Great Expectations

Growing up in a mostly Caucasian neighbourhood presented some problems. We lived on a corner lot at a main intersection. You couldn't miss us. I remember moving into our home back in 1978. Leaving my friends behind was bittersweet as I was always up for a new adventure. The United Nations neighborhood was soon lost to a sea of white. I was conscious of it the next day after we moved. I think the stares were one indication that something was not right.

Being a creature of habit, my outdoor activities did not cease. My neighbour Becky and I became fast friends--our commonality stemmed from our 'Tomboy' tendencies. I didn't wear the typcial dresses (knowing I would not fit in anywhere with the designer wear the girls at school were wearing). It bothered my mother so much when I would come in from being out all day, darker than the colour of the pavement. I became so dark from direct sun exposure that you could only see the whites of my eyes and teeth.

My mother would sigh, throw her arms in the air and admit defeat. To be fair was a sign of beauty in our culture. The scabs on my knees, the dirt behind my ear, and the darkness of my skin bore features of period in time back home where my mother knew, had I grown up there, she would encounter problems marrying me off.

"Mama, I am 11 years old. I promise when I turn 15, I will stay out of the sun and cook roti with you," I would exclaim so not to worry her. Exasperated, she would shake her head and grab her knitting needles. "You cannot cook, sew, knit, make roti or cook a curry. Your husband will mistake you for a streetsweeper!"

"At least the street will be clean for road hockey," I would exclaim.

Imagine, being married at 15 and doing all of that. This coming from the woman who demanded to finish her Masters, threatened to throw herself in a firepit if her parents made her marry her cousin and procrastinated her own marriage to marry late, at age twenty-eight. And she wondered where I got my fiesty personality from.

I always knew, living in Canada, I was not going to suffer the same fate as my parent's generation. After going to Pakistan in 1979, I realized that life there was completely different.When my parents communicated their expectations, I would scoff and rebuke their ideas of how I needed to be raised. Just in that, I was a rebellious daughter. My father told me many times the following rules he adhered to growing up:

1. Never raise your voice in front of your parents
2. Never look them in the eye when you were being punished
3. Always look them in the eye when you understand their opinion
4. Never look away when being spoken to
5. Always look away so not to appear arrogant by looking them in the eye
6. Never talk back when being punished
7. Never remain silent so that your parents know you understand their opinion
8. Acknowledge when they are right so not to appear arrogant
9. Admit when you are wrong so they know you are not arrogant
10. Finally, if you ever slam a door, may it be known that you are damn to hell for misbehaving

After my father told me these rules, I sat back completely dumbfounded. My mother, who sat on a nearby sofa, raised her eyebrow and shook her head disapprovingly, knowing full well I was going to screw up. I was already haplessly incompetent with regards to logical thought processes, which at my age, were still in development mode. After he finished, he asked if I understood.

I had NO IDEA where to look, which way to turn my head, what to do with my hands and in what tone of voice to reply. Instead, my jaw remained opened, with my arms hanging at the side of my body and I replied barbarically.

"HUH?!!"

My father turned to my mother. "We both have Master degrees and this is what you give birth to? Teach this black street urchin some manners!"

I looked at my fair, pale beautiful mother and back to my dark-skinned, stern father. What was wrong with this picture??

I couldn't hold back. It literally took unimaginable forces to prevent me from standing down. But I lacked the common sense and political correctness--and despite my mother's pleading eyes, I was about to perplex my father who slyly tried to confuse me. Two can play at that game.

I slanted my eyes and placed my hands on my hips. The cliched remark heard often was so maligned into a incomprehensible riddle, that it was lost in translation. Good thing for me.

"Who is the rude big, black pot calling the little white kettle cold?" I asked calmly with one eyebrow raised.

My father opened his mouth but then immediately closed it. My mother scratched her head with a knitting needle. They were both at a loss.

On the contrary--I knew I got him back--turning swiftly on my heels and exiting the convuluted conversation with my dark-skinned head held up high.