Omar

The day I heard Omar (from same background) would be joining our class was by far the happiest day of my life as a 12 year old. Growing up in an all white town, and being the only one from a different background I was made fun of constantly. For my lunches, weird outfits, not speaking any English and having hairy legs. Apparently at 12 years old everyone was shaving their legs except me.
The day he was to join our E.S.L class was a day filled with excitement. I knew of his arrival a few days before as the teacher had made us make cards that said Welcome, for obvious reasons. Our E.S.L class (except for me) consisted of all asians. While they chatted and laughed with each other in their own language, I stood by watching. I felt green with envy of their friendship and shared closeness. However, I was ready to say goodbye to those emotions and say hello to my new best friend. I imagined we would help each other with homework, share our lunches, and make fun of the bullies in our mother tongue. Then on the weekend we would have sleep overs (not that kind you pervert) and play in the park after school. I had very high hopes for my soon to be best friend. To put it mildly Omar did not meet any of those hopes and expectations what so ever. I put this kindly, as kindly as I can that is: he was an arrogant bastard.

The day I set eyes on him was the day I realized Omar and I would never ever be friends. I could tell right away he would be way too cool for me. He had the good looks only 12 year olds would appreciate and an air about him that said ‘back off, you’re not good enough to be my friend ”. And so our hate-hate relationship began. While on my first day of class no one had put up their hands for me to sit beside them, for Omar every hand went up. Even the students whom already had someone sitting beside them. Instead of having recess buddies, Omar had recess followers. Every girl wanted to be next to him and every boy wanted to be his best friend. While people made up names for me (they couldn’t pronounce it), they went out of their way to say his name exactly right. The only time I ever had any sort of connection with Omar was during our E.S.L classes. Since I was further off in English, I spent a lot of time translating. All the effort I made to become his friend were lost on him and so I made sure to spite him every chance I got. Every time he asked for help I would make sure I added the word stupid or idiot at the end and beginning of every sentence. “oh and what does the idiot need help with this time?” or “how can I help you stupid?” He never ever told on me. Because he had just as good, if not better insults to hurl right back at me, which hurt my ego even more. To make matters worst he went to the same high school as well. Neither of us really had a choice actually. We had to go to the only high school that had E.S.L classes.

So forward to high school where I saw less and less of him. Eventually he did not exist for me and I think it was the same for him. Sometimes once in a blue moon he would sit beside me and taunt me. “I hear you’re still a virgin.” he would snicker. Or “how is my little virgin doing today? God your parents must be proud!” Sometimes he would say it loudly enough to have every head turned my way. It was at moments like these that I wanted to slap his face and take that smirk off his pretty face. While some teenagers (I) were going through puberty and looking like shit this bastard was getting better looking by day. It was with utter relief that we went to different colleges.

You’re probably wondering why I am writing about a silly 12 year old boy crush I had? SIGH! Did I just admit to a boy crush? So yes maybe the annoyance with Omar had something to do with a one sided crush. Let me just tell you this. I saw that bastard exactly 6 months ago today at a friends wedding. Apparently the world is in fact a very small place. It’s a good thing that it’s small when you do look fabulous. Which BTW I did. And him? Well not so much. I guess the partying and social smoking had taken a toll on his boyish good looks. But thats another story for another time. I wanted to give you an insight into this douche bag before I told you what happened at the wedding.

Cousin Dearest

I have no idea how to tell my friends” Malika an acquaintance confesses to me one day over dinner. “ I don’t know where to start and where to begin.” I could have said the exact same thing to her. I didn’t know where to begin either, to explain why I was having dinner with her. After all, she was someone I would only and very rarely see at special events due to mutual friends. I will be the first to admit that I was never a fan of hers, and vice versa. I wasn’t up to par with her standards of coolness, which included driving a BMW, carrying an LV, and wearing fake designer shoes (all bought by her parents). She always took jabs at us normal people, who couldn’t afford LV’s or her expensive so called “travels”. I say “so called” because going to Cancun and staying at a 5 star hotel was her idea of traveling. However, I did not dislike Malika because she was sitting on her high horse and looking her nose down at me. I couldn’t care less since none of it was paid for from her pocket. Why I disliked her furthermore was for thinking that I could be fooled into believing her fake Louboutin were REAL. So when I got this call to have dinner together, I was sure it was about some unknown women drama.

Her confession: marrying her first cousin. Yes, her cousin. Now to some of you reading this, the idea of marrying your cousin might seem foreign and incestuous. So before you utter the word disgusting consider this. Eighty percent of all marriages in history have been between second cousins or closer. World wide as per Wikipedia one in ten marriages is between cousins, and in some parts of the middle east it accounts for over half of all marriages. So that aside, our dear Malika’s wedding was in about a months time. Three of Malika’s bride maids come from a background that I am pretty sure considers marrying a cousin disgusting.

They’ve never figured it out even though you both have the same last names?” I asked stupefied. 

“Well no. I lied and said it was a coincidence and have been lying since day one. I tried to tell them many times, but I just can’t get my self to do it.”

I wasn’t sure what I was shocked at more. The fact that her best friends hadn’t figured it out, or that she is lying to them to this day. “What about Ahmad? Has he told his friends?” I asked about her finance. “Yes, of course he has!” She says this like I am stupid and I should know this information. “They’re all middle eastern!” I was never told of this you see and this was news to me. Very new, news that is. I was shocked, but understood where she was coming from. How she could hide it for four years from her best friends? I had no idea. I was also confused as to why she confessed that to me.  We weren’t that close to be having intimate dinners, let alone sharing secrets. Why come to me when she had closer friends? Her second confession of that night? She had come to me because out of “her friends” (at this point I had magically become one of her friends) I was the only one who had a place of my own. What she needed was a good night of staying in, playing games, and getting them drunk. I think what she had meant was getting herself drunk enough to be able to tell them. The answer that night to her question of using my place was a “I’ll get back to you on that” sort of answer. Helping her was the last thing I really cared about doing.  Maybe, JUST maybe I was still holding a grudge against her thinking I was foolish enough to think her heels were indeed designers.  

 

Dangerous Slits Ahead

Sumya’s wedding invitation was the last thing I had expected to get in the mail. I had only met her a few times through my friend Iman, whom I am relatively close to. I was definitely going to check regretfully decline and mail it back, but with some convincing from Iman I decided attend. Let’s be honest though, she had me at cake and ballgowns. So I decided to RSVP to 1 only of course as Iman was going to be my date. When I had called Iman asking her what I should wear she mentioned that everyone would be wearing ball gowns and going over the top with gold. Gold? Puh-lease that was something housewives of india wore. The only type of gold I could afford were the ones sold everywhere for 9.99. So I forgo-ed the gold, but spent half a months earnings on a beautiful gown. Because after all, when are you going to be invited to a wedding where you can wear an actual gown?

The day of the wedding I got my friend Preeti to come over to do my hair and makeup. My dress was a beautiful strapless dress in a pretty burgundy (not your typical ugly burgundy) with a bodice upper part and a slit to my thigh, paired with beautiful strap heels. To make the sweet heart neckline the main focal, I put my hair in a bun at the nape of my neck. Toping it all with simple stud earrings and a pretty burgundy lip stick. I was in my own eyes, ready for a ballgown wedding!

Since I was running late, I had told Iman I would be meeting here at the reception hall. Typical me, my so called 30 minutes late turned into an hour. Before going inside the hall I had called Iman over and over again in the hopes of her coming out to meet me since I didn’t know anyone there or where I was sitting. Also I couldn’t hear any music outside of the hall so I wasn’t sure if I was even at the right place. After waiting outside for 15 minutes and trying Iman’s phone for the umpteenth time, I decided to go in and find her myself. Upon entering the hall I got the shock of a life time. Since there was no music in the hall, the door opening was noise enough to have every single head in the hall turn to me. What I saw on their faces was the mirror image of how I felt. What Iman had forgot to mention was that I was entering a Hijabi wedding where almost every single lady had a hijab (scarf) on. The gowns they wore were indeed beautiful gowns. However, they were accompanied by under garments to cover the places where their skin showed. My dress compared to what everyone else wore belonged to a different setting. To make it worst while trying to run out of the hall, my heels caught in my dress and the right side of my face smashed into the door. In the bathroom with shaken hands and an infuriating mind I dialed Iman’s number. A tap on the bathroom door made me drop my phone into the toilet bowel! I was officially on the verge of tears at this point.

It’s Iman open up!”

No shit, captain obvious!” I said coming out with my wet phone in hand. “You never told me it was this type of wedding!”

“ I know, I am sorry. I did ask. I PROMISE! But she never mentioned it would be this conservative.” One thing was for sure in the 5 months or so since I had seen Sumaya she had turned into a religious person whom had traded her bikini in for a Hijab. All this of course for love. This information however had come too late. If I had facebook (as Iman pointed out) I would have known this information.

Listen I have a genius Idea. We can close the slit in your dress! I have a few extra clothes pins in my hijab I can take out! And I got you a shall from this lady to put around your shouders! Please just stay I feel so bad!”

Are you kidding me! You think I am going to put PINS in a dress I spent more then 700 dollars on?! Um no way.” I was trying my best not to create a scene, as we were being eyed by a few ladies “checking” themselves in the mirror. I was sure they were trying to figure out my identity as I would make a very juicy topic for gossip. The girl who showed up to the hijabi wedding half naked! Thank God I didn’t know any of them.

I am sorry! Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

Yeah of COURSE there is! You better save me 5 slices of cake and a ton of food!”

If you asked me how I got home that day, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. All I remember is running out of the bathroom and facing a crowd of men whom were staring me up and down. So instead of letting a beautiful dress go to waste, I got myself a pint of ice cream, took a million selfies with #weddingtime, and numbed my brain with shitty tv. New rule for accepts with pleasure wedding invitations? I will RSVP to the ones of people that I have seen and talked to within a one month period ONLY!

 PS.  Iman did deliver on her promise.  Five slices of cake and food to last me an entire week!

The stitching of the Vagina

I am going to stitch back my vagina” says Jia one day over coffee. “Stitch what?!” I say almost choking on my croissant. “Stitching my vagina. Well hymen I mean. I read somewhere on line where you can have that procedure done. Its costly but worth it”. I didn’t choke on my croissant because I’ve never heard this before. I had heard of it. My very own cousin had done this procedure before marrying her now husband. He had made it clear that he would only marry a virgin, despite the fact that he himself had slept with over 20 girls. But for love, and because it was expected that she had to be a virgin, my cousin had gone ahead and done the procedure. The reason I was shocked was because it was coming from Jia. The girl whom once confessed to be about sleeping with her ex and never having any regrets about it. No regrets because she was madly in love with him at the time.

But why?” I ask. “ I really don’t get it”.

What do YOU MEAN WHY?” she says infuriated. “If he finds out I am not, he will NOT marry me and I can’t risk that! I’ve done my research and I can go anywhere to have the procedure done.”

Okay.but listen. Even if you do have sex , there is no way in hell he’ll know whether you are or not” I say trying to convince her.

‘” OF COURSE HE WILL! What if I don’t bleed when we have intercourse?!” shes almost yelling at this point. And to my horror a few heads have turned our way in this small coffee shop.

I read somewhere ( I had done my research in regards to this topic), that only 40 percent of girls bleed during intercourse. You could just be that 40 percent”

Are you fucking kidding me?! You want me to to ruin my future with someone I love, because you read somewhere on line that only 40 fucking percent bleed?! Are you fucking serious? Why can’t you just be supportive and tell me to and get it done? Of all people I came to you, because I thought you would understand! Any ways forget it! I have to go meet MY FIANCE who thinks I am a VIRGIN! And with that my closest friend Jia walked out on me.

I was left with nothing but the bill,my thoughts, and a few sympathetic glances from coffee patrons. Was I not supportive enough or was Jia facing a virgin crisis. I felt sad that I could not, in any way shape or form be comforting. I didn’t know what she asked of me. Did she want my support because I was her best friend, or because she needed to justify her actions. What kind of world did we live in that we could not even be honest with our future husbands? Was it easier for me to just have supported her and told her to go and have the surgery. Did Jia not give her fiance enough credit? Would he really call off the wedding, if he did find out she wasn’t a virgin. I had wanted to advice her to come clean, and have some faith in him. Faith that he will understand, that she had once upon a time fallen in love and did what any other person in love would do. After all, who wants to merry a guy who does not accept you for who you are? Or was I kidding myself in actually believing that?

 

Be Anyone But Yourself!

Sweet heart, please please be ANYONE, but you!” Preetis’ mother says to her as she puts up her hair in a complicated looking up do. Today is the engagement party of Preetis’ fourth sister, and her mother takes this time to lecture her youngest and wildest daughter to behave. I could not, for most part understand the conversation in hindi except for the english parts. “No funny stuff, please please beta” she’s pleading. We’re all getting ready to head to the hall, and I happen to be invited. “Oh beta you look so beautiful. Now we just find a nice Indian boy for you” she says when she sees me decked out in a borrowed sari, and fake gold Jewelry. A indian boy, no thank you. However, an Indian man did not sound bad to me, especially if that indian man was John Abraham.

Today was a very special day not just for the engagement, but also because there was a doctor suitor meeting Preeti for the first time. He was the ultimate catch. Not only devilishly handsome, he also came with a lot of old money. Today more then most days her mother hoped her daughter would be anyone but her self. “Beta, be more like Puja ha nah? Look at Puja and pretend you arrre her.” Hey mother says to her looking over at her most accomplished daughter. I was never sure why Preeti was so shameless and fearless in living her own life. Did she have a secret that us normal cultural and religious girls didn’t have? Was she not haunted by the blue eyed monster I call guilt? Maybe her secret weapon is her beauty. Her beauty is a rare sight, and I don’t say that lightly. When she walks down the street most people do a double take. Double take not only for her beautiful face, but also the bubble butt that would make Kim Kardashian envious. She wasn’t afraid of letting people know who she really was to the dismay of her mother. While her parents and sisters had worked all their lives to protect their reputation and keep it spotless, Pretti did the opposite. The last wedding she went to with her family? She got drunk in front of a room full of muslim people. So in the bathroom passed out on the floor with mascara running down her face, is where her mother found her. She was the daughter that had gotten away her is how her mother referred to her. Out of her sisters, she was the only one who hadn’t turned out as her mother had hoped. While her sisters got married as virgins (might I add) to respectable husbands, Pretti was collecting boy toys and getting drunk on someone elses tab. Her mother was always walking on egg shells covering for her. She was, by far the most comfortable human I had met who did not give two fucks about what anyone thought of her. She drank like a man, and was a non-virgin with pride. While most religious and cultural girls hid the fact that they had slept with one guy, or in some cases a few Preeti showcased hers with pride. “ Do you really think I would marry a fucked up fucker who wants me to be a virgin while hes fucked a hundred woman?” were her famous words. “ No thank you. Move the fuck right along then fucktards!” she would boast. Did I mention that on top of being pretty she also swore like a sailer? And so Preeti did as Preeti wanted.

So that day went by without any crazy antics or drunkenness from our pretty little devil. I stopped her from drinking from a flask she had brought along with her, and from frightening off her suitor by telling him ANY truth. The suitor was so taken by her, his parents had to drag him away from our table. Her mother was the happiest person alive because the dream son-in-law was indeed on board. That day I realized one thing. I was not invited to the wedding because Preeti considered me her bestie friend. I was invited to keep an eye on devil child, being older and more mature (her mothers words). So I did my job to keep her in check, in the hopes of being invited to every single wedding that Preeti had to go to. After all who doesn’t love indian food, and more importantly free Indian food!

From Rotten Apple to EXPIRED!

What?!” I say as I walk into the family dining room where everyone is eating dinner. I could hear them talking, but as soon as they see me everyone suddenly goes quiet. “What is it?!” I say again as everyone, including my married sisters’ and their husbands are smirking at me. “The marriage thing again” my oldest says to me. “ I just got here!” I say frustrated. I thought I would be spared this topic today, especially since it was my sisters birthday. I already gotten stuck in traffic for two hours today to come to this dinner, not to mention the 1.5 hour drive on top of it. The last thing I needed was this topic! I’d assumed that on a special occasion a topic like that would be off limits. But it was clear, while I was stuck in traffic they were sitting here discussing the “marriage thing”.

You know the “marriage thing”, where your mother and her friends trap you and try to change your so called made up mind about marriage. Except I didn’t have my mind up about anything marriage, it was just that I had never met a guy that I saw a future with. When I explained this to my mother and her friends, they would laugh it off. “Nonsense” they would all echo at the same time and give me a long list of their sons, and everyone else’s. “He has money you know and drives a BMW!” or “ Oh hes tall! Imagine tall children!” What they didn’t understand was that their idea of Mr. Great was my idea of Mr. Hypocrite. I had tried going on dates with men that my mother had set me up with, but they were all somehow stuck in the past. They had locks on their brains that wouldn’t allow a new thought process. They lived in the western world, but were still stuck in the past. Not to mention hypocrites whom enjoyed everything western except, when it came to their woman. No matter what I did or said I could never successfully be able to get out of these conversations. “This is the age!” they would say. “The age where you should be married, have children, a house, a car. Oh, and a condo to rent out to make some money for your future.” Except I never saw eye to eye on this. What’s the point of me saving money for when I am older. I wanted to live now. I had money don’t get me wrong. Made huge investments, as a matter of fact. The type of investments you see in your closet and put on your feet. As Carrie Bradshaw said “ I like my money right where I can see it.”

Then there were the questions and assumptions you got from people you hadn’t seen in a while.  Questions like these, because you’ve had one too many donuts while listening to the aunties lecture you about marriage. “When is the baby due!?” Then, there are those that demanded “where is MY wedding invitation?!” Apparently while I was sipping coffee and champagne , I had become too old to be considered a single gal. It was assumed that I was already engaged or had a husband. Simple questions like “ do you have a boyfriend?” Or “seeing anyone?” weren’t questions that applied to me. I was beyond those questions, because at my age I was suppose to be popping babies from my vagina, or planing a wedding! And then there was the (very) rare person that would ask “who’s the lucky guy?” “LUCKY GUY!?” What lucky guy?!” my mother would interrupt in utter shock. “We don’t care for a lucky guy! Any guy would do, ANY GUY! Know anyone?!” she would inquire. Then she would face her palms up to the sky in a silent prayer. Which I am sure went something like “Please God just send her any guy, anything, any one. I will even take a white boy”. And you know my mother was desperate when she considered a white boy.

Now back to this dinner that I had walked in on. I sit at the head of the table, my usual seat. My mother always makes fun of me for this. She likes to point out the reason I sit at the head of the table, is not because I am the head of the house. But rather to make it easier for everyone to look at me when she’s trying to make a point. The point and example always being me. “Mom says you’re no longer a rotten apple but officially expired”. “Expired” my mother says in disgust. Don’t take it the wrong way. This isn’t new. My old nick name used to be rotten apple, now it was expired. These nicknames used to be said with a hint of sarcasm. However at the age of 25 I am no longer expired with a hint of sarcasm, but expired with disgust. My mothers only worry is that I will die a spinster, because at this age I am way too old to be considered a good catch. Also because in the past year the marriage proposals had been dwindling. How dwindling you may ask? So dwindling that I only got one marriage proposal last year. Oh, and it was from a guy who needed to get his residency so as to not get deported back to his home country. A fact my mother ignored. “ ONE PROPOSAL ONLY!” she would say over and over again.  I was at this point too old to be considered proposal worthy. Why would anyone propose to a 25 almost 26 when there were fresher fish in the sea?” For a culture where people usually ask for your hand in marriage at the age of 16, get married at 18, and pop children ASAP, it was no shock at all that I was officially expired.

So now you’re probably a little curious of how I got my old nick name rotten apple, right? Well rotten apple, because my mother used to tell me that I was an apple at the top of the tree. In order for someone to pluck me, he had to try and climb the very top. This meant that I was not easy to get, and was too good for anyone who didn’t want to climb the tree and pluck the apple from the top. Don’t get it twisted though, I’m still the apple at the top of the tree naturally. Except this apple is now rotten and expired. I wonder if my mother realized that prince charming never came, because he was way too busy plucking the apples from the bottom of the tree and enjoying every last bite.

 

The Cheating Husband

Twenty-eight years I saved myself for that fucking bastard,28 years!” This is Sana. A girl I met a few years back while taking a language class. She complemented my newly bought Cole Haan boots, and we became friends instantly. There aren’t many people out there who will complement your boots, let alone know the designer! It took one complement and a few coffee dates later for us to become fast friends. Not to mention, she was the only one of my friends who could understand this deep passionate love affair I had for heels.

Sana was the second girl out of my group of friends to be married. She was from Pakistan and like most of my friends came from a religious background. She was a lot like my friend Layla. She, like Layla had waited her entire life for her parents to marry her off to a guy they chose. She was lucky enough to be set up with a rich doctor whom she really had come to like. So at the age of 23 got engaged, and at 28 happily married. She was excited to spend the rest of her life as a house wife. She wanted the white picket fence, the screaming children, and the nosy in-laws. In her spare time she took language classes, cooked amazing dishes , and visited her nosy in-laws (as she called them). She would attend dinner parties with her husband , and get to wear Gucci. Nothing, as she put it is better then Gucci and so Sana’s life was set. Or so she though it was, until she found him cheating on her in their own bed! At first there were simple clues that the mistress left. Like leaving hair elastics, or using her nail polishes and not putting them back. To say the mistress wanted to be found out would be an under statement. And so she was found out. On a beautiful sunny day, in a huge 6 bedroom home with 4.5 bathrooms, Sana walked in on her husband of ONLY a year in bed with someone else. The first person she called was me. “He went to Mosque whenever he could! Isn’t this a sin in itself? I saved myself for him my entire life and this is what he does to me?” I really wasn’t sure at what point the conversation turned to her virginity, but here we were back to that same topic. “He had his fun before me let me tell you that, not to mention all the girls he was with! I thought I would be enough.” I wanted to tell her it really wasn’t about her, it was more about him being a cheating bastard. Whether she was a virgin when they married or not, had nothing to do with him cheating on her. Did Sana think that her being a virgin guaranteed he would not cheat on her? In a way, she thought so as sad as that sounds. “Why would he want to merry a virgin if he just was going to cheat on her?” she asked. I wouldn’t know to be honest. I had no idea why it would matter. I wanted to tell her to leave but truth be told I was biased. Where was I going to get my weekly homemade cooked meals? How was I going to cope without that biryani she made every Friday? So Sana went back to her beautiful home, with the white picket fence and the million bathrooms to try and somehow understand what went wrong. I tried my best to be of help and give her the best advice I could. To say I comforted her would be lying, as I had no idea how to. After all who was I to give marriage advice?

This brought me to a simple question that I wanted answered. Did we (the virgins of the world) have this notion that just because we saved ourselves for prince charming until marriage, are guaranteed not to be cheated on? Are we really that clueless to assume that just because we kept our legs closed (unlike those who kept their open) will be spared the pain and humiliation of a cheating husband?

 

Layla

Now every group of friends has that one girl. The one who roles her eyes every time someone does something wrong. The one who lectures you on your values and upbringing. The one who believes so strongly in saving yourself for marriage and doing everything that your parents ask you to do. In our group that culprit name was Layla. Every time one of my friends wanted to share a secret or a tad bit of information the first sentence that came out of their mouths was “ BUT please DO NOT tell Layla!”. She was the friend that all of my friends never wanted to tell their secrets to. They hated they way she rolled her eyes at them and they certainly hated how untouched she was by the western world. She was indeed born in the west, but never ever wanted or felt the need to do any of the things we all enjoyed so much. She didn’t enjoy clubbing, drinking, or going out on dates. She was simply waiting to be arranged to someone whom her mother would choose for her. A cousin, a doctor, or some hot shot engineer. At 26, Layla was every mothers dream, but every outsiders nightmare. Now, you might ask why would a group of open minded girls whom embrace the western culture hang around Layla? Well for one she was hilarious. The type of funny that you see in movies and wish you had as a friend. She was eclectic, quick on her toes, and always had some funny ass story to tell. Layla was not only the most strict and sometimes judgmental one of my friends, but she was also the one who kept all of us together. She was the glue to our group you could say. Most importantly the one thing Layla was very good at was this: we ALWAYS ended up telling her our secrets.

So we all awaited for the day Layla would wear the virginal white wedding gown and walk down the aisle to the one her mother chose for her. We also imagined she would smile at her husband over a glass of champagne (non-alcoholic of course) and smile coyly. She then would proceed to tell him of how she had saved herself for only him. We would all laugh at this and feel a tinge of guilt. Because thats what Layla did. She made you feel guilty. Guilty for enjoying a glass of wine, or going to the beach and wearing a bathing suite. Guilty for having boyfriends, and holding their hands and most importantly guilty for just living. Now, this was just one of the ways we imagined the story would unfold. The one thing we never ever imagined would be our little angelic Layla would lose her virginity in not months, or years but in an an actual 8 days….

 

 

I swear I AM A VIRGIN!

I get a call this morning from my friend Jia. Jia is from the middle east as well, and is one of those girls that has it all. She is beautiful, highly educated, and has a great personality. She was born in Canada but comes from a strict cultural background. She unlike, most of my friends is not white washed at all. She loves her culture, and embraces the good and the bad. The only time she steps outside of her culture is on her birthdays.  Which is when she puts on a pretty dress, drinks a glass or two of champagne, and dances the night away at some cool club. At the age of 19 Jia fell madly in love with a guy whom was not of her religion but same cultural background. She was with him for more then 6 years and he had promised he would convert when they got married. However that never happened and Jia broke up with him because he decided that he indeed did not want to convert like he had promised her he would. So broken hearted she decided she would date a guy whom her mother set her up with. She ended up falling in love with this guy and agreed to marry him. However the one really important fact about Jia that will make most dead grandmothers roll in their graves is that she had slept with him before marriage (GASP)!

This call that she has made to me is regarding a very serious question her fiance asked her. Today like every other day she calls me with something very very important to tell me. At first I wanted to roll my eyes at her because ever since she got engaged every call she has made has been about something important. First her dress, then the wedding hall, next the invites, cake, and so on goes the list. This time however, apparently its different because she actually asks me to turn off my lap top and go sit on my bed while she tells me what is VERY important. Here is a tad bit of how our conversation went

JIA: But PROMISE you won’t judge or laugh at me

ME: Okay i won’t?

JIA: I sort of lied about something, Something HUGE

ME: Yes…..

JIA: You promise you won’t judge

ME: OMG Jia hurry up already! I have places to be!

Actually I had no where to go, its just that Netflix was asking me if I wanted to continue watching my show. As if even Netflix was telling me I should do something better with my time then watch a shows entire season in one day.

JIA: CF (current fiance) asked today if I am a virgin and I said yes of course I am! I even swore to God that I am! And now I’m freaking out! Because, not only am I going to hell for using the lords name in vain but also for starting my marriage based on a lie.

ME:…….

Jia: You there?

ME: Won’t he be able to tell if you aren’t when you do end up sleeping with him…..

After an hour of me listening to her crying and cursing her self out, we tried to come up with a solution. The next hour believe it or not was a back and forth of should, and shouldn’t she tell him. The truth of the matter is if she does end up telling him it will put an end to their marriage . She knows it and so do I. At the same time she loves him too much, and is too scared of revealing the truth and losing him. So what did we do for the next two hours? Turn to everyones best friend of course. Google. We googled everything and anything from will he find out when he sleeps with her to will she go to hell if she doesn’t tell him. Apparently the latter was more important to her because she did not want to go to hell. She was not only ridden with guilt but she truly believed that she too had become whitewashed. She feels this quilt for loving a guy for more then 6 years whom promised her marriage and a life but never kept his promises. So now Jia has to choose between telling him the truth or lying to him about her virginity. Lets just hope for her sake as google said there is no way of known if that hymen is there or not. Not to mention that he stays CF and not PF (past fiance).

White Washed

I’m accused of being white washed by everyone that I know. My mother, my father, my sisters, EVEN my family thousands of miles away. As if being labeled as such is a crime punishable by the supreme court. But, what does it mean to be whitewashed when you grow up in the western world? When you are surrounded by the very culture that you are supposed to turn away from. A culture that in its own way is beautiful and so liberating. What is so wrong with creating your own culture and values. Why can’t you combine two beautiful cultures, take the best from both, and create one wonderfully beautiful culture! You can even rename it! I sometimes don’t even know what whitewashed means being middle eastern. Is my one glass of wine once a month mean I am white washed? Or is travelling my life away alone makes me white washed? Or is it being too open minded and accepting of everything make you white washed. What experiences or things do you do that put you in that category? What does it mean to be whitewashed when we’re labeled that by family? I asked my mother this same question since its one of her favourite phrases to use. She came up with a huge list. I won’t bore you with all of it but I will note the very important ones. Important to her that is. Not marrying to the person she chose for me, travelling too much on my own ( people talk she says), going out too much with friends, not doing dishes enough? Did my mother really say not doing the dishes enough? Yes she did. She said not doing the dishes definitely makes me white washed. Going to the beach and swimming in my underwear and bra also makes me white washed. Note: my mother refuses to acknowledge it as a bikini. To her its all underwear and bra. The number one reason I am white washed and labeled as such? Not listening to every single thing she tells me to do. So that ladies and gentleman is what makes you white washed. That is if you are my mothers daughter. If not? Well then I am sure you have lists of your own which I would be more then happy to hear about!