On Being a Teen

I don't know what to post here... I remember my own teen years VIVIDLY... and they weren't pretty, but it had nothing to do with my mom. Seems most of N's troubles originate from disagreements with her mother. She thinks all her mother does THESE DAYS (I need to specify because seems to me like she was working 2-3 jobs before) is be lazy (sleep in) and yell at her. She claims to have been called (in Bengali): stupid, bitch, prostitute, lazy, fat, etc... This is a shame (if true) because although I think we often call people stupid when agry, but it isn't really what we mean. N probably takes it to heart like some other people I know. I took everything to heart, but mostly.... no one called me stupid then, only now!
N has pretty things, clothes and such, but no quiet space to do her own thing. When her mother is home, she needs to clean the house. When her mother isn't home, she just watches TV (although is apparently yelled at for not cleaning after mom comes home). I think she could use more effective time management, but would probably feel more free if she could leve the house a bit more on her own... or if she, me and anyone at home wasn't left babysitting the other N.
I should have been writing all the things N feels here for Tommy who wants to write a novel for teenagers.

Summer Weddings

They've been non-stop... and while fun for Nadia (sometimes), they aren't always fun for all... Me especially when there's company which stays until after 2 am.

Morality

Text for this post to come later... something about fingernails and imams and 'Arabic lessons' and maybe a latter post with some little reference to Satanic verses... and Rosie

Lonely?

In that sari, it won’t be hard to find you a husband. We’ll just have to teach you to cook,” she said looking up from her work. She spooned some more of the chicken mixture into the Chinese egg roll wrapper that she was fashioning into the most beautiful samosas. The chicken mixture – perfect, her expression – a strange mixture combining both pity… that I was 3 years older than her and still unmarried whereas she already had 3 children, 2 of them in their teens…. and envy.
She sighs. “Hopefully, you can find one that can cook and has a lovely house. And you will have money for a maid…”
“What are you complaining about? Are you complaining about Dad?” demanded her daughter from the living room doorway where she stood, hand on hip and as defiantly as possible in Winnie the Pooh pajamas. “How dare you? He buys us things, yeah? This house, the car… and, and he works… and if it weren’t for him, yeah? You wouldn’t be... You wouldn’t be…”
“This isn’t about that. Go to bed.” Shefa says and closes the door behind her departing daughter’s back. Looking at the two of them, it’s hard to conceive that they are mother and daughter. Nazmin trying so hard to be more adult than her 13 years; Shefa alternating between the tired middle-aged exhaustion that sets in right after she gets home from work… and the 20s that passed her by while she was learning how to be a perfect Begali wife and mother. At her current age of only 32, I feel she is struggling to go both forwards and backwards at the same time.
“He was straight from Bangladesh,” she says. “The first time I saw him, he arrived in high-heeled shoes and one of those shiny silk shirts.” Unfortunately, I knew exactly what she was talking about and why she might feel more than a little apprehensive.
“You mean that…”
“Yes, it was arranged,” she said. “My mother… Er, my father died and my mother thought it best that I be married quickly.”
“But you were born in London and…”
“But…” and she leaned forward. “I had a boyfriend when I was twelve… and well, although of course it was really nothing, my mother was afraid the community would talk.” she looked down. “Even though this isn’t Bangladesh, maybe she thought I would be a…”
“I see.” I said quickly. I didn’t want to hear more about burdens and unmarriageable women since I was certainly considered one… and I didn’t want to hear that she was afraid of being like me.”
“It was terrible… at least at first.” But I think it is still not really so great. It would seem that for the most part, she pretends that he is not really there. And for him, most of the time, he is wishing that he was in Bangladesh, with a woman not quite so proud… or quite so British in temperament and expectations.
It is a strange house to be a border in. But at the same time, it is not strange that she has taken in borders… and it is not just for the money. At first I thought it was for parental greed that she wanted me… an English tutor for her children… but now I see it was that she wished for someone through whom she could live a vicarious life. What would it be like if…
And although I feel for her, I also feel for Sabier – another less-privileged border or sorts. He is the son of her husband’s brother. He is a child with a sweet face and he best smile… innocent-looking and quiet… not that he wouldn’t normally be talkative as he is a friendly child… but quiet in the interests of self-preservation. Shefa’s house is not really so safe for him although he calls her mom and the house, home.
“Sabu! You broke the lamp, innit? Admit it and don’t lie,” yells Nazmin.
“Sabooooo!” laughs Nahid, poking him in the ribs. “You’re in trouble now!”

Kids fighting, everyone talking at the same time, dishes clattering, Hindi TV blaring in the background. It is the drama that fuels Nazmin’s dreams for the future and her mother’s daydreams: to have a handsome rich husband who dies tragically, leaving his wife with a purpose in life – to fulfill his dreams in her lifetime. Suddenly, I feel overtaken by exhaustion. I glance at my watch and see it’s nearly midnight - too late for kids to be up, too late for me to deal with the din. I slink off to my room to a more comfortable solitude.

Raymond the sheep

At what age is it normal for children to be able to read a simple book out loud, clearly and at a natural speed? Today, I bought a children's book, Raymond the sheep, for Nadiyah at the British Library bookstore. She can't read yet, but she has quite an imagination. She has been 'reading' the book to everyone who will listen all day. Anyway, later I hear her big sister (13 years) reading the story in a slow and halting way. Each page only contains 1 sentence along the lines of, "Raymond the sheep lives in Frogsbottom Pond..." However, this pre-teen gets good marks at school. I am wondering if the British education system is different that Canada or ??? I thought it was necessary to be able to read to do any subject in school! Or does this reflect a change in times? Reading is not so important now as people get news etc from TV. Certainly a LOT of TV is watched in this house... Or is it a reflection of home life? Mom can't really read either, but it probably wasn't easy to concentrate on school as the oldest child in a family of countless children (where she probably had to spend most of the time child-minding and worrying about upcoming marriage to a stranger).

I am really thankful for my mom's patience in teaching me to read. So I couldn't tie my shoes or tell the time until (well, let's just say I was really late), she opened up my world to Nancy Drew (ha ha) before school even started.

My name is...

"You're gorgeous!" says a visiting adult to resident 4 year old.
"No! I'm Nadiyah!" comes the reply. "And your name is Nesha" she screamed as she rushed at me when I opened the door to the house today. Actually, Nesha is only my middle name, but it is the name I am known in the the household... It is easier to remember being a really common name in their community. It is funny how names can function- to negotiate between the familiar and the unfamiliar and provide a comfort zone.

My other name is just an Arabic word. So far, the only other person I have come across with the same name is a MAN in Pakistan... But I like it. I would rather be called Meezan than Nesha because even though I thew it away once (Yes, this sounds absurd, but it's true!) it has become comfortable- like the pair of Gap jeans I bought the summer I spent in Toronto. Nesha makes me feel like the title of two of the entries in this blog - a poser! Like I am trying to claim something of my father's family - an elusive thing that has never truly been available to me.

I was someone else before, too! Before I was Nesha, and Meezan (and after I was Meezan the first time), I was Marianne... Don't laugh! But I would prefer that you call me gorgeous to Marianne!

Poser 2

Me, originally uploaded by zanmei east west.

Mixed origins and generally mixed up! If everywhere you lived and your formative experiences shape who you are then it would be pretty hard to define anyone by just looking at them...

Poser 1

Nahid, originally uploaded by zanmei east west.

The kid most comfortable with British life has to keep reminding himself and everyone else that Bangladesh is way cheaper, has way tastier food, is intrinsically better. Also, perhaps the kid with the softest heart is the one who has to act the toughest...

Two Lives

This is to remind myself that Vikram Seth's book "Two Lives" (the hardcover signed edition from Borders) is sitting on my shelf waiting for me to read. It is unbelievable that the story is true and that his uncle is really a dentist from India who practiced dentistry with his left-hand (he a right-handed person) here in London after losing his right arm in a war-related explosion... But sure enough, at a book reading which Sarah had tickets to, someone in the audience stood up to say that they were in fact, patients of the former good dentist.

All dolled up for Eid

All dolled up for Eid, originally uploaded by zanmei east west.

Truly from Bangladesh to Britain, my landlady's relatives and she herself are all born in London, but refer to Bangladesh as home. Eid is a time to show off all the finery purchased "back home" or for triple cost or more here.