potty training

I’ve heard about these Things, and I’ve heard about snotty little Westerners like me, too. But this is the first time the Thing and the Westerner actually come into contact.

As I wait in line, I have a chance to take in the view. And what a glorious view it is.

How strange, I think to myself, that the Muslims here had the same wishful thinking as those at my mosque! White tiles will stay white, they presumed. No. No,they don’t. Every smidge and smear of  mud (and this is my wishful thinking coming into play) shows on the tiles. Throw in a few strokes of the shoe-turned-brush and you have a brown-and-white Picasso.

Next, I notice that the doors on the stalls touch the ground. Huh, I think, our stalls in the U.S. are abbreviated, but this here — this is the complete and unabridged version. Not bad. It certainly makes it harder for pesky little boys to go nosing around. Not that there are any pesky little boys within a 20-mile radius.

And then it is my turn. The open stall beckons. But where there should be something porcelain, there is a gaping hole. Oh no. A little faucet snakes its way into the stall and a little plastic pot presents itself as an excuse for hygiene.

Look, I understand these holes. I theoretically accept them, I do. I believe they are cost-effective, water-efficient and sunnah-compliant. I even think they promote fitness. After all, squatting, according to my basketball-playing brother, gives you better “hops,” which means you have a better chance at dunking.

Still, I’m not sure how to work it. Does it flush? And, if not, then what–?

I turn to the person next in line, and embarrassed incomprehensible fragments fall out of my mouth. What I’m trying to ask, of course, is: “How does it work?” I say anything but. The girl tilts her head quizzically like a parakeet. “I don’t understand.” No no, I think, I don’t understand. It looks like there’s nothing to it, but what if I do it wrong? Should I ask now, or do the trial-and-error. No, I can’t do that. If I’m embarrassed now, I’ll be doubly embarrassed then.

So I try to explain again. This time, she figures I’m perplexed and so her answer is, without words, to use the little water pot to wash the area surrounding the hole. That’s what you do after you do what you need to do, she implies. I cock my head back understandingly as if she’s just shared with me a major revelation. “Thanks.”

I go in. I’m not ready for this step, I decide. I think to flush, for form’s sake but, seeing as that’s impossible, I simply leave the stall. There’s no soap and no toilet paper, I observe. Suddenly, all the hands I’d shaken today flash before my eyes and I’m filled with an inexplicable dread.

Okay, I think to myself, as I make my way back out into a dangerous soapless germ-ridden world. I’ve had enough bathroom action for one day. Yes, this big baby isn’t quite ready to be potty trained.

urban illiteracy

It was days after I’d heard about the Fulbright. I was at a Board of Trustees retreat, representing Scripps students as the outgoing president of the student body. I’d met fairly often with our affable trustees, and so had made many friends among them.

As we waited for lunch, I spoke with the husband of a trustee — a graduate of a men’s college. (If women’s colleges are becoming an endangered species, men’s colleges are all but extinct.) His posture and haircut resisted the descriptors of graying years and suggested the dashing military man he once was.

His arms were crossed as if he were at once confident among and indifferent about his company. He also had a way of making small talk without looking at me at all, and tipping his head slightly in my direction to hear what I had to say. Every generation has its prejudices, I told myself, and the prejudices surrounding my hijab (headscarf) were fresher than others.

As if addressing the bushes before him, he asked me the formidable question college seniors begrudgingly attract. “What are you doing next year?” Lucky for me, I had an answer.

“I’m going to be abroad.”

He laughed. Oh he laughed. And I turned red. And the female trustees with me sort of frowned at him and looked away. And I didn’t understand. Between laughs and still without looking at me, he tried to explain something about enunciation, but I was confused and my defenses were up.

Back in the safety of my dorm, I looked up “broad” in an online dictionary and, to my heart’s satisfaction, found nothing to laugh about, unless broad rivers and broad shoulders are funny. Then I hit up the Urban Dictionary and, lo and behold, there it was. “Word for a woman. Less respectable than lady but much more respectable than bitch.” Excellent. At least he had a little fun at my expense, right? I hated myself a little.

Later, when I was relating the story to my brother, he too laughed. And laughed. He’s usually the one who alerts me to my insouciant use of SAT words. This time, however, he raised his straight eyebrows in amusement. “You don’t know what a broad is?” He shook his head and, without luck, tried to repress a smile. “Yeah, that’s bad.”

There are more words in the heavens and earth, Tamatim, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

home run

In three consecutive days three different azaa’s (memorial services).

The first for a friend’s grandfather. The next for my grandfather. And the third for a friend’s brother-in-law.  May Allah have mercy on them all.

Yesterday a sister gave a khatira (reminder) to a room chock full of women, mostly dressed in black. She described us all as travelers. What we prepare in this life, she said, is all we take with us to our next stop. Our baggage, then, is a metaphor for our (presumably good) deeds. The heavier our bags, she explained, the better off we are (not to mention, the more we are charged at the airport.) Despite the general exhaustion of giving and receiving condolences, her reminder was well-given and well-taken.

On our way back from the azaa, my brother reflected on verses he had listened to — recited by none other than Abdul Basit Abdul Samad, arguably the man with the most beautiful Qur’anic recitation ever. In the verses, Allah cites two positive and negative examples of women.

To no one’s surprise, Mama instantly knew what surah (chapter) he was talking about and recited the verses right then and there, from memory.

One of the female role models described in the verses is Aasiya (Arabic for Asia), wife of Pharaoh. As Pharaoh persecutes her, Aasiya asks Allah to build for her baytan fil jannah (a house in Paradise).

I had always found this supplication fascinating because, in a Contemporary Women Writers class, my professor described houses as central motifs in women’s writing. Think Brown Girl, Brownstones, The Awakening and House on Mango Street.

My brother’s thoughts moved in a different direction.

“See Mama.” He teased, “Lady Aasiya asks for a house in Paradise. Not a house in Hisperia.” Believe it or not, we had been considering a move to a city that rhymes with hysteria.

“Why not a house in Hisperia and a house in jannah?” was Mama’s comeback.

My brother replied, “Forget Hisperia, Mama. Let’s get a house in Aasiya!”

Oh, brother. Every now and then your puns strike out, but dare I say that this one was a home run?

the inalienable right to sleep

The Founding Fathers were so busy with “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” that they forgot to record our inalienable right to sleep. Since sleep is a prerequisite to these other three, I have no doubt that they left it off simply because they found it obvious and didn’t want to belittle posterity by spelling it out.

But, for the record, sleep deprivation is inhumane. Criminal even.

Does my opposition to sleep deprivation stem from a disgust at the torture mechanisms employed at Guantanamo (and, doubtlessly, in innumerable prisons worldwide)? Perhaps.

Actually, my interest in the issue is an utterly selfish one.

Since I bade my college single goodbye and reintroduced myself to a bunk bed at home, I realized that things would never be the same again. Before, only the voice of my alarm invaded my dreams. Now, the invasion is tenfold. Instead of a little blaring beep, I have four human sirens (and several electronic ones) going off sporadically.

Whereas my parents’ sleep is uninterrupted (or is uninterruptible?), the children’s sleep is fair game. Siestas are therefore only as long as the most bored family member allows them to be. And to sleep-in is sometimes harder work than waking up.

Between my parents, Baba is the one who comes up with especially innovative ways of jolting us out of bed. He’ll sing, at the top of his healthy lungs, Bedouin shepherd songs he’d heard in his childhood. Songs that make the walls want to crumble and the dead toss and turn in their beds. (It’s not that his voice isn’t beautiful — there is beauty in it. Or that the songs are uninteresting — they are, sometimes, when comprehensible. It’s just that they were crafted by lonely wayfarers for audiences of expressionless sheep and composed for the listening pleasure of deaf grasslands.)

One fine sleep-worthy morning, Baba realized that, with my sister and me, direct combat wasn’t the way to go. I heard him come into our room, take a look at our decidedly sleeping forms, then leave us be. Or did he? To my sister’s and my gusto, Baba closed the door behind him and knocked. He knocked. And knocked. And knocked, as if our door were locked. My sister eventually let him in, then promptly pounced back into bed.

With his son, Baba is usually more hands on. Suddenly, my brother might find himself without a comforter, for example. In one particularly memorable morning episode, Baba pulled my brother’s pillow from under his head and pounded him with it. My brother’s half-awake reply: “Ahad. Ahad.” Even Baba had a good laugh then.

—

For those of you unfamiliar with the story of Bilal, here’s a synopsis: Bilal, a slave, was one of the first contemporaries of Prophet Muhammad (pbuh) to accept Islam. As a punishment for his rejecting the gods and ways of Mecca, his master threw him down on the hot desert sand and tortured him by placing weights on his chest. When told to recognize Hubal (one of the pagan gods), he famously replied, “Ahad. Ahad.” That roughly translates to “One. One.” — a reference to the One True God. He was later bought by a wealthy Muslim and freed. He is recognized as one of the most prominent sahaba (companions of the Prophet, pbuh).

knock knock delivery

At one point in my life (not too long ago), I had been interested in pursuing a career in optometry. Like any serious optometry student, I had shadowed an optometrist. Also like any serious optometry student, I had filed truckloads of paperwork and, on occasion, had the immense privilege of observing a riveting eye exam.

Once, during a conversation less inappropriate than it sounds, the optometrist mentioned to a patient that he belongs to a large, Catholic family and that, of his many siblings, only one looks strikingly different. It was therefore a running joke in his family that his sister must have been fathered by the mailman.

After I told this to my brother, I noted that such jokes are taboo under a roof like ours. I attribute this more to Islamic teachings than to Arabic culture. (Note: That doesn’t mean that you’ll not find Muslims and Arabs whose mouths need soaping.)

At any rate, in my house, fornication is no laughing matter. And generally speaking, among Arabs, to accuse one’s sister or mother of sexual impurity is to commit the Materazzi slip — an insult worthy of a world-class headbutt.

Even as the feminist in me knits her eyebrows at the double standard regarding male versus female sexual impurity, I smile at the fact that degrading words like “bitch” are not often tossed around like salad among the bulk of my acquaintance. (I’m probably not the first to notice that, even in the canine species, females get the short end of the stick.)

As I sifted through the reasons why the optometrist’s joke wouldn’t find the same welcome in my house, my brother dunked Chips Ahoy cookies into a cold glass of milk. Then as if I had said absolutely nothing, he remarked:

My brother – Maybe the mailman fathered you.

Me – [Taken aback. Then it dawns on me.] That’s not possible. We have a mail lady.

My brother – That’s not possible.

Me – What’s not possible?

My brother – A male lady.

i find me guilty

I had no idea that Socrates was such a G.

In fact, I might have perished in the darkness of my ignorance had my brother not lit a candle (aka given me his yellow political science anthology.)

I cannot tell if I would have waded past the marshy introduction if it hadn’t been for the lush jungle just beyond. My brother had told me that, when he came to read Socrates’ Apology, he drove off-campus, sat under a tree and read the speech aloud to himself as if he were a seventy-year old Socrates defending himself before a senate determined to execute him. I thought to myself, if my brother thought this was something to read by warm sunlight under a canopy of rustling leaves, I should, at least, read it silently by lamplight under a spinning ceiling fan.

Now, if you’re anything like me, you’re asking: Socrates’ Apology? To whom is he apologizing? And for what? Or, if you’re truly like me, you’re asking: who is Sophocles again? Oh, Socrates. My bad. Is Socrates the one who authored the Iliad? Of course not —  Oedipus Rex? Give me a hint: Greek or Roman? Okay, I quit. Who is he?

To jog your memory, Socrates was a Classical Greek philosopher. You can visit his bust at the Vatican Museum, or, for those of us who cannot afford to fly halfway across the world to see a dead man’s likeness, you can check it out on glorious Wikipedia.

Though artists have not marked Socrates down in history as a particularly striking or attractive man, Plato certainly has. (Plato was to Socrates, you might say, what a Disciple was to Prophet Isa or Jesus, pbuh. He sat at his knee and recorded his history posthumously.)

As I read the text, I realized that Socrates would have been at once a fun and obnoxious person to talk to. Take this for instance: The Oracle assures Athens that Socrates is the wisest of all Athenian men. But he thinks, No no. I’m not the wisest. So he goes romping through Athens, cross-examining politicians, poets and craftsmen. And what does he find? That he is the wisest of them all. (Obviously, Socrates didn’t have a dad like Prophet Yusuf, pbuh, who told him to keep flattering prophesies to himself, for fear of others’ jealousy). In any case, Socrates effectively tells his prosecutors (who, by the way, hate him): Again you don’t understand (you dimwits). What the Oracle really means is that I am the wisest among you only because we humans are, all of us, pretty stupid. Come now, do not cast your votes against me. I am only wise because I know that I am not wise.

Ironically, Socrates explains that all the politicians, poets and craftsmen he questioned were unwise because they thought that their expertise in one area qualified them to speak on other matters about which they knew nothing.

To appease all you philosophers out there who are rightfully breathing fire at my sacrilegious treatment of Socrates, and who believe that I, like the politicians, poets and craftsmen tread upon strange territory, allow me to relieve your anguish. I shall be my own prosecutor.

The charge: I, too, am unwise.

The evidence: I’ve spoken about a subject I hardly understand and have been presumptuous enough to make judgments about a man 2500 years my senior and about 3000 times wiser than me.

Skip the defense. (It wouldn’t be half as tight as Socrates’ — and even he wasn’t spared.)

The verdict: Guilty.

In Socrates’ case, to be wise was a capital offense. Lucky for me, idiocy in our day is about as condemnable as it was in Athens. As in, it is not.

pride and prejudice

A few weeks ago, I watched half of the 300-minute BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice — with my brother.

Now, if I watch a movie with my brother, it’s generally of the action/adventure sort, partly because the romantic subplot is just that — a subplot. And the less eye candy for these Muslim singles, the fewer heart cavities.

In any case, one of my friends had kindly sent me the BBC mini-series as a birthday gift since she knew me to be a surreptitious Janeite. And I, in turn, had cajoled my brother and sister into watching it with me. Although I had seen snippets of the film before, next to my brother I watched it with new, anxious eyes. I felt like a hostess, eager to please and hoping to conceal the flaws (if one can be so bold as to say that Austen’s popular work or the even-more popular adaptation has flaws.) Again, I was the high schooler who took her non-Muslim friends to a humble childhood mosque and suddenly noticed every snag in the carpet, every crayon mark on the whitewashed walls, every misplaced shoe. Now my brother was the guest, and I was his guide through Austen’s bickering world.

All went well — I think. He responded to the ironist’s wit, laughed at all the right places, and when Darcy uncouthly insulted Lizzy within earshot, my brother applied his most frequent comment, “That’s all bad. Man, I’m so glad we’re Muslim.”

In my Jane Austen class in college, many young ladies yearned for the formal etiquette and mannerisms of upper-crust Regency society– mannerisms that lubricated social interaction and demanded greater commitment on the part of gentlemen. Sometimes the respectful cross-gender tones and prudent courting procedures of my Muslim American society strike me as not unlike those of the Regency period. True, there are fewer male-female dances, no primogeniture, and less exposed cleavage, but, as with most all human societies, pride and prejudice are always available in good measure.

flicker with an ‘e’

The lights in my house have been a-flicker lately.

A couple days ago, Mama smelled smoke coming from the laundry room and noticed that the dryer was spitting fire (sparks, really). My sister immediately did what most responsible adults do: dialed the police. I, on the other hand, hit up my brother, who had gone with my dad to pray at the mosque. To my confused listener, I explained the overzealous, potentially explosive dryer situation. ‘There’s a glow under the dyer,’ I told him, alarmed. He handed the phone to Baba. My dad’s reply: It’s supposed to have a fire underneath it. It’s a dryer.

‘But, Dad–’

‘Just unplug it.’

We mustered our collective courages and pulled the plug. We told the police that the threat of a fire had subsided (as far as we amateurs could tell). But the firefighters, like stereotypical generous Arabs who insist on buying you lunch even though you’ve packed a lunch, came anyway.

They offered the following diagnosis: there was lint collecting underneath the dryer. (Could the reason be more mundane?) They left the house, smiling like victors returned from battle.

Did my brother and dad call after that, just to check up on us and to make sure that the house hadn’t gone up in flames? No. Had they rushed back to our rescue? Don’t dream of it. When I called my brother back, ready to share with him my melodrama, he innocently asked me what on earth I was talking about. Instead of an explanation, therefore, he earned a rebuke, which he took goodhumoredly. (He’s a goodhumored kind of guy — even on those rare occasions where a fiery passion should be in order.)

Though the firefighters didn’t find  a flame to extinguish aA, the electricity in half the house was magically extinguished. (That, my brother, will tell you, was the most trying test of all. No internet. No Lakers. You might as well add No air.) The electrician blamed Edison and Edison replaced the wires, and, after all was said and done, the lights continue to flicker.

What did I learn, at the end of the day? 1. That my routine is precariously hinged on the presence of internet (shocking, I know). 2. That dryers do indeed have a fire within. 3. That the night is actually a pretty dark time if you don’t have a million watts going at the same time. 4. That lighting candles and hanging laundry evokes a surprisingly gratifying rustic feel. With darkness or light (or any combination thereof), home is home to me.

obsessed

Me – Bro, there are hardly any hits for my blog. I’m afraid no one’s reading it. I’ve been thinking about what I should write on current events. I want to make it up-to-date, but I don’t know what to include or exclude. There’s no way my commentary’s gonna be comprehensive. No way. And yet, I feel like I really should talk about some of the stuff that’s going on in the world. It’s hard, considering how indecisive I am. You know, I can read this side and agree and read that side and agree. Having a blog makes it so difficult because I feel like I have to decide where to draw the line. I feel like I ought to take a firm stand and defend it through and through. It’s a challenge, but it seems like it’d make my blog more prescient and it could be a good opportunity for me to hone my super-dull debate skills. Do you think people will read my blog? I’m afraid it’s becoming irrelevant and superficial.

My brother – Dude. It’s only the second day.

Me – Oh. I guess I’m getting obsessed with it a little.

My brother – Yeah. A little.