This morning (September 3rd, 2009), I lugged out my Arabic books and did some more studying. Right now I nearly pee my pants if I’m able to name items in the room or use simple verbs. Baby steps. My sister and cousin bounced into the room to stare and smile shyly. They are learning English in school and we are able to speak a little.
As a rule, Americans smile too much. I know look like some crazy, walking around and grinning like an idiot 24/7. In the US if we are confused, embarrassed, happy, not understanding, laughing, greeting, affirming, talking, whatever, we smile. We also smile as a replacement of speech. As if my hair and skin didn’t make it obvious enough, I bumble through every situation or non-situation with this ridiculously fat western grin on my face…
Mid-morning, my Dad came in to ask if I would like to go to the store with them. I jumped at the chance, having absolutely wore-out the ONE skirt I brought with me (apparently, unlike the paperwork said, wearing jeans is usually too casual). Now i’ve always been one for a good time, but when your twelve-year-old sister and cousin take you clothes shopping you’ve basically made it to the big-time. They flitted around, trying on skirts taller than they were and gasping “wa-allah!” at a black and white hound’s-tooth number with pleats, frills, lace at the hem and corset-like ties up the front haha… "Meadow", "Hunter", and I rode the escalator down, and then up. And we did it again. And then once more. They tripped over their shoes and re-wrapped their hijabs. They helped me pick out a bath towel; we rode the escalator, and then we rode it again.
There’s no way around it now. My laptop and notebooks host raised date-fingerprints and the pages are tacky. I’m exhausted. Sweaty. Awkward, and there are spices beneath my fingernails, i’m lying on sheets the color of a blood orange and damn if i am not alive.
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