My yami. My sadistic, evil yami. My life has become so volatile and
rapidly changing, that I can barely remember life before her and America.
It was only a few months ago, but, oh dear sweet Allah, it seems like
years. You may think it strange, but until you're churned inside out-until
your world suddenly collapses, and you're thrown into a whirlwind of change-
then you'll understand. I will try my best to explain.
It's not just my yami; she's a major factor here, but there are others, as well. My old life, in the Middle East, was one of a routine; there was an order and unchanged rhythm of life. No, I did not live in some rural village; I lived in a thriving city full of change. How can life be changed yet unchanged? Yes, we had new technologies of the 20th century, but Islam was the main religion. Everyone I knew was a middle class Muslim. We spoke the same language, shared the same thoughts, and had a common value system. Yes, there were different ethnic groups there. You were either a middle class Muslim, or you weren't. It was as simple as that. Oh, don't let me fool you; yes, we had our political unrest and much violence in my country, but that was the big picture. Did I ever tell you how my parents died? My father had been taking my mother to go shopping in his new car when, in traffic, a bus with a suicide bomber blew up. My parents' car was right behind that bus. So, yes, there was violence in my life. But the culture was stable and had an established social norm.
I'm talking about ordinary, everyday life; the thread of the community. Here, in America, everything is so different. People of different backgrounds commonly mix; some of them proudly stay separate. There is conflicting, swirling, and combining of cultures. It was all so new and upsetting to me. It still often is. Nothing is as it's supposed to be. My first trip to the local mall was proof of this diversity. I've seen Muslim women fully veiled from head to toe, girls of many races wearing sweaters, blouses, t-shirts- the common American mode of dress- to boys and girls wearing clothing similar to my yami's. Gothic, punk, skater, and a few other things I think it's called.
I am still having many troubles adapting to the major culture change. I've had good and bad experiences, but those aren't the point of this. I have also had trouble adapting to my new family. Back home, it was simple: my father went to work and my mother stayed home. It was the classical husband and wife roles. My mother made breakfast, I got up, went to school, came home, and she was always there. When I think of her, I always picture her in the kitchen. So clichéd, I know, but so true in my case. My uncle, as I've said before, is hardly ever home. He is my father's brother, who came to America in his early twenties for studying at a university, and decided to never come back home. He is an aspiring writer and a journalist for a popular newspaper. He spends many hours in overtime, returning home late at night after searching for a "big scoop" as he likes to say. He's had several already, and has written many essays and papers criticizing and researching modern events/ cultural ideals.
This means that, when I wake up for school, it is a rush as we both try to get ready for school and work. Instead of a home cooked breakfast, it's boxed cereal and cold milk. I don't walk to school; I take a school bus. America is the only place in the world that has separate transportation for school students. I am still trying to understand why this is so. School is one topic I don't want to go into now. That's just another area of new stress for my life. And I'm deviating from my topic. _ I have a key to my uncle's apartment on the 3rd floor. I am home long before him. Supper is take out when he's home, and when he's not, it's microwaveable dinners. Some of it is not quite bad, actually. The Swanson meals aren't bad (especially their chicken nuggets), but don't but the generics; I still haven't gotten the cardboard taste out of my mouth yet. I have finished my homework, watched some TV, did a little cleaning, and am in bed by the time he gets home. On the nights he's home, if it's a weekend, we'll go out to a restaurant, which I particularly enjoy, or we'll order take out, eat, then after supper, he closes himself in his study to work on his first novel. He spends every spare moment in there. On his rare days off, I have to drag him out of his study for 3 out of our 5 daily prayers.
School itself is another challenge. American high schools are very different from my old one. There's so much social pressure that studies are often neglected. As an outsider, I haven't experienced much of the "inner circle", but I have been teased and made fun of for my accent, my clothes, and, occasionally, my religion. But compared to my yami, those kids are nothing. Soon, after a couple of months, the other students tired of me and my lack of responses, and I was accepted. I am not in any social circle or clique; I'm not even a loner or freak, as some that don't conform/ fit in are called. I'm simply the weird kid from Saudi Arabia.
Besides my yami, these are the other main stressors in my life. I have felt myself slipping slowly down this emotional slide. I try and hold on, I pray for Allah to help me, but with each passing month, I find myself getting buried deeper and deeper. On top of all this adjusting I've been doing, there's also the fact that I miss my parents. Yes, this sounds childish, but what person, no matter their age, doesn't cry when they loose their parents? My uncle offered to take me to a person he called a grief counselor, but to me it sounded like one of those psychiatrists who put you in the asylum, the place for crazy people. And I'm not crazy. A girl I once talked to told me, "If you can count to forty, you're not crazy." And I have been counting to forty every night before I fall asleep. It is a prayer, a cry, a plea.
I am not crazy. I am not crazy, although my yami and my new life have tried to make me so. I am not crazy. I must stop writing now...my eyelids are falling.... I am not crazy..1, 2, 3, 4, 5, ....
It's not just my yami; she's a major factor here, but there are others, as well. My old life, in the Middle East, was one of a routine; there was an order and unchanged rhythm of life. No, I did not live in some rural village; I lived in a thriving city full of change. How can life be changed yet unchanged? Yes, we had new technologies of the 20th century, but Islam was the main religion. Everyone I knew was a middle class Muslim. We spoke the same language, shared the same thoughts, and had a common value system. Yes, there were different ethnic groups there. You were either a middle class Muslim, or you weren't. It was as simple as that. Oh, don't let me fool you; yes, we had our political unrest and much violence in my country, but that was the big picture. Did I ever tell you how my parents died? My father had been taking my mother to go shopping in his new car when, in traffic, a bus with a suicide bomber blew up. My parents' car was right behind that bus. So, yes, there was violence in my life. But the culture was stable and had an established social norm.
I'm talking about ordinary, everyday life; the thread of the community. Here, in America, everything is so different. People of different backgrounds commonly mix; some of them proudly stay separate. There is conflicting, swirling, and combining of cultures. It was all so new and upsetting to me. It still often is. Nothing is as it's supposed to be. My first trip to the local mall was proof of this diversity. I've seen Muslim women fully veiled from head to toe, girls of many races wearing sweaters, blouses, t-shirts- the common American mode of dress- to boys and girls wearing clothing similar to my yami's. Gothic, punk, skater, and a few other things I think it's called.
I am still having many troubles adapting to the major culture change. I've had good and bad experiences, but those aren't the point of this. I have also had trouble adapting to my new family. Back home, it was simple: my father went to work and my mother stayed home. It was the classical husband and wife roles. My mother made breakfast, I got up, went to school, came home, and she was always there. When I think of her, I always picture her in the kitchen. So clichéd, I know, but so true in my case. My uncle, as I've said before, is hardly ever home. He is my father's brother, who came to America in his early twenties for studying at a university, and decided to never come back home. He is an aspiring writer and a journalist for a popular newspaper. He spends many hours in overtime, returning home late at night after searching for a "big scoop" as he likes to say. He's had several already, and has written many essays and papers criticizing and researching modern events/ cultural ideals.
This means that, when I wake up for school, it is a rush as we both try to get ready for school and work. Instead of a home cooked breakfast, it's boxed cereal and cold milk. I don't walk to school; I take a school bus. America is the only place in the world that has separate transportation for school students. I am still trying to understand why this is so. School is one topic I don't want to go into now. That's just another area of new stress for my life. And I'm deviating from my topic. _ I have a key to my uncle's apartment on the 3rd floor. I am home long before him. Supper is take out when he's home, and when he's not, it's microwaveable dinners. Some of it is not quite bad, actually. The Swanson meals aren't bad (especially their chicken nuggets), but don't but the generics; I still haven't gotten the cardboard taste out of my mouth yet. I have finished my homework, watched some TV, did a little cleaning, and am in bed by the time he gets home. On the nights he's home, if it's a weekend, we'll go out to a restaurant, which I particularly enjoy, or we'll order take out, eat, then after supper, he closes himself in his study to work on his first novel. He spends every spare moment in there. On his rare days off, I have to drag him out of his study for 3 out of our 5 daily prayers.
School itself is another challenge. American high schools are very different from my old one. There's so much social pressure that studies are often neglected. As an outsider, I haven't experienced much of the "inner circle", but I have been teased and made fun of for my accent, my clothes, and, occasionally, my religion. But compared to my yami, those kids are nothing. Soon, after a couple of months, the other students tired of me and my lack of responses, and I was accepted. I am not in any social circle or clique; I'm not even a loner or freak, as some that don't conform/ fit in are called. I'm simply the weird kid from Saudi Arabia.
Besides my yami, these are the other main stressors in my life. I have felt myself slipping slowly down this emotional slide. I try and hold on, I pray for Allah to help me, but with each passing month, I find myself getting buried deeper and deeper. On top of all this adjusting I've been doing, there's also the fact that I miss my parents. Yes, this sounds childish, but what person, no matter their age, doesn't cry when they loose their parents? My uncle offered to take me to a person he called a grief counselor, but to me it sounded like one of those psychiatrists who put you in the asylum, the place for crazy people. And I'm not crazy. A girl I once talked to told me, "If you can count to forty, you're not crazy." And I have been counting to forty every night before I fall asleep. It is a prayer, a cry, a plea.
I am not crazy. I am not crazy, although my yami and my new life have tried to make me so. I am not crazy. I must stop writing now...my eyelids are falling.... I am not crazy..1, 2, 3, 4, 5, ....