side and Arabic transliterated on the other. I took that book assuming it would help me learn some Arabic. Turns out it was Egyptian Arabic...and Bahrainis would laugh whenever I attempted to twist my tongue around a phrase I had painstakingly learned.
Bahraini and Egyptian Arabic sound nothing alike and each makes fun of the other for the most part. However, Egyptian Arabic is considered the fall back Arabic dialect...if you can speak that just about anyone who speaks Arabic can understand you...though you might not be able to understand their dialect as there are many Arabic dialects....and Arabic itself is just a hard language to conquer...speaking personally.
Instead of going home she took me to a clothing store and I had never before seen such a chaotic shopping atmosphere before. Women with children in tow were blazing trails through the store...literally picking up and then throwing back clothing as they "shopped"? It was NOISY and children ran EVERYWHERE. Eating sweets and touching all the garments...throwing their refuse all over. Employees (I assumed) were running behind them picking up the garbage or removing soiled clothing...but not saying a single word to the women....such as ...mind your children?
I stood there in complete silence...amazed at this level of rude behavior. I know for a fact that in America you would be summarily shown the door if this sort of behavior occurred...yet the employees were completely silent...other than the raised eyebrows and clenched teeth that were quickly seen then gone.
His sister told me that we were going to a wedding so I should choose something to wear. A wedding? Whose? I had never been to a wedding before...much less a Bahraini wedding...but I was pretty sure these sorts of dresses weren't worn to weddings. Hmmm? These were just ordinary wear anywhere sorts of clothes....but what did I know. I ended up choosing a shirt and long skirt...making sure it didn't have food stains on it.
Later that night we all prepared to go to a wedding. It would be my first experience at Arab "timing". Arabs view time rather differently then Americans...or anyone else as far as I know. They are pretty laid back about time and never consider a meeting, date, appointment, or even a wedding, to have a "fixed time". It's pretty much whenever they show up. For us time conscious Americans it can be something incredibly hard to get use to...but eventually you do..you have no choice. Arab time in the middle east is what everything runs by....except the banks..that's something else.
We show up at his aunts house...one of his cousins is getting married...this is, in fact, her engagement party. Not the actual wedding, all though it is seen as being legally valid...when its over, they are considered married but probably won't live together just now. Rather hard to explain.
If anyone has ever been to a an Arab wedding/engagement party then you know how absolutely ear shattering the music is. It was impossible to hear my own thoughts the music was so loud. Ironic in a country in which so many consider music forbidden (something else I would learn eventually). Women stopped chatting (how could they hear each other I wondered) and turned to look at me. While the music didn't stop, a sudden silence did occur...as most of the ladies turned to take in this new face. A few women were introduced to me...but their greetings and names were lost to the music....I was introduced as Layla. *sigh* The nieces ran off to be with cousins and his sister went and sat with some women. I was left standing there alone, and had no clue what to do with myself.
An elderly lady came and took my hand. She had one of the softest hands I had ever felt. She had a kind face and was speaking to me a mile a minute...in Arabic mind you. It seemed to not occur to her that I had no idea what she was saying to me...even if I could hear her properly. She indicated for me to sit and then sat beside me....still chattering away. She took my hand, spread the palm open, then plopped a huge disgusting black mess into it....then closed my hand around it. All the while smiling and chattering. I wanted to snatch my hand away and get that "gunk" off..whatever it was it smelled horrible. Sort of like gasoline and lemons....but she held it firmly...smiling and chattering. Eventually her attention was taken by another lady and she left me (I would later learn she was one of his aunts..one of the few people in his family that would be nice to me...though in the few years she was alive...my Arabic would never be good enough then to really converse with her. She was known as Solt-Arab..or Radio Arab...because of her non-stop talking).
Once she left me I was completely alone...surrounded by what must have been 200 people. Ladies in fancy dresses, wild make-up, crazy hair styles (for me anyhow)...children running everywhere...music so loud my ear drums were thumping in my head...and I felt alone. We were inside the house but in a courtyard type setting so I could look up and see the moon. It was full and white...and had a strange glow about it. I felt tears sliding down my face and I couldn't stop them. The overwhelming sense of loneliness was ridiculous considering all the people I was among...but other than the curious glances and hesitant smiles now and then...nobody approached me.
It was a situation I would learn (sort of) to get use to.
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