"High School, Homework, and Hijabs" by Layla Husen
Another sweltering afternoon in the small town an hour outside of Amman, Jordan. I was lounging outside, thousands of miles from home, while my father’s five siblings (along with their children and spouses) crowded onto the patio, sipping Arabic coffee and eating figs right off the trees that my grandfather had planted fifteen years ago.
“Fadlak, ya habibti,” Uncle pleaded, his gruff voice low from a lifetime of cigarettes harshening the vocal chords. Please, Sweetie. I shook my head in response, stirring my hair and causing the curls—long, perfect curls from the lack of humidity in the hot, summer air—to fly from my shoulder and cascade down my back. Uncle Muffeed held the shot-glass-sized coffee cup toward me, waving the smell of strong herbs mixed with a tinge of espresso in front of my nostrils.
“La-ah,” I giggled. No. I leaned back in the cheap, plastic chair and crossed my legs. My purple maxi-dress skimmed the ground, picking up a trail of dust as the bottom hem made contact with the crumbling patio. I could still smell the kahwee (coffee) even with the added space between me and the cup. My nose scrunched in disdain. Ever since I was a child I had hated Arabic coffee.
I made a quick sweep of the faces staring at me, watching expectantly, waiting for me to accept a sip. Large grins adored each olive-complexioned face. They were so thrilled to see me, I could have said ‘the sky was falling,’ and they would have gazed at me with adoration. It had been two years since I had seen them. Two years. How had sixteen-year-old me not noticed the time passing? How had I not felt it?
I was too busy. Busy being a teenager: worrying that my hair was too frizzy and my eyes were squinting in my driver’s license photo because the glassy-eyed woman with the permanent frown etched on her face had not warned me that the blinding flash was coming. Putting pen to paper until my fingers were numb and the wooden pencil was imprinted into the side of my thumb to ensure that I graduated with strong grades. Typing away furiously, the edges of my laptop indenting my wrists, as I sent countless essay submissions “To Whom It May Concern” in a desperate attempt for acceptance from the universities of my choice. I was too busy being an American teenager. That was how I defined myself now. I am an American teenager. It’s funny: I can still hear the old phrase in my head. It rang with pride of heritage. It resonated with the knowledge of identity that my father had imprinted in me with his heavily-accented voice throughout my life.
I am an Arab-American teenager.
Looking at my aunt’s sweet smile as she sat on the floor, her fingers wet with the raw chicken as she prepared it for the coming meal, it was easier to remember that. I love sleeveless dresses that cut off just before the knee. But, I also love pink-sequined hijabs (headscarves) that hug close to my hair and make my temples pound if I wrap them too tight. I listen to every Taylor Swift song available, but when the exotic rhythm and pounding thump of the drums plays behind Haifa Wehbe’s Lebanese songs, I cannot help but croon along in Arabic (my voice an imposter to her pure vocals). Although my favorite food is pasta, I cannot resist the thick tomato smell and pungent aroma of garlic and rosemary that fills the house when kufta is made. My identity is a mix between my Arab culture and my American customs…but my American lifestyle tends to overshadow the part of me that is Arab.
I sat up a little straighter, my back barely touching the plastic of the chair through the think material of my dress. I am part Arab, how can I refuse Arabic coffee? I will learn to like it.
“Tayib, ateenie, Amu. Shwayee-shway.” Okay, give me the cup, Uncle. But, just a little. I reached for the cup Uncle Muffeed was holding in his tan, calloused hand. I grasped the intricate, ceramic cup firmly in my hands, my fingers pushing into the crevices where the cup had been chipped over time. I held it over the accompanying hand-painted saucer and blew softly on the chocolate colored liquid, a faint whooshing sound coming from my pursed lips. The steam rising like a cloud from the cup was dissipating like a candle dimming when it reached the end of the wick. Hesitantly, I took a tiny sip.
The thick, bitter liquid scalded my tongue as I forced myself to swallow without cringing. The coffee traveled through me, warming my throat as it went. A wave of pride encompassed me as my aunts and uncles praised me, hollering, “Ma’sha’allah!” I shrugged my shoulders and feigned nonchalance, continuing to drink from the cup.
The more sips I took, the more the taste settled in my mouth. The fuzzy unpleasantness grew and the bitter, grainy liquid was beginning to taste intolerable. I set the cup on the saucer with a loud clang, waiting for everyone to be captivated in conversation to make my escape. I fled to the kitchen and sank into a warped, wooden chair, deflated and defeated. My head rested in my hand with my elbow propped on the table of unwavering wood. Heavy footsteps padding through the hallway, shaking the ground, announced Uncle Muffeed’s appearance—his signature sound. I looked up and his tall, skinny frame was in the doorway. He smiled at me with a slight furrow of his bushy, salt and pepper brow. “You finish coffee?” he asked in heavily-accented broken English. I shook my head and showed him my cup, which was still half full of the thick, grainy liquid. He guffawed in a way that shook his whole frame, his shoulders rising up and down with every breath. When he composed himself he looked down at me with a strange, indulgent smile.
“Me too,” he whispered, displaying his cup. He took my cup from my hands and carried it to the sink. He then proceeded to pour both of our unfinished coffees down the drain. We watched as the liquid swirled in the sink, leaving streaks of brown as it traveled towards the drain. Turning slowly towards the door, he leaned into me, smelling of orange juice and cigarettes, and kissed the top of my head before continuing to exit the kitchen.
“Habibti.” Sweetie.
Another sweltering afternoon in the small town an hour outside of Amman, Jordan. I was lounging outside, thousands of miles from home, while my father’s five siblings (along with their children and spouses) crowded onto the patio, sipping Arabic coffee and eating figs right off the trees that my grandfather had planted fifteen years ago.
“Fadlak, ya habibti,” Uncle pleaded, his gruff voice low from a lifetime of cigarettes harshening the vocal chords. Please, Sweetie. I shook my head in response, stirring my hair and causing the curls—long, perfect curls from the lack of humidity in the hot, summer air—to fly from my shoulder and cascade down my back. Uncle Muffeed held the shot-glass-sized coffee cup toward me, waving the smell of strong herbs mixed with a tinge of espresso in front of my nostrils.
“La-ah,” I giggled. No. I leaned back in the cheap, plastic chair and crossed my legs. My purple maxi-dress skimmed the ground, picking up a trail of dust as the bottom hem made contact with the crumbling patio. I could still smell the kahwee (coffee) even with the added space between me and the cup. My nose scrunched in disdain. Ever since I was a child I had hated Arabic coffee.
I made a quick sweep of the faces staring at me, watching expectantly, waiting for me to accept a sip. Large grins adored each olive-complexioned face. They were so thrilled to see me, I could have said ‘the sky was falling,’ and they would have gazed at me with adoration. It had been two years since I had seen them. Two years. How had sixteen-year-old me not noticed the time passing? How had I not felt it?
I was too busy. Busy being a teenager: worrying that my hair was too frizzy and my eyes were squinting in my driver’s license photo because the glassy-eyed woman with the permanent frown etched on her face had not warned me that the blinding flash was coming. Putting pen to paper until my fingers were numb and the wooden pencil was imprinted into the side of my thumb to ensure that I graduated with strong grades. Typing away furiously, the edges of my laptop indenting my wrists, as I sent countless essay submissions “To Whom It May Concern” in a desperate attempt for acceptance from the universities of my choice. I was too busy being an American teenager. That was how I defined myself now. I am an American teenager. It’s funny: I can still hear the old phrase in my head. It rang with pride of heritage. It resonated with the knowledge of identity that my father had imprinted in me with his heavily-accented voice throughout my life.
I am an Arab-American teenager.
Looking at my aunt’s sweet smile as she sat on the floor, her fingers wet with the raw chicken as she prepared it for the coming meal, it was easier to remember that. I love sleeveless dresses that cut off just before the knee. But, I also love pink-sequined hijabs (headscarves) that hug close to my hair and make my temples pound if I wrap them too tight. I listen to every Taylor Swift song available, but when the exotic rhythm and pounding thump of the drums plays behind Haifa Wehbe’s Lebanese songs, I cannot help but croon along in Arabic (my voice an imposter to her pure vocals). Although my favorite food is pasta, I cannot resist the thick tomato smell and pungent aroma of garlic and rosemary that fills the house when kufta is made. My identity is a mix between my Arab culture and my American customs…but my American lifestyle tends to overshadow the part of me that is Arab.
I sat up a little straighter, my back barely touching the plastic of the chair through the think material of my dress. I am part Arab, how can I refuse Arabic coffee? I will learn to like it.
“Tayib, ateenie, Amu. Shwayee-shway.” Okay, give me the cup, Uncle. But, just a little. I reached for the cup Uncle Muffeed was holding in his tan, calloused hand. I grasped the intricate, ceramic cup firmly in my hands, my fingers pushing into the crevices where the cup had been chipped over time. I held it over the accompanying hand-painted saucer and blew softly on the chocolate colored liquid, a faint whooshing sound coming from my pursed lips. The steam rising like a cloud from the cup was dissipating like a candle dimming when it reached the end of the wick. Hesitantly, I took a tiny sip.
The thick, bitter liquid scalded my tongue as I forced myself to swallow without cringing. The coffee traveled through me, warming my throat as it went. A wave of pride encompassed me as my aunts and uncles praised me, hollering, “Ma’sha’allah!” I shrugged my shoulders and feigned nonchalance, continuing to drink from the cup.
The more sips I took, the more the taste settled in my mouth. The fuzzy unpleasantness grew and the bitter, grainy liquid was beginning to taste intolerable. I set the cup on the saucer with a loud clang, waiting for everyone to be captivated in conversation to make my escape. I fled to the kitchen and sank into a warped, wooden chair, deflated and defeated. My head rested in my hand with my elbow propped on the table of unwavering wood. Heavy footsteps padding through the hallway, shaking the ground, announced Uncle Muffeed’s appearance—his signature sound. I looked up and his tall, skinny frame was in the doorway. He smiled at me with a slight furrow of his bushy, salt and pepper brow. “You finish coffee?” he asked in heavily-accented broken English. I shook my head and showed him my cup, which was still half full of the thick, grainy liquid. He guffawed in a way that shook his whole frame, his shoulders rising up and down with every breath. When he composed himself he looked down at me with a strange, indulgent smile.
“Me too,” he whispered, displaying his cup. He took my cup from my hands and carried it to the sink. He then proceeded to pour both of our unfinished coffees down the drain. We watched as the liquid swirled in the sink, leaving streaks of brown as it traveled towards the drain. Turning slowly towards the door, he leaned into me, smelling of orange juice and cigarettes, and kissed the top of my head before continuing to exit the kitchen.
“Habibti.” Sweetie.