Ten Things I Hate About Me (10 page)
EVER SINCE THE
day Mr. Anderson opened his big fat mouth about the formal and threw my life into a meat grinder, my class has been acting like we’ve been offered tickets to the Oscars. I can’t count how many times I’ve had to pretend to enjoy participating in heated discussions about whether a limo is sexier than a BMW; where the after-party should be held and who will supply the booze; and, most importantly, who will be our dates.
Until now, I’m quite confident that nobody suspects that while the rest of my class will be dancing to a funk remix and maxing out their digital camera capacity, I will be at home glued to my computer desk, ferociously taking my anger out on my keyboard as I bore John to death with my sad, pathetic existence.
In homeroom this morning Mr. Anderson drops the bombshell about an “ethnic band” being hired to play at the formal.
“They’re an up-and-coming young local group, all of Middle Eastern background. It should be a lovely treat for you all.”
Peter snorts out loud. “Middle Eastern music? I thought the formal was supposed to be fun.”
My heart starts thumping in my chest.
“It’s hard to appreciate good music when your head is full of sawdust,” Ahmed says.
“Oh, do you have time to be a music critic in between making bombs?”
Ahmed stands up. “Why don’t you come here and say that to my face?”
“That’s enough!” Mr. Anderson cries. “Both of you keep your mouth shut.”
“He started it!” Ahmed yells. “He’s a racist pig!”
“Who are you calling a pig, you dumb Leb?”
“Right! I’ll see both of you in detention at lunchtime. Let this be a lesson to you all. I will NOT accept such conduct in my classroom.”
There are murmurs of “how unfair,” “he started it,” “uncalled for.” Mr. Anderson flashes the class a devastatingly chilling look and everybody stops talking.
“An
ethnic
band?” Liz says, a weird look on her face. “I wonder what that will be like.”
“So what?” Amy says. “I don’t know what the big deal is. As long as we get to dress up, I couldn’t care less what music there is.”
“Yeah, but what if it’s all belly-dancing music?” Liz scrunches up her face. “I wouldn’t have a clue!”
I can’t take this. “I’ve got to go!” I rush off and bump into Ahmed on my way to the bathroom. His fists are clenched tight and he looks furious.
“You were there, Jamie. Do you think I deserve detention?”
“Not at all,” I say.
“Peter is the biggest jerk and I get the same punishment as him. It’s so unfair.”
“Mr. Anderson was probably just trying to make a point about speaking aloud in class,” I say lightly. “You know how he is when it comes to not putting our hands up…I’m
joking,”
I say as I see he’s still scowling.
“It’s not a joking matter. Just because I refuse to put up with Peter’s prejudice, I get punished. I’m not going to apologize for my background.”
“But you know he gives you a hard time about it, so why can’t you just ignore him?”
His eyes widen in disbelief. “Ignore him? No way! I was born here and I deserve the same respect he demands. I’m not going to be made to feel like I’m some tourist without a visa who needs to be thrown out of the country. You wouldn’t understand what it feels like to be constantly treated like a negotiable citizen.”
How wrong he is. And how lucky. The same prejudice and bigotry that silences me, vocalizes him. And even though my silence protects me, I’m the one walking with my head down.
The bell rings after science the next day and I’m packing my books away, listening to Peter tell me about his new PlayStation, when Timothy walks up beside my desk and stands there, waiting patiently for me to finish. We’ve arranged to meet up to do some Internet research at the library for our Gandhi assignment. Peter stops talking and looks Timothy up and down.
“What do you want?” Peter asks in a surprised tone.
“Nothing,” Timothy answers. “Just waiting for Jamie.”
Peter looks at me incredulously. “Is something going…?”
I give him a mortified look and quickly correct him. “No, no! Nothing like that. Of course not!” I say it so vehemently and quickly that I don’t have time to think about the consequences. But it’s too late anyway: The damage has been done. Timothy raises his eyebrows at me and walks off.
OK, I’ll admit it. I’ll admit that I don’t have the guts to run after him. I am officially walking around without a spinal cord. Peter turns back to me and chuckles.
“Ha! You crushed Goldfish, you ice queen.”
“We’re working on our history assignment…” And then, for a single moment, a touch of courage rises within me. “He’s not such a bad guy, you know.”
“Do you have the hots for him or something?”
“No.”
He looks at me closely. “Yeah, you don’t look like the type who has bad taste.”
The courage falls away. I look down at my hands, feeling like I’m betraying Timothy.
“You know what’s nice about you, Jamie? What makes you different from the other chicks in this class?”
“What?”
“You’ve got no confidence in yourself.”
“Huh?”
“You’re so shy and awkward and quiet. It’s such a refreshing change from all the chicks who are so
out there.”
He rolls his eyes. “All they do is whine about guys not respecting them and taking them seriously. They’re always out to prove themselves. They want to be defined. You, on the other hand, seem happy just floating along. You have no idea how cool that is.” He flashes me a large smile and walks out of the room.
I walk slowly to the library.
No confidence. Shy and awkward. Floating along.
I’ve attracted the attention of Peter Clarkson for all the wrong reasons. Although I’ve tried so hard to hide my identity, I never imagined I had reduced myself to a passive, mute
chick.
Timothy is sitting at a computer. He has his MP3 player on and is tapping his foot to the music. I approach him cautiously and sit down beside him.
“Sorry about before…I didn’t mean to…I hope you’re not hurt.”
“You’ve got to care in the first place to get hurt.”
I’m taken aback and look down at my hands. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
He clears his throat and swings back on his chair. “I meant I don’t care about
Peter.”
“Oh.”
“It’s obvious you do, though.”
“What?”
“And I find that surprising.”
“Hey, you don’t know me well enough to judge me.”
He stares at me. “Fair enough.” He pauses. “But I do know that you’re not part of his cheerleading squad every time he decides to mouth off. You’re an uncomfortable spectator. Am I right?”
“That’s pretty presumptuous of you.”
“So I’m wrong?”
“Well, no. Yes. I mean, that’s not the point!”
“Look, sorry, I can see this bothers you. Let’s talk about something else.”
“OK, how about we turn the microscope around on you? Why don’t you care what people think about you? That’s not normal. Actually, it’s quite arrogant. You’re not such an amazing person that you can avoid putting in some effort into attracting people!”
“Relax. I understand the whole ‘no man’s an island’ thing. Certain people’s opinions I care about. If I respect somebody then of course I want their approval. But I’m not going to be a phony in order to score brownie points with somebody I don’t respect. I’m selective. That’s the difference.”
“Well,
sorry,
I’m not as brave and strong as you. Why don’t you just bottle yourself and market yourself at the perfume
counter? One spray and we can all be as cool and confident as Timothy!”
“Hey, relax, I’m not judging you.”
“You’re not
judging
me? You do it so well you could be eligible for a Supreme Court appointment!”
He gives me an apologetic look. “Sorry if that’s the way I’ve come across.”
I look at him closely and then half smile. “It’s OK. I have a lot to be sorry for too.”
From: [email protected]
My dad and I were supposed to spend the weekend together. Yet he still managed to book himself for the whole weekend. His itinerary:
Friday night: Law Society dinner
Saturday morning: Sleep in and get over a hangover
Saturday: Lunch with some of his work colleagues on an all-day harbor cruise
Sunday morning/afternoon: Sleep in and nurse a hangover
Sunday night: Cocktail function
Children under 18 not allowed.
Children over 55 allowed.
I felt like the commercial breaks in his weekend. The only time he had available for me was when we crossed paths in the hallway
or in the hour he had to get ready before leaving. He would call me to his room. I would sit on the edge of the bed and watch him as he put on his designer tie/designer polo shirt /designer socks.
You know something, Jamilah? Without fail he manages to get under my skin. Right under the fatty and muscle layers. He is only capable of communicating with me by lecturing me about my lack of ambition and my “pathetic resistance” to his dream of me following in his footsteps and becoming a lawyer in his firm.
Boy, does he piss me off.
From: [email protected]
So your dad wants you to be a lawyer? What’s wrong with that? Everybody’s always so cynical about the legal profession, but they’re not such a bad group, are they? I’m sure they also give their seats up to pregnant women on trains and don’t take the sherbet lollipops from the charity box without dropping thirty cents in.
From: [email protected]
I have nothing against lawyers
per se
(that’s lawyer lingo my dad taught me through example: “
You are not stupid,
per se”; “
I am not drunk,
per se”). Mom is a lawyer too. She works for legal aid.
Don’t go
awww
on me. It’s not as romantic or righteous as you may think. There are times she comes home from work swearing about “stupid greedy plaintiffs” and “corrupt insurers.” She started idealistic and now is probably worn out.
But I still think she believes in it. If I’ve learned anything from her, it’s that you have to believe in what you’re doing or you might as well find employment picking up dog poo from park gardens.
From: [email protected]
So what’s the objection to law?
From: [email protected]
It’s not an objection to law. It’s an objection to my dad’s legal path. He wants me to be in a law firm where the size of your office, the extent of your stationery drawer, and the direction your window faces are as important as the quality of your work.
He quit his last firm because he didn’t feel respected. Note: He was a partner. He had a parking space which, on an annual basis, costs the same as an average house mortgage. But he didn’t have a harbor view. That counted as a “lack of respect” because at his firm having a harbor view was the definitive indication that you had MADE IT.
Now that basically comes with a lot of butt-kissing and
lower-back issues from sitting at a computer for an unholy amount of time each day. Not to mention having a house you treat as a hotel and a family you treat as hotel staff (I was the concierge).
From: [email protected]
I don’t think my dad believes in what he does. What’s there to believe in when you’re a taxi driver?
I believe in providing a quality transportation experience to commuters and I believe that they have the right to travel through Sydney’s streets with respect and dignity and air-conditioning and low-volume radio?
Maybe some people don’t have the luxury to plan their careers according to their beliefs.
From: [email protected]
Do you have a boyfriend?
From: [email protected]
No. Anyway, I’d be dead meat if my dad ever found out.
From: [email protected]
Are you serious? Like those honor killings you hear about?
From: [email protected]
No, you space cadet. Sheesh, this is why I hate opening up to people about my family! Can’t I be metaphorical without having my dad equated to a Taliban warlord?
From: [email protected]
Deep breaths. Think nice thoughts. A bunch of red roses. Chocolate with hazelnut centers. You can do this. You can
calm down.
Just focus.
From: [email protected]
If I didn’t like you so much I’d stop talking to you for that.
So do you have a girlfriend?
From: [email protected]
We broke up. We didn’t have much in common. I couldn’t talk to her. Sometimes you just want somebody to laugh with and open up to.
From: [email protected]
Tell me about it.
From: [email protected]
I have to go, Jamilah. My mom needs help opening a can of tuna. She can defend an armed robber in a court of law but she has difficulties figuring out a can opener.
I STEP OUT OF
the house this morning to catch the bus to school. It’s the beginning of April and the autumn breeze is sweet and warm and puts a smile on my face. There is a direct correlation between the weather and my moods. That’s just the type of person I am. When it’s hot and sticky and I’m trying to survive Sydney’s notorious summer humidity, I am grumpy and irritable until somebody throws me into a swimming pool. When the sky is overcast and gloomy there aren’t enough jelly-filled Krispy Kreme doughnuts in the world to pick me up. I thrive on sunny days and the smell of freshly cut grass and the scent of jasmine bushes. That probably explains why my dad and I fight more in winter than we do in spring. Actually, that probably has more to do with the fact that there’s no daylight savings in winter, so my sunset curfew is pushed forward and I generally have to be home before the contestants have been introduced on
The Price Is Right.
How sad.
It’s the end of first-semester break and as I walk to the bus stop enjoying the rays of sun hugging and tickling my body, I find myself wondering whether I have been overreacting to not being allowed to go to the formal.
Then again, this is high school. The system is designed to sort out the cool from the uncool, the strong from the weak, the smart from the dumb. We’re not protected by political correctness or common decency in high school. If you’re a guy and you’re not so good at shooting hoops or kicking a soccer ball, you’re a loser. Nobody even flickers an eyelash. If you’re a girl who doesn’t go out with guys and has never been kissed, you’re frigid. If you get good grades and know how to string an essay together, you’re a nerd.
So if your dad doesn’t let you go to the formal, where does that leave you?
Am I overreacting? Who am I kidding? I’ve been way too relaxed about this until now.
So I find the time during class to write a letter to my dad. When I go home that night I proofread it and fiddle with it until I feel it’s just right. I wait for him to go to sleep and then leave it in an envelope on the jar of coffee for him to read in the morning.
It goes like this:
Dear Dad/Baba/The Man I Look Up to in My Life,
I have it on good authority that you were young once. I know I tell you that I don’t believe it and that Tete gave birth to an ancient fossil, but that’s just
a joke, OK? I really do appreciate that you, too, were a teenager a long, long time ago and also knew what it felt like to want to fit in with your fellow colleagues in the student body of the educational establishment at which you were sent to learn and grow by your parents.Well, DITTO (that means “same here” in case you’ve forgotten the line in the movie Ghost starring Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze, the guy you think looks like Uncle Hisham, which I’ve never quite understood but, well, everyone’s entitled to their own opinion).
I am nearly sixteen years old and very VERY responsible and reliable and mature and trustworthy with good morals and strong beliefs. I am learning in debate class at school that every prepo proposition statement should be backed up with an example, so I shall provide you with some examples in support of my very VERY convincing argument.
- I have never been suspended or expelled from school.
- I always return DVDs to the store on time.
- I rarely lose my house keys.
- I always buy a train ticket even when I know I’m going to a station where there are no inspectors.
- I cry at all the Quit Smoking commercials and am happy to say that they have deterred me.
- I also cry at all the “If you drink then drive you’re an idiot” commercials and am happy to say that I have never, and will never, enter a car with a driver who is over the limit.
- Or has had any alcohol at all.
- Or may have contemplated having alcohol and getting behind the wheel.
- I am completely opposed to premarital relationships and always refrün from any flirtatious or suggestive conversations with the opposite sex to protect my modesty. I try not to laugh at boys’ jokes because it might encourage them and send them the wrong message. I am conscious of how I behave in front of boys and always make sure to wear the proper undergarments underneath my thick top during gym.
- I enjoy madrasa tons and tons. I am grateful to have the opportunity to be bilingual.
Those are only a small number of examples, Dad. Please consider them. Please let me go to my formal. If you refuse I will never know happiness or joy or
popularity at school again. This could affect my academic performance and mean I end up failing my subjects and never gaining the grades or confidence to get a high score and a Ph.D. in your footsteps.So PLEASE let me go to my formal.
PLEASE.
Sincerely,
Jamilah
Who inherited your eyes but not your nose (thank God, huh?! ha-ha)
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I receive three text messages from my dad during school the next day. I’m impressed. He isn’t the best when it comes to sending texts. I allow myself to believe, for a fleeting moment, that if he’s put in the effort he must have good news.
My heart pounds as I open each one.
Text message 1: Th2nk you for yor swit letTTer Jamilah. I will kipe it alwAyS. But the answa IS
Linked text message 2: sTill no. You wil understand one da
Linked text message 3: Y
And that’s it. For a measly seventy-five cents my father has officially sealed my fate and declared my life well and truly over.
