Growing up, I rarely saw my parents show affection. My mother, as any mother would, displayed affection with her own children (a hug here, a kiss there) but I never saw it with my father. When they would watch TV together, she would sit on one end of the sofa and my father on the other. When we walked outside, they would never hold hands. They rarely hugged. And forget about EVER seeing them kiss. That was most certainly taboo.I knew they slept in the same bed, as I was told early on that husband and wives do that sort of thing, but other than that, I was not sure if they really loved each other.
Since I was exposed to TV at a young age and it became a babysitting tool, I saw many shows and movies where the people on the screen 'displayed' their love. As a result, I was confused about the state of affairs in my own house. This influenced me insofar that it made me yearn for the physical and emotional love that was missing from my own life.
My father would rarely commend me on a job well done. Instead, I was criticized when everything went wrong. My mother would support me emotionally but it was hard to give each child one on one attention, especially since my siblings were only eleven months apart. She was expected to rear the children while my father was the token breadwinner. And when he came home at night, he was too tired and my time with him was minimal.
As a result, I had to touch. I had to hug. I had to kiss. I became the opposite of what my parents represented. While they taught me that all of these things were forbidden, I rebelled against this ideology. And it started from an early age. My father blamed my mother who in turn blamed the TV and society for turning me into an uncontrollable force. I think my mother sensed my need to be loved in this way, but she herself was brought up and trained to suppress these emotions.
So I hugged everyone. I hugged my teachers, I hugged our family friends, I hugged my dolls and even my crybaby sister. I started initiating hugs with my father who was taken aback with my new behaviour. His discomfort stemmed from the fact that I was hugging everyone, even strangers, without discretion.
"Why do you need to hug everyone. Its not nice," I remember him telling me. This was after my routine medical check up. When we left his office, I hugged and thanked the doctor who chuckled as a result of my exuberance.
"But Mama said we should love everyone," I insisted. My father rubbed his temples. No, I didn't know how exhausting I was back then.
"Doesn't mean you have to show it to everyone. You can love in silence."
"But how will they know if I don't show it?"
"Just smile. Smile and walk away!" I would get these two sentence lectures and then my father would give up and walk away. I skipped over to the mirror and smiled at my reflection. How does just smiling work? Since he had reprimanded me, I figured my hugging was unacceptable and I needed to rethink my strategy.
One day. my dad's younger brother came to visit. When he walked into our house, my father greeted him with a hug and he proceeded to nod to my mother. He then picked up and kissed my brother and sister. When it was my turn, I stood behind my father's chair and smiled a wide and toothless smile. Perplexed, he tried to come over and hug me, but I hid behind the chair, popped my head out and continued to smile.
"Is this how you greet your Uncle?" my father questioned. I kicked the back of his chair. My dad was a big problem for me growing up. An oxymoron. A walking contradiction. No matter what I did, I got in trouble. But I be damned to go against what he told me and I continued to smile a very crooked, crazed smile at my Uncle. He sat near my father and stretched out his arms.
"Come my dear. Hug your Uncle!" I shook my head and continued to smile, showing a few of the teeth that took forever growing in. This time, my father turned around, grabbed me from the scruff of my neck and pushed me forward towards my Uncle. I turned so not to face him and ended up receiving a 'back' hug from him. My good-natured Uncle laughed and told me to run along.
I left, confused and angry. I went outside and sat on the porch to think. My neighbour Frank was riding bike and hit the curb on his way up the driveway. He instantly fell off his bike and grabbed his knee. I barrelled down my front steps towards him but stopped abruptly. My first instinct was to reach down and hug him. Just smile and walk away, I heard my father say. He looked at me, expecting a hug--since I hugged him everyday that week for no apparent reason. But I stood still and just smiled. "What is so funny! I just hurt my knee!" he exclaimed.
"I am not allowed to hug you. I hope my smile helps," I said, feeling like an idiot. This was ridiculous. I succumbed. I reached down, pulled him up and hugged him fiercely.
"Are you ok??"
He pushed me away. "Its ok. I am ok now." But I grabbed him again and held him, hoping his pain would go away.
"Young lady! What did I just tell you about hugging!" my father yelled from the front door.
Exasperated, I turned around and yelled back:"I CAN'T LOVE IN SILENCE!!!"
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Commanding the language
I do not remember when my brother was born. I don't remember him coming home from the hospital, nor playing with him or that he even existed in my early years. But there was one memory of him that I can never erase. I am not one to find humour in tragic events but since this happened over 35 years ago, I can joke about it today.
One thing that I did know was that when my brother was born, he became the baby of the family and very close to my mother. She considered him to be a gift from God. After having two daughters, she was waiting for his birth. He was the apple of her eye. And he ultimately replaced my senior status in the family. Oddly enough, I was never jealous of him. He was and still is the sweet boy that occupied a special place in my mother's heart. However, my command of the language did not help elevate this true status according to my parents.
The one memory I have of my brother plays back to me like a movie in slow motion. I came through the door from the house to the garage and was planning to take my bike for a spin. But I heard a piercing scream and saw my baby brother holding his head, jumping up and down with blood tricking from his forehead. I ran over and yelled at him to tell me what happened. He looked towards the cement stairs that led up to the front door of our split level home. I felt sick.
My parents ran out and I remember the look of horror on my mother's face. She ran back in and grabbed a towel. My father picked him up and brought him into the family room where he lay limp in his arms. I consoled my sister who was crying and tried to control my emotions. My mother sat next to him and applied pressure to his head. My father was barking orders to my mother who then ran all over the house to find gauze and the phone book.
The next thing I remember, we were driving in the car to the medical center. Tears streamed down my cheek as I silently cried and prayed for my brother to be alive. He moaned in my mother's arms as my father frantically drove. At the time, I had never been so scared in my life. What was to become of him? When we arrived at the medical center, we were ushered to the waiting room while my father carried my brother in with my mother. I sat alone with my sister and lied by reassuring her everything would be ok. My sister and I hugged each other for support.
A woman noticed that we were left alone and she came over to sit closer to us.
"What happened?" she asked.
I brushed away my tears. "My brother...he...he....."
The woman paused and looked confused. She asked again. "What happened to your brother?"
I tried to string words together. "He fell....down....stairs....head...blood...dying" I blurted and then turned away.
She smiled kindly and told us he would be ok. Just as she got up to move away, we heard my brother screaming. It sent chills up my spine and my sister and I sat still. My mother came out fifteen minutes later.
"They were stitching him up. He was crying about the needle," she said as she wrung her hands. In retrospect, I wondered why the doctors did not use an anesthetic. I tried to be strong in front of her. I got up and hugged her and said that I was looking after my little sister. She only nodded sadly and went back in.
The woman came over again. "Is he ok?"
"He is still cracked. They are sewing him," I explained.
My parents both came out with my brother who entire head was bandaged up. He didn't feel well but was able to talk. I asked him what had happened. He explained that he was trying to reach the mail in the mailbox but he tripped on the top step and fell down the entire flight of cement stairs. On the ride home, I insisted he sit with us in the back seat but my parents were now overprotective of him and he remained in my mother's arms the whole ride home.
My brother made a full recovery and although I do not remember, my father told me later, when I was old enough to understand, that after the incident, he had to constantly correct my diction when I referred to my brother, in front of family, teachers and my parent's friends, as my "crackhead brother."
What did I say?!? I was completely demoted after that.
One thing that I did know was that when my brother was born, he became the baby of the family and very close to my mother. She considered him to be a gift from God. After having two daughters, she was waiting for his birth. He was the apple of her eye. And he ultimately replaced my senior status in the family. Oddly enough, I was never jealous of him. He was and still is the sweet boy that occupied a special place in my mother's heart. However, my command of the language did not help elevate this true status according to my parents.
The one memory I have of my brother plays back to me like a movie in slow motion. I came through the door from the house to the garage and was planning to take my bike for a spin. But I heard a piercing scream and saw my baby brother holding his head, jumping up and down with blood tricking from his forehead. I ran over and yelled at him to tell me what happened. He looked towards the cement stairs that led up to the front door of our split level home. I felt sick.
My parents ran out and I remember the look of horror on my mother's face. She ran back in and grabbed a towel. My father picked him up and brought him into the family room where he lay limp in his arms. I consoled my sister who was crying and tried to control my emotions. My mother sat next to him and applied pressure to his head. My father was barking orders to my mother who then ran all over the house to find gauze and the phone book.
The next thing I remember, we were driving in the car to the medical center. Tears streamed down my cheek as I silently cried and prayed for my brother to be alive. He moaned in my mother's arms as my father frantically drove. At the time, I had never been so scared in my life. What was to become of him? When we arrived at the medical center, we were ushered to the waiting room while my father carried my brother in with my mother. I sat alone with my sister and lied by reassuring her everything would be ok. My sister and I hugged each other for support.
A woman noticed that we were left alone and she came over to sit closer to us.
"What happened?" she asked.
I brushed away my tears. "My brother...he...he....."
The woman paused and looked confused. She asked again. "What happened to your brother?"
I tried to string words together. "He fell....down....stairs....head...blood...dying" I blurted and then turned away.
She smiled kindly and told us he would be ok. Just as she got up to move away, we heard my brother screaming. It sent chills up my spine and my sister and I sat still. My mother came out fifteen minutes later.
"They were stitching him up. He was crying about the needle," she said as she wrung her hands. In retrospect, I wondered why the doctors did not use an anesthetic. I tried to be strong in front of her. I got up and hugged her and said that I was looking after my little sister. She only nodded sadly and went back in.
The woman came over again. "Is he ok?"
"He is still cracked. They are sewing him," I explained.
My parents both came out with my brother who entire head was bandaged up. He didn't feel well but was able to talk. I asked him what had happened. He explained that he was trying to reach the mail in the mailbox but he tripped on the top step and fell down the entire flight of cement stairs. On the ride home, I insisted he sit with us in the back seat but my parents were now overprotective of him and he remained in my mother's arms the whole ride home.
My brother made a full recovery and although I do not remember, my father told me later, when I was old enough to understand, that after the incident, he had to constantly correct my diction when I referred to my brother, in front of family, teachers and my parent's friends, as my "crackhead brother."
What did I say?!? I was completely demoted after that.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Tell the truth but keep it quiet!
Mrs. Sirunas. Doesn't this name just give you the chills? Does it not make your teeth chatter make you want to escape the reality you live in? Ok, maybe you don't get affected but I didn't know she was a force to be reckoned with back then. And no matter how hard I tried to escape her web, the more tangled I became. So the story goes like this...
Mrs. Sirunas was my Grade 2 teacher. Plump with short, dark brown hair, she wore spectacles at the tip of nose and greeted all of us everyday without a smile. Me being the chatterbox that I am, received daily warnings and dirty looks from her. The ONLY time that I recall impressing Mrs. Sirunas was during reading time. I was above grade level and probably the only child in the class borrowing books from Grade 4 for extra curricular reading.
On one afternoon, Mrs. Sirunis asked another boy and I to stay after school. I nodded slowly but dread was quickly filling up inside of me. Why did she want us to stay? What did I do? What would she do to me? It bothered me for the rest of the day, so much so, that I could not concentrate and made many mistakes during math. She would walk by and rap my knuckles with her ruler for what she deemed as deviant behaviour. Secretly, I was crapping my pants trying to figure out what was going to happen. And I was going to make sure I would not be around to find out.
When the afterschool bell had rung, I slipped out of class undetected and ran home. My usual after school routine was to loiter in the park adjacent to the school and then skip home fifteen minutes later. Instead, I walked in thefront door within five minutes of the bell ringing, much to my mother's surprise. She quietly placed my snack in front of me and watched as I nervously gulped down my ice cream and ran into my room. I sat on my bed and rocked.
"Why are you rocking," she asked walking in to fold the laundry she placed on my bed. I ignored her and continued to rock to soothe my anxiety. She eyed me suspiciously but did not demand an answer.
An hour later, she was back in my room. "Mrs. Sirunas called," she announced. I stopped rocking at once. My heart was beating fast and my palms began to sweat.
"She asked me why you left when you were specifically told to stay after school. I told her I had no idea that you left and I would make sure you stay tomorrow."
"Did she tell you why she wants me to stay," I asked with my eyes wide.
"No. And you better stay after school tomorrow so we both find out why." With that said, she left the room--alone to my disillusionment and imaginative thoughts. I was convinced I was going to get the strap.
Back in the day, the belt was administered to anyone who misbehaved. I heard of many students being called to the principal's office where he would proceed to admonish the student for anything he deemed unappropriate (swearing, skipping school, talking back to the teacher, coming in late, etc). I lay in bed all night trying to figure out what I had done. I didn't sleep because I had to separate all the bad things I had done at home from all the wrongdoings I think I did at school. It was a long night. Needless to say, I was exhausted the next day and an emotional wreck. For me, it was doomsday.
My friend Shanta and I walked to school that morning. I dragged my feet. I was not looking forward to seeing my teacher. And trust me, Mrs. Sirunas was not happy when I walked into class. She acknowledged me with a stern nod and pointed me to my seat. When I asked the boy, who was sequestered to stay afterschool the day before, why she asked both of us to stay, he only smiled and said, "You are in big trouble!" This made my teeth chatter and my knees knock.
Throughout the day, I felt her eyes bore into my back when I was working at each station. I made several mistakes that day and she did not live it down. I was so nervous that I dropped the abacus on the floor twice when doing my calculations--all of which I got wrong. As a result, she made me stay in at recess to clean the chalkboards. I watched out the window as my classmates ran up and down the field, laughing and dancing, while I slapped chalk out of the erasers and made my hair and the classroom furniture white. Yes, I was reprimanded for that too and had to clean up the mess during storytime.
By the time the bell rang, I did not know if I was coming or going. I sat on the bench outside the classroom and wished I were dead. Yes, quite a sadistic thought. Yet a good escape. If I was found dead, my parents would blame Mrs Sirunas, she would be jailed for my murder and then no one would let her speak about why I was held afterschool. She would go crazy in jail and when she spoke the truth, no one would believe her. People would still be mourning for me. My imagination was rudely interrupted by the devil incarnate herself. Mrs. Sirunis stood outside the classroom door observing me while my evil thoughts ran wild.
"Come in," she motioned with her hand pointing back in the classroom. I got up uneasily and kept my head down. My shoelaces were untied but I was more concerned about where the principal was going to strap me. She made me stand in front of her desk. I waited while she cleared her papers and moved items to the corners of the desk. Great, I thought. They are going to strap me here, on her desk. She called my name. I dared not to look up. When she called me again, I looked up slowly to see her squinting her eyes at me.
"Do you know why I called you here today?"
"No."
"Why did you go home yesterday when I asked you to stay?"
"I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
I hesitated before answering. I heard my mother's voice in the back of my mind. Always tell the truth. Then I heard my father's voice....Keep quiet, you talk too much!
"Because....I am afraid of you." I cringed and looked down. Nothing. I closed my eyes, waiting in anticipation. Would it be a ruler or a strap? Nothing. When I looked up again, Mrs. Sirunas was not smiling, as usual. However, she was holding up a certificate with my name on it. I looked at it blankly, too scared to read.
"I wanted you to stay afterschool so I could show you this. You have won the best reading award in all of Grade 2. And I wanted to present it to you first before tomorrow's assembly in front of the whole school." She asked me to read the certificate back to her. I shyly read it out loud and then looked at her again. Still no smile.
"Promise me the next time I ask something of you, that you will listen instead of flying out of the school?" I nodded. She excused me and then I was free to leave. I walked slowly to the door, so not to 'fly' out of the room when she stopped me with another comment.
"Thanks for telling the truth. But I am really not that scary once you get to know me," Mrs. Sirunas said. And then she attempted a smile. I remember it more like a smirk.
I smiled back widely, encourage by her candour and responded, "Its ok, but I DON'T want to get to know you"
Mrs. Sirunas' mouth fell open and her eyes narrowed at me. What did I say? WHAT DID I SAY?
I was honoured at the assembly the next day but got detention for one week cleaning chalkboards afterschool. And I learned to combine my parents advice the hard way--Tell the truth but keep it quiet....
Mrs. Sirunas was my Grade 2 teacher. Plump with short, dark brown hair, she wore spectacles at the tip of nose and greeted all of us everyday without a smile. Me being the chatterbox that I am, received daily warnings and dirty looks from her. The ONLY time that I recall impressing Mrs. Sirunas was during reading time. I was above grade level and probably the only child in the class borrowing books from Grade 4 for extra curricular reading.
On one afternoon, Mrs. Sirunis asked another boy and I to stay after school. I nodded slowly but dread was quickly filling up inside of me. Why did she want us to stay? What did I do? What would she do to me? It bothered me for the rest of the day, so much so, that I could not concentrate and made many mistakes during math. She would walk by and rap my knuckles with her ruler for what she deemed as deviant behaviour. Secretly, I was crapping my pants trying to figure out what was going to happen. And I was going to make sure I would not be around to find out.
When the afterschool bell had rung, I slipped out of class undetected and ran home. My usual after school routine was to loiter in the park adjacent to the school and then skip home fifteen minutes later. Instead, I walked in thefront door within five minutes of the bell ringing, much to my mother's surprise. She quietly placed my snack in front of me and watched as I nervously gulped down my ice cream and ran into my room. I sat on my bed and rocked.
"Why are you rocking," she asked walking in to fold the laundry she placed on my bed. I ignored her and continued to rock to soothe my anxiety. She eyed me suspiciously but did not demand an answer.
An hour later, she was back in my room. "Mrs. Sirunas called," she announced. I stopped rocking at once. My heart was beating fast and my palms began to sweat.
"She asked me why you left when you were specifically told to stay after school. I told her I had no idea that you left and I would make sure you stay tomorrow."
"Did she tell you why she wants me to stay," I asked with my eyes wide.
"No. And you better stay after school tomorrow so we both find out why." With that said, she left the room--alone to my disillusionment and imaginative thoughts. I was convinced I was going to get the strap.
Back in the day, the belt was administered to anyone who misbehaved. I heard of many students being called to the principal's office where he would proceed to admonish the student for anything he deemed unappropriate (swearing, skipping school, talking back to the teacher, coming in late, etc). I lay in bed all night trying to figure out what I had done. I didn't sleep because I had to separate all the bad things I had done at home from all the wrongdoings I think I did at school. It was a long night. Needless to say, I was exhausted the next day and an emotional wreck. For me, it was doomsday.
My friend Shanta and I walked to school that morning. I dragged my feet. I was not looking forward to seeing my teacher. And trust me, Mrs. Sirunas was not happy when I walked into class. She acknowledged me with a stern nod and pointed me to my seat. When I asked the boy, who was sequestered to stay afterschool the day before, why she asked both of us to stay, he only smiled and said, "You are in big trouble!" This made my teeth chatter and my knees knock.
Throughout the day, I felt her eyes bore into my back when I was working at each station. I made several mistakes that day and she did not live it down. I was so nervous that I dropped the abacus on the floor twice when doing my calculations--all of which I got wrong. As a result, she made me stay in at recess to clean the chalkboards. I watched out the window as my classmates ran up and down the field, laughing and dancing, while I slapped chalk out of the erasers and made my hair and the classroom furniture white. Yes, I was reprimanded for that too and had to clean up the mess during storytime.
By the time the bell rang, I did not know if I was coming or going. I sat on the bench outside the classroom and wished I were dead. Yes, quite a sadistic thought. Yet a good escape. If I was found dead, my parents would blame Mrs Sirunas, she would be jailed for my murder and then no one would let her speak about why I was held afterschool. She would go crazy in jail and when she spoke the truth, no one would believe her. People would still be mourning for me. My imagination was rudely interrupted by the devil incarnate herself. Mrs. Sirunis stood outside the classroom door observing me while my evil thoughts ran wild.
"Come in," she motioned with her hand pointing back in the classroom. I got up uneasily and kept my head down. My shoelaces were untied but I was more concerned about where the principal was going to strap me. She made me stand in front of her desk. I waited while she cleared her papers and moved items to the corners of the desk. Great, I thought. They are going to strap me here, on her desk. She called my name. I dared not to look up. When she called me again, I looked up slowly to see her squinting her eyes at me.
"Do you know why I called you here today?"
"No."
"Why did you go home yesterday when I asked you to stay?"
"I was afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
I hesitated before answering. I heard my mother's voice in the back of my mind. Always tell the truth. Then I heard my father's voice....Keep quiet, you talk too much!
"Because....I am afraid of you." I cringed and looked down. Nothing. I closed my eyes, waiting in anticipation. Would it be a ruler or a strap? Nothing. When I looked up again, Mrs. Sirunas was not smiling, as usual. However, she was holding up a certificate with my name on it. I looked at it blankly, too scared to read.
"I wanted you to stay afterschool so I could show you this. You have won the best reading award in all of Grade 2. And I wanted to present it to you first before tomorrow's assembly in front of the whole school." She asked me to read the certificate back to her. I shyly read it out loud and then looked at her again. Still no smile.
"Promise me the next time I ask something of you, that you will listen instead of flying out of the school?" I nodded. She excused me and then I was free to leave. I walked slowly to the door, so not to 'fly' out of the room when she stopped me with another comment.
"Thanks for telling the truth. But I am really not that scary once you get to know me," Mrs. Sirunas said. And then she attempted a smile. I remember it more like a smirk.
I smiled back widely, encourage by her candour and responded, "Its ok, but I DON'T want to get to know you"
Mrs. Sirunas' mouth fell open and her eyes narrowed at me. What did I say? WHAT DID I SAY?
I was honoured at the assembly the next day but got detention for one week cleaning chalkboards afterschool. And I learned to combine my parents advice the hard way--Tell the truth but keep it quiet....
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Will the real Donny please stand up?
It was a convoluted and complicated time when I had my first real crush. Picture it: Grade 1, six years old and not aware of the dynamics that played in the classroom or in the real world. For me, he was the only one that fulfilled all of my dreams.
The Donny and Marie show was a hit 70s show that featured the youngest of the Osmond brothers, Donny, Marie and the rest of their cheesy clan. But hey, they were not cheesy to me back then. Every Sunday night, I would tune in to see their muscial show that featured their songs, skits and other muscial guests. I was fixated only on Donny. For a while, I despied Marie, thinking she his significant other, only to realize many months later that the toothy, big haired girl was his sister. It did not matter where I was. Every Sunday, Donny and I spent the night together.
"We are leaving in fifteen minutes. Now only if I can find the directions," my father announced, checking all his pockets and motioning my mother to go through his coat. She had my crying sister in her arms, a purse in the other and all the while her sari was perfectly pleated. I came downstairs, still in my pajamas, much to my father's horror.
"Why are you not ready?" he demanded. I plopped myself onto the sofa and switched on the TV.
"Donny and Marie is coming on at 7. Can we leave after?" I gathered up my pink Barbie blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. I could feel from the eerie silence that my father was flabbergasted at the audacity of such a request.
"We have a wedding to attend where there will be 200 people and you sit here in your pajamas ready to watch TV?!" I could see the vein in his temple throbbing. I looked at my mother for help but my insolent sister continued to wail at the top of her lungs demanding God knows what from my poor mother.
"I will miss my show. Is there a TV at the wedding. Can I watch Donny there?" I asked innocently.
My father looked at my mother in disbelief and I saw him walk over to me with his finger wagging close to my head. Ok, I was going to get it now.
"What is with you and this show?" he exclaimed. "You are to go upstairs young lady, change into the clothes your mother ironed and get ready this instant!"
"But Daddy, I cannot miss Donny. He is going to be...my....he is my....well..." I hesitated. I was going for the kill to stall my father. "I am in love with Donny and we are going to get married!"
My father didn't miss a beat. He turned to my mother and wagged his finger at her. "I blame you Jamila! You let her watch this show every week and now she has these unIslamic fantasies. Get her ready now." He walked downstairs and out the front door to heat the car up. My mother sighed in exasperation and came over to me. She was rocking my sister who was inconsolable from her fit.
"Could you please just miss this show tonight? Maybe next week will be a rerun," she begged. I was shaking my head violently. This could not be happening. I needed to see Donny. One stern look from my mother did me in. When my father was mad, it was one thing but when my mother was not happy with me, I relented. I swung off the couch, got ready and sulked all the way to the wedding.
One Uncle approached our table at the wedding and saw me sulking. I had not touched the food on my plate. My mother was too busy trying to calm my wailing sister and my father, as usual, was making his social rounds and laughing from across the hall. "Arey, arey, my little chapati! Why are you looking so sad this evening?"
I gave him a dirty look and folded my arms. That did not dissuade him from coming over and sitting next to me. "Come on, it must not be so bad," he smiled politely, trying to get me to talk.
"I am going to marry Donny Osmond! But Daddy won't let me see him tonite!" I yelled over the blaring Indian music. Uncle laughed and laughed and slapped me on the back. "Oh my child, you will marry who your father will pick for you. And Donny is not Muslim. You could never marry him!"
The world as I knew it ended right there and then. A world without Donny. I could not imagine it and I was devastated. When my father returned to our table, I was livid! Anger and sadness enveloped me and I ran over to him and pinched his arm.
"I WILL MARRY DONNY. And you cannot stop me," I shouted. My father was talking to Uncle and they both stopped to react to my proclaimation. For one second they observed me and then resumed their conversation. My jaw dropped in surprise. No reaction. Not a word. I turned to my mother but she was consumed with feeding my sister who was refusing the bottle. I hung my head down and sat back in my chair. But do not despair for me...the story goes on....
In my Grade 1 class, there was a boy named Donny. He was blond with freckles and always wore a sweater vest to school. Quiet, unassuming and seemingly shy. I never took any notice of him except for the fact that he shared my ultimate love's name. For the most part, I did not notice any boy in our class. But he sure noticed me. And without realizing it, he became my first real crush.
Donny would do very nice things for me. If it wasn't my day to be in the puppet play group, Donny would switch spots with me. During recess, Donny would always pass me the ball if we were playing soccer or basketball. When I forgot lunch one day, Donny shared his snacks with me. Donny was always there for me but I did not notice. Until the day he approached me.
In the hallway, I was distracted one day after recess and was slowly making my way back to class when he cornered me. We were by the water fountain. He told me to wait while he gulped down the water while I watched curiously.
"I just wanted to say that I am ....uh....well...you know....I like you," he said nervously, adjusting his sweater vest by pulling and stretching it down. I was mortified. I looked at him blankly as he sheepishly smiled back at me.
"I am already in love with Donny," I blurted. Donny became confused.
"You mean you love me," he smiled even wider. I was irritated with his stupidity but then I realized he thought I was talking about him.
"NO! Donny Osmond. My dad said I cannot marry him but I am going to grow up, leave this place, find him and tell him I watched every one of his shows, except last Sunday when I was made to go to some crazy wedding, and then he will fall in love with me and we will get married!" Donny's eyes welled up and he brushed past me to return to class. I stood there for a good five minutes and wondered what had happened. A few weeks later, all of the nice things Donny did for me ceased to happen. And I came home everyday, confused and sad.
And my Sunday ritual continued. I remember going up to the TV screen and kissing Donny on the mouth. My mother caught me doing this a few times and warned me if my father ever saw this, I would be grounded for a month. But I didn't care; in my little mind, I believed Donny was kissing me back. In retrospect, it was one of the oddest times in my life but a clear misunderstanding of reality and illusion. And it took Donny Osmond himself to make me realize it.
At school, Donny had reverted back to his old ways. He would share his toys with me, smile at me assertively when we passed in the hallway and help me with my math. But I gave him the cold-shoulder. I did not know how to react to his kindness. And slowly I began to realize that I liked him too. And this behaviour followed me all the way to high school. If I had a crush on a guy, I would never show it. In fact, I would make him believe that I was the last person on Earth who could like him. Guarded, then and now. Ironically though, I could express my emotions to an illusion; a one dimensional relationship that had no merit or real rewards--until Donny Osmond disrupted that fantasy.
The next Sunday, Donny Osmond introduced his girlfriend to the whole world. On national TV. My mother was sitting next to me knitting as I watched on in horror. I could not approach the screen for my nightly smooch. I was glued to my chair and ...BROKEN. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Donny would never be mine. I got up and switched off the show halfway through. My mother put her knitting down but remained silent. I looked at her forlornly and dragged my feet back to bed. That was the last time I watched the Donny and Marie show.
Donny sat at the picnic table, eating his lunch alone while I watched from the portable steps. I longed to go and sit with him but I could not bring myself to do so. When he would look my way, I would turn away, pretending not to see him. It was the hardest thing for me to do--to admit to myself that I had been in love with the wrong Donny. My heart sank as I watched another girl sit down next to him and they began talking. I sat by myself on the steps and thought about Donny Osmond. I remembered his girlfriend hugging him on the show, reciprocating his feelings. However, I didn't have the slightest clue how to do this in real life. There was no more TV screen to kiss. In real life, it would kiss back.
And without a moment's notice, there Donny was, by my side, looking down at me with his hand reaching out to mine. "Come have lunch with me," he smiled kindly while I stumbled with my words, trying hard to formulate an answer that encompassed how I felt for him. Instead, I smiled back, took his hand and we ate together at the picnic bench, side by side, alone, sharing our thoughts--in complete and utter silence.
That night, as we ate dinner, I was smiling to myself. My father noted that I stopped my Sunday night ritual and saw that my mood had finally changed. "So, you are over Donny now?"
I smiled secretly and replied,"Oh no Daddy. I am still going to marry him."
The Donny and Marie show was a hit 70s show that featured the youngest of the Osmond brothers, Donny, Marie and the rest of their cheesy clan. But hey, they were not cheesy to me back then. Every Sunday night, I would tune in to see their muscial show that featured their songs, skits and other muscial guests. I was fixated only on Donny. For a while, I despied Marie, thinking she his significant other, only to realize many months later that the toothy, big haired girl was his sister. It did not matter where I was. Every Sunday, Donny and I spent the night together.
"We are leaving in fifteen minutes. Now only if I can find the directions," my father announced, checking all his pockets and motioning my mother to go through his coat. She had my crying sister in her arms, a purse in the other and all the while her sari was perfectly pleated. I came downstairs, still in my pajamas, much to my father's horror.
"Why are you not ready?" he demanded. I plopped myself onto the sofa and switched on the TV.
"Donny and Marie is coming on at 7. Can we leave after?" I gathered up my pink Barbie blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. I could feel from the eerie silence that my father was flabbergasted at the audacity of such a request.
"We have a wedding to attend where there will be 200 people and you sit here in your pajamas ready to watch TV?!" I could see the vein in his temple throbbing. I looked at my mother for help but my insolent sister continued to wail at the top of her lungs demanding God knows what from my poor mother.
"I will miss my show. Is there a TV at the wedding. Can I watch Donny there?" I asked innocently.
My father looked at my mother in disbelief and I saw him walk over to me with his finger wagging close to my head. Ok, I was going to get it now.
"What is with you and this show?" he exclaimed. "You are to go upstairs young lady, change into the clothes your mother ironed and get ready this instant!"
"But Daddy, I cannot miss Donny. He is going to be...my....he is my....well..." I hesitated. I was going for the kill to stall my father. "I am in love with Donny and we are going to get married!"
My father didn't miss a beat. He turned to my mother and wagged his finger at her. "I blame you Jamila! You let her watch this show every week and now she has these unIslamic fantasies. Get her ready now." He walked downstairs and out the front door to heat the car up. My mother sighed in exasperation and came over to me. She was rocking my sister who was inconsolable from her fit.
"Could you please just miss this show tonight? Maybe next week will be a rerun," she begged. I was shaking my head violently. This could not be happening. I needed to see Donny. One stern look from my mother did me in. When my father was mad, it was one thing but when my mother was not happy with me, I relented. I swung off the couch, got ready and sulked all the way to the wedding.
One Uncle approached our table at the wedding and saw me sulking. I had not touched the food on my plate. My mother was too busy trying to calm my wailing sister and my father, as usual, was making his social rounds and laughing from across the hall. "Arey, arey, my little chapati! Why are you looking so sad this evening?"
I gave him a dirty look and folded my arms. That did not dissuade him from coming over and sitting next to me. "Come on, it must not be so bad," he smiled politely, trying to get me to talk.
"I am going to marry Donny Osmond! But Daddy won't let me see him tonite!" I yelled over the blaring Indian music. Uncle laughed and laughed and slapped me on the back. "Oh my child, you will marry who your father will pick for you. And Donny is not Muslim. You could never marry him!"
The world as I knew it ended right there and then. A world without Donny. I could not imagine it and I was devastated. When my father returned to our table, I was livid! Anger and sadness enveloped me and I ran over to him and pinched his arm.
"I WILL MARRY DONNY. And you cannot stop me," I shouted. My father was talking to Uncle and they both stopped to react to my proclaimation. For one second they observed me and then resumed their conversation. My jaw dropped in surprise. No reaction. Not a word. I turned to my mother but she was consumed with feeding my sister who was refusing the bottle. I hung my head down and sat back in my chair. But do not despair for me...the story goes on....
In my Grade 1 class, there was a boy named Donny. He was blond with freckles and always wore a sweater vest to school. Quiet, unassuming and seemingly shy. I never took any notice of him except for the fact that he shared my ultimate love's name. For the most part, I did not notice any boy in our class. But he sure noticed me. And without realizing it, he became my first real crush.
Donny would do very nice things for me. If it wasn't my day to be in the puppet play group, Donny would switch spots with me. During recess, Donny would always pass me the ball if we were playing soccer or basketball. When I forgot lunch one day, Donny shared his snacks with me. Donny was always there for me but I did not notice. Until the day he approached me.
In the hallway, I was distracted one day after recess and was slowly making my way back to class when he cornered me. We were by the water fountain. He told me to wait while he gulped down the water while I watched curiously.
"I just wanted to say that I am ....uh....well...you know....I like you," he said nervously, adjusting his sweater vest by pulling and stretching it down. I was mortified. I looked at him blankly as he sheepishly smiled back at me.
"I am already in love with Donny," I blurted. Donny became confused.
"You mean you love me," he smiled even wider. I was irritated with his stupidity but then I realized he thought I was talking about him.
"NO! Donny Osmond. My dad said I cannot marry him but I am going to grow up, leave this place, find him and tell him I watched every one of his shows, except last Sunday when I was made to go to some crazy wedding, and then he will fall in love with me and we will get married!" Donny's eyes welled up and he brushed past me to return to class. I stood there for a good five minutes and wondered what had happened. A few weeks later, all of the nice things Donny did for me ceased to happen. And I came home everyday, confused and sad.
And my Sunday ritual continued. I remember going up to the TV screen and kissing Donny on the mouth. My mother caught me doing this a few times and warned me if my father ever saw this, I would be grounded for a month. But I didn't care; in my little mind, I believed Donny was kissing me back. In retrospect, it was one of the oddest times in my life but a clear misunderstanding of reality and illusion. And it took Donny Osmond himself to make me realize it.
At school, Donny had reverted back to his old ways. He would share his toys with me, smile at me assertively when we passed in the hallway and help me with my math. But I gave him the cold-shoulder. I did not know how to react to his kindness. And slowly I began to realize that I liked him too. And this behaviour followed me all the way to high school. If I had a crush on a guy, I would never show it. In fact, I would make him believe that I was the last person on Earth who could like him. Guarded, then and now. Ironically though, I could express my emotions to an illusion; a one dimensional relationship that had no merit or real rewards--until Donny Osmond disrupted that fantasy.
The next Sunday, Donny Osmond introduced his girlfriend to the whole world. On national TV. My mother was sitting next to me knitting as I watched on in horror. I could not approach the screen for my nightly smooch. I was glued to my chair and ...BROKEN. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Donny would never be mine. I got up and switched off the show halfway through. My mother put her knitting down but remained silent. I looked at her forlornly and dragged my feet back to bed. That was the last time I watched the Donny and Marie show.
Donny sat at the picnic table, eating his lunch alone while I watched from the portable steps. I longed to go and sit with him but I could not bring myself to do so. When he would look my way, I would turn away, pretending not to see him. It was the hardest thing for me to do--to admit to myself that I had been in love with the wrong Donny. My heart sank as I watched another girl sit down next to him and they began talking. I sat by myself on the steps and thought about Donny Osmond. I remembered his girlfriend hugging him on the show, reciprocating his feelings. However, I didn't have the slightest clue how to do this in real life. There was no more TV screen to kiss. In real life, it would kiss back.
And without a moment's notice, there Donny was, by my side, looking down at me with his hand reaching out to mine. "Come have lunch with me," he smiled kindly while I stumbled with my words, trying hard to formulate an answer that encompassed how I felt for him. Instead, I smiled back, took his hand and we ate together at the picnic bench, side by side, alone, sharing our thoughts--in complete and utter silence.
That night, as we ate dinner, I was smiling to myself. My father noted that I stopped my Sunday night ritual and saw that my mood had finally changed. "So, you are over Donny now?"
I smiled secretly and replied,"Oh no Daddy. I am still going to marry him."
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Variety Store Virgin
Though fiercely independant and impetous, I was chicken to try new things. Like my father, I did not take risks; afraid of the outcome, the unknown, the consequences. The free-spirited me conflicted with the subsconscious chains that bound me. A lot of the uncertainty stemmed from how my father brought me up. My mother was indifferent. She too was bound by the same restrictions and her response was nonchalance. But for me, I had to fight and struggle between these two worlds. I was a living and breathing oxymoron.
One day my friend Shanta came over with her wagon full of empty bottles. She announced that she was going to the store to return and get money back for her father. Smitten with the idea of getting money so easily, I told her to wait while I checked for bottles in my house. My mother collected them from under the sink and remembered that there were some in the garage. I threw them into a bag and headed out the door, excited by my new adventure. My father was outside cutting the lawn and upon seeing us, he turned off the mower.
"And where do you think you are going with all those bottles?" he asked.
I looked at Shanta, unable to explain the plan.
"We are going to return these bottles and bring back the money," she said while I hid behind her.
My father stood still for one entire minute and then scratched his head.
"Do you know how many bottles you are taking and how much money you need to collect?" he asked loudly. I knew this question was meant for me. I stepped around Shanta to present myself.
"Stop slouching," he demanded.
I stood up straight. "I have ten bottles...and I ....will get the money and bring it to you," I stuttered.
Damn. My original intent was to pocket the money and buy candy at the variety store.
"Carry on," and he waved us away and turned the mower back on. I exhaled deeply and lifted my bag of bottles onto the wagon. One neighborhood boy, Frank, ran up and joined us on our way to the variety shop which was about a ten minute walk away. On our journey, I became increasingly nervous. As Shanta and Frank chattered away, I was now apprehensive about what was about to go down.
How much was each bottle return? What would be the total? What was I supposed to say? Who did I need to ask? What counter took the bottles back? The whole idea of the bottle return became a huge business deal that could go all wrong. And I was too scared to think if I messed up what the consequences would be.
As we entered the shop, I watched Shanta in action. She picked up the bottles from the wagon and placed them on the counter top. A large, burly man with a goatee, extremely long sideburns and several tattoos on his arms nodded to her, opened the cash register and handed over the cash. It utterly confused me that no words were exchanged--only subtle body language. She pocketed the money and then they both looked at me.
I cautiously approached the counter. Everything seemed large to me. At age six, everything would be. The counter, the man, the shelves around me that threatened to box me in at any given moment. My knees were shaking from sheer nervousness. I heard a clock ticking somewhere. Everyone was silent while I stood looking up at the scary man with the tattoos. At once, he became agitated and leaned towards me.
"Well, what is it? Speak up!" he grumbled. His words knocked the wind out of me. I can do this, I thought, despite the sense of dread that monopolized my inner core.
Instead, when I opened my mouth to speak, I started to cry. I was so overcome with fear that I lost my confidence. I wasn't supposed to speak. Things should have gone the same way with me as they did with Shanta. But now it was as if he knew that I was new to this experience and it became a test of my wits.
Shame on him. Shame on Shanta. Shame on my father. Shame, shame, shame. All three had become instant scapegoats by my fear.
Frank grabbed my bag of bottles and placed them on the counter.
"How many bottles are in here?" the burly man barked. I stood immobilized, still crying like a baby. Again I coaxed myself to speak. Only inauduble squeaks seemed to escape my mouth. I knew I had brought ten but I was completely unable to communicate it. When I did not reply, he shook his head and started counting loudly.
"ONE...TWO...THREE...FOUR....." I was utterly ashamed of myself. What had gotten into me? Shanta looked at me curiously and then reached out to hold my hand. Frank shook his head and rolled his eyes.
The cash register opened and the man handed the cash over to Frank who instantly put it in his pocket. My mouth fell open. Another dilemna. I was without bottles AND the money.
"Is this your first time returning bottles?" asked the man. He was staring down at me. Waiting. Expecting an intelligent answer. There was an explanation. However, I had no idea what to say.
When I started to speak, I began to cry again, pointing at Frank. No one could understand my nonsensical language. I pulled Shanta and we all left the store.
I cried all the way home. Shanta tried to calm me down but I was inconsolable. Frank was so embaressed that he began to whistle loudly--I was sure it was to drown out my incessant crying.
We arrived to Shanta's home. Her father was walking down the driveway from the porch to meet us. He had heard me crying from the corner. Shanta handed him the cash and the wagon.
He turned to me with amazement. "This is the first time I have seen you so upset! What happened?"
Shanta explained the whole story to him and he laughed. His belly was very big and I remember seeing it shake while he laughed. "You are one of the most fearless girls in the neighbourhood and returning some bottles got you upset? How much money did you get back?"
Frank was loitering at the end of their driveway. kicking stones with his foot. I suddenly remembered that he had pocketed MY money. I instantly stopped crying and charged at him. He was taken by surprise when I launched onto his back and threw him on the grass. He was older than me by a year and foot taller. Shanta's father came barrelling down behind us and pulled me off of him.
"He has my money," I growled. There was grass in his mouth and dirt all over my clothes. Frank, always known to be a quiet and respectful boy, shrugged his shoulders, gave the money to Shanta's father, turned and then shot me a dirty look.
"I was going to give it back to you but since you cried like a baby in the store I held onto it to keep it safe!" He stood there, waiting for an apology.
I felt even worse. To top it off, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father heading over from across the street.
"Did you jump on this boy?" he yelled even before reaching us. Shanta's father explained to my father what happened while I lowered my head and stared at my shoes. Shanta had been called inside for lunch and left me alone. After hearing the story, my father stood for five minutes to think.
In retrospect, when I reminisce about how my father approached the decision-making process, it made me wonder why he took so long. I notice a tendency of normal people to formulate a decision WHILE hearing a story. But no, my father made it more dramatic then it actually was. He would pause for what seemed to be an eternity, inconveniencing the other party by making them wait while he sorted out all the outcomes.
"Please give the money to the boy. Clearly he was the one who did the transaction." Shanta's father began to argue but my father stopped him with his hand. Frank looked at me sheepishly but I turned the other way while my father collected the money and handed it to him. We all parted ways -- I, particularily with a heavy heart.
Later that night, after finding out that the money had been given to Frank, my mother came to my room, down on the third floor of the house. She sat on my bed but I turned my back to her.
"I know you were scared to go. I know you didn't know what to do. It is ok. We all learn from our mistakes. If you don't do it, how will you ever learn? It is ok to be scared. I came all the way from Pakistan to Canada and needed the learn how to do everything--and I was very scared. Learning can be hard. But it gets easier once we do it again." She wiped my brow and then snatched her hand away. I had a raging fever. I heard her leave and loud words were spoken upstairs. She returned with a cold cloth and medicine. She crawled into the bed and slept with me that night.
When I woke up the next morning, my mother was gone. In her place, on my pillow, was a crisp dollar bill. I smiled. Ten cents for every bottle.
When my fever broke later that day, I called Shanta.
We arrived at the same variety store and I chose my candy. One for me, one for Shanta and a chocolate for Frank. I put everything on the counter and stared the large, burly man down.
"Thirty cents please," he smiled with one eyebrow raised. I decided he was not that scary after all and confidently handed him my dollar bill.
And while we three sat on my porch and ate the candy, my mother smiled at us through the front window.
One day my friend Shanta came over with her wagon full of empty bottles. She announced that she was going to the store to return and get money back for her father. Smitten with the idea of getting money so easily, I told her to wait while I checked for bottles in my house. My mother collected them from under the sink and remembered that there were some in the garage. I threw them into a bag and headed out the door, excited by my new adventure. My father was outside cutting the lawn and upon seeing us, he turned off the mower.
"And where do you think you are going with all those bottles?" he asked.
I looked at Shanta, unable to explain the plan.
"We are going to return these bottles and bring back the money," she said while I hid behind her.
My father stood still for one entire minute and then scratched his head.
"Do you know how many bottles you are taking and how much money you need to collect?" he asked loudly. I knew this question was meant for me. I stepped around Shanta to present myself.
"Stop slouching," he demanded.
I stood up straight. "I have ten bottles...and I ....will get the money and bring it to you," I stuttered.
Damn. My original intent was to pocket the money and buy candy at the variety store.
"Carry on," and he waved us away and turned the mower back on. I exhaled deeply and lifted my bag of bottles onto the wagon. One neighborhood boy, Frank, ran up and joined us on our way to the variety shop which was about a ten minute walk away. On our journey, I became increasingly nervous. As Shanta and Frank chattered away, I was now apprehensive about what was about to go down.
How much was each bottle return? What would be the total? What was I supposed to say? Who did I need to ask? What counter took the bottles back? The whole idea of the bottle return became a huge business deal that could go all wrong. And I was too scared to think if I messed up what the consequences would be.
As we entered the shop, I watched Shanta in action. She picked up the bottles from the wagon and placed them on the counter top. A large, burly man with a goatee, extremely long sideburns and several tattoos on his arms nodded to her, opened the cash register and handed over the cash. It utterly confused me that no words were exchanged--only subtle body language. She pocketed the money and then they both looked at me.
I cautiously approached the counter. Everything seemed large to me. At age six, everything would be. The counter, the man, the shelves around me that threatened to box me in at any given moment. My knees were shaking from sheer nervousness. I heard a clock ticking somewhere. Everyone was silent while I stood looking up at the scary man with the tattoos. At once, he became agitated and leaned towards me.
"Well, what is it? Speak up!" he grumbled. His words knocked the wind out of me. I can do this, I thought, despite the sense of dread that monopolized my inner core.
Instead, when I opened my mouth to speak, I started to cry. I was so overcome with fear that I lost my confidence. I wasn't supposed to speak. Things should have gone the same way with me as they did with Shanta. But now it was as if he knew that I was new to this experience and it became a test of my wits.
Shame on him. Shame on Shanta. Shame on my father. Shame, shame, shame. All three had become instant scapegoats by my fear.
Frank grabbed my bag of bottles and placed them on the counter.
"How many bottles are in here?" the burly man barked. I stood immobilized, still crying like a baby. Again I coaxed myself to speak. Only inauduble squeaks seemed to escape my mouth. I knew I had brought ten but I was completely unable to communicate it. When I did not reply, he shook his head and started counting loudly.
"ONE...TWO...THREE...FOUR....." I was utterly ashamed of myself. What had gotten into me? Shanta looked at me curiously and then reached out to hold my hand. Frank shook his head and rolled his eyes.
The cash register opened and the man handed the cash over to Frank who instantly put it in his pocket. My mouth fell open. Another dilemna. I was without bottles AND the money.
"Is this your first time returning bottles?" asked the man. He was staring down at me. Waiting. Expecting an intelligent answer. There was an explanation. However, I had no idea what to say.
When I started to speak, I began to cry again, pointing at Frank. No one could understand my nonsensical language. I pulled Shanta and we all left the store.
I cried all the way home. Shanta tried to calm me down but I was inconsolable. Frank was so embaressed that he began to whistle loudly--I was sure it was to drown out my incessant crying.
We arrived to Shanta's home. Her father was walking down the driveway from the porch to meet us. He had heard me crying from the corner. Shanta handed him the cash and the wagon.
He turned to me with amazement. "This is the first time I have seen you so upset! What happened?"
Shanta explained the whole story to him and he laughed. His belly was very big and I remember seeing it shake while he laughed. "You are one of the most fearless girls in the neighbourhood and returning some bottles got you upset? How much money did you get back?"
Frank was loitering at the end of their driveway. kicking stones with his foot. I suddenly remembered that he had pocketed MY money. I instantly stopped crying and charged at him. He was taken by surprise when I launched onto his back and threw him on the grass. He was older than me by a year and foot taller. Shanta's father came barrelling down behind us and pulled me off of him.
"He has my money," I growled. There was grass in his mouth and dirt all over my clothes. Frank, always known to be a quiet and respectful boy, shrugged his shoulders, gave the money to Shanta's father, turned and then shot me a dirty look.
"I was going to give it back to you but since you cried like a baby in the store I held onto it to keep it safe!" He stood there, waiting for an apology.
I felt even worse. To top it off, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father heading over from across the street.
"Did you jump on this boy?" he yelled even before reaching us. Shanta's father explained to my father what happened while I lowered my head and stared at my shoes. Shanta had been called inside for lunch and left me alone. After hearing the story, my father stood for five minutes to think.
In retrospect, when I reminisce about how my father approached the decision-making process, it made me wonder why he took so long. I notice a tendency of normal people to formulate a decision WHILE hearing a story. But no, my father made it more dramatic then it actually was. He would pause for what seemed to be an eternity, inconveniencing the other party by making them wait while he sorted out all the outcomes.
"Please give the money to the boy. Clearly he was the one who did the transaction." Shanta's father began to argue but my father stopped him with his hand. Frank looked at me sheepishly but I turned the other way while my father collected the money and handed it to him. We all parted ways -- I, particularily with a heavy heart.
Later that night, after finding out that the money had been given to Frank, my mother came to my room, down on the third floor of the house. She sat on my bed but I turned my back to her.
"I know you were scared to go. I know you didn't know what to do. It is ok. We all learn from our mistakes. If you don't do it, how will you ever learn? It is ok to be scared. I came all the way from Pakistan to Canada and needed the learn how to do everything--and I was very scared. Learning can be hard. But it gets easier once we do it again." She wiped my brow and then snatched her hand away. I had a raging fever. I heard her leave and loud words were spoken upstairs. She returned with a cold cloth and medicine. She crawled into the bed and slept with me that night.
When I woke up the next morning, my mother was gone. In her place, on my pillow, was a crisp dollar bill. I smiled. Ten cents for every bottle.
When my fever broke later that day, I called Shanta.
We arrived at the same variety store and I chose my candy. One for me, one for Shanta and a chocolate for Frank. I put everything on the counter and stared the large, burly man down.
"Thirty cents please," he smiled with one eyebrow raised. I decided he was not that scary after all and confidently handed him my dollar bill.
And while we three sat on my porch and ate the candy, my mother smiled at us through the front window.
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