The arranged marriage. If I grew up dating, falling in love and then marrying, as an outsider looking in, I too, would find the concept of arranged marriages perturbing. I grew up with my friends adhering to the mating rituals: flirting, small talk, courtship, dating, falling in love and perhaps, marriage. And I was an outsider to that world. It surrounded me, encompassed me and at times, smothered me. It affected me as soon as I stepped out my front door or turned on the television. Imagine: You are told not to eat chocolate but you can see, touch, smell and hear others eating it--all the time. That was how I felt growing up. And there were times when it was hard to obey.
Sure, there were times when I wanted to taste-test that chocolate. Take it in my closet, close the door and nibble on it in secret. And I did. The secrecy was exhilarating. I think that is why teenagers defy their parents in the first place. It is not so much the act, but being cleverly and skillfully elusive that creates the excitement. I knew many girls my age who were closet daters. It was not the kind of life I was an advocate for. For it to mean anything to me, it was all or nothing.
I remember just after I had turned sixteen, I was at the theatre with a group of my girlfriends when I spotted a Muslim girl from my class going into a movie with a senior from high school. I knew him well as an outspoken, popular, handsome and athletic guy, one grade ahead of us. Just before she entered the theatre, she caught me looking over at her. As I made my way to the concession stand, she cut me off abruptly. She hugged me and asked how I was doing. There was a wild look in her eye while she looked around to see if anyone was watching.
"Please don't tell anyone that I am here with him," she pleaded. My parents knew her parents, being part of the same social circle. I looked at her with sympathy and nodded. And then she was off in a flash, next to her beau, linking her arm through his and looking at him adoringly.
My friend nudged and leaned into me to whisper," Isn't she the same religion as you? I thought you were not supposed to date?"
"Me too," as I turned her around from staring at the 'forbidden' couple.
"Are you going to tell her parents?" she asked inquisitively. I shook my head. It was none of my business. Sure, a part of me was envious. She was getting away with it and no one knew--or at least I thought. Quite noteworthy was the fact that if a boy called the house, I got the third degree and a lecture about unwanted pregnancies. It did not help that my father worked as a social worker and had been privy to all the social ills within our community. It only strengthened his grip on all his children.
Even when people approached to commend him on a job well done in his own parenting, he never cut us some slack and complained we did not listen to him. I refrained from telling him about my fellow Muslim friends, boys and girls alike, who were smoking, drinking, doing drugs or secretly dating. That would just get me locked up in my bedroom for the rest of my life. So I made it a point to never speak about anyone's indiscretions which made me the youth Muslim psychiatrist. Ironically, although I became everyone's confidante, they pressured me to do what they were doing. Again, for me, it was all or nothing. Hence, the revelation of my relationship with my ex-fiancee. I wanted to be free to express my feelings and emotions but it did not happen the way I thought it would.
Knowing full well that I was embarking on a road less travelled, I knew that I needed to walk the path in a guarded way. We were not officially engaged. It was now February and the plans for the engagement were underway. April would be the month of our engagement--a simple ceremony at my house, attended by close family and friends. In the meantime, I was busy with school and work. He was working fulltime as an accountant and the evenings became our time to talk. We were permitted to speak on the phone to each other a few times a week.
The first conversation was rather awkward. Very conservative and much like a business call. It would begin with my father speaking to his mother. If my mother were alive, she would have been assessing and sizing her up. Getting to know her to prepare me on what not to say. But my father had to take on that role, and he was not a good substitute. His conversations with her were curt and concise. And after speaking about things related to the engagement, he would pass the phone to me to talk to my future fiancee. With my father in the same room, and his mother sometimes breathing heavily on another line, we would uncomfortably ask each other about work, school, the heavy snowfall the other night and a few frivilous things. Many times he had to ask his mother or father to hang up the phone or I would go to another room to escape the elephant ears of my father.
Still, with the removal of any adult supervision, we could not relax and speak normally. For me, with many years of using the phone as a protective device, I thought I could speak freely and without fear. But with every word came judgement and first impressions.
It was the curse of trying too hard. Despite my clean track record, if there was any time to drink or do drugs, it would have been just before these dreaded phone calls...
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