Chapter 5 Salma #3
“That’s very empathetic. What else?” I look at Kirsten V., who sits there smug.
We engage in a staring contest. Finally, she looks away and makes a noncommittal sound.
“Have you heard anyone saying this, Kirsten V.?”
She shrugs.
“Perhaps, Kirsten V., this is one of the kind things you could add to your journal.”
“I could tell kids to stop,” she offers sullenly, which is like her telling herself to stop.
“True. Any other ideas?”
They stay silent.
“It would be very powerful if you corrected the person and said, ‘Her name is Poppy.’ It would be even stronger if you said that and then stood next to her. See, in that situation, you have the power, and she doesn’t.”
I see a light shine in Kristin B.’s eyes, a connection being made.
I love this moment when a kid figures out what they are capable of.
She recognizes that she has agency, and I have given her a script.
I want to reinforce this feeling in her so it’s not forgotten and perhaps build a little muscle memory so she can say it to her best friend if the need arises.
“Let’s playact. Kirsten V., you be Poppy. Kristin B., you be yourself. I’ll be the kids who are saying not-nice things.”
I hoot and walk around Kirsten V., pointing at her. “Your hair has a twig in it, Poopy. Do you even have any friends? Where’d you get a name like that?” I’m on the edge of pushing a line, but I think of Poppy and how much these girls have hurt her. “You’re ugly.” I am definitely going too far.
Both the girls stare at me aghast. “No one does that, MissCh,” Kristin B. says, her eyes misty.
I break character for a second. “You’re supposed to practice what you would do, right?” I go back into character, laughing and pointing. I can see it is disconcerting to Kirsten V. to be at the end of ridicule, even if it is fake.
“Stop! Her name is Poppy,” says Kristin B. with real feeling.
I stop immediately. “Very good. And what would be the cherry on top?”
Kristin B. gets off her chair and, chest puffed out, stands next to Kirsten V. and says, “This is Poppy. Use her proper name.”
I clap and say, “Brava! Exactly!”
Kristin B. looks very proud of herself. Kirsten V. just looks confused.
“Well done! I’m sorry to cut into your recess, but I’m feeling pretty good about you two being my eyes and ears when I’m not there. We want to welcome Poppy and have her feel safe in our classroom community.”
Is feeling safe the same thing as being safe? I don’t know, but I don’t think either is ever a foregone conclusion, not even in your own family.
I think of Asma and the series of events all those years ago. I am a perennial explorer, quietly searching my memory for the thread that will pull apart the frayed and torn fabric that binds me tight and keeps me safe.
Sitting in the car with Abu heading back to Rosebud, maybe I thought if I waited out the upset, it would blow over and that things would go back to normal. Unfortunately, by the time we saw Asma perform in Pippin, I understood there was no normal to go back to.
On a late-night call, when the seasons were slowly slipping into one another, Asma told me that she was going to invite our parents to the play.
“Why? They already know you’re doing it. Leave it alone.”
“I told you. I’m done hiding from them. I don’t care if they’re uncomfortable. Oh, by the way, Ronny thinks you’re gorgeous.”
Which details the brain chooses to remember and which it discards is a mystery.
I wish I could go back to that moment, the turning point for everything that followed.
If I had known what was coming, I would have pushed Asma harder and insisted that she not invite them.
I would have pretended like I was sick or had terrible cramps, unable to go.
I could have slashed a tire. Instead, I took no position. I went along as I always did.
As performances go, Pippin was confusing.
The main male character engaged in a lot of lewd and suggestive behavior, but it was mostly comical and nothing worse than what was on television.
Mamoo periodically leaned over to Ami and Abu explaining in a hushed voice what was happening.
The play dragged on without Asma appearing on stage.
I kept wiping my sweaty hands on the velvet seat, overcome with relief and dread.
Act two opened on the promise of noncontroversy with Asma appearing in the part of Catherine, the main character’s love interest, dressed as a peasant in a modest and unbecoming gown.
Halfway through the scene, Catherine and Pippin started gravitating toward each other until finally, Asma and a boy I recognized from the party started kissing each other.
Once, when watching Sam and Diane kiss on Cheers, Asma had explained that actors weren’t actually kissing like real couples and that there was a technique to it, just like in a fight sequence they weren’t really fighting but going through a series of choreographed steps.
But from where we sat, the kissing looked pretty real.
The lights on the stage dimmed, and a bed appeared.
Asma and the boy got in the bed, pulled the sheets over themselves, and kicked their legs in the air.
After a few minutes of the under-the-sheets action, the boy popped his head out, hair disheveled, eyes popping, face alight, and then dramatically dove under the sheets again.
If embarrassment and shame were a perfume, my parents’ fragrance filled the theater.
My culture, my religion, is driven by sex.
It is something to be ashamed and afraid of.
Denying female sexuality and treating it as an abnormality takes the same amount of energy as a sex addiction, a single-minded focus and a prism through which all other beliefs and actions are filtered.
The female body is supposedly so powerful that it drives men to actions that are out of their own control. Consequently, it must always be hidden.
Once, Asma fell asleep on the couch in the afternoon, her shirt pulled up exposing her stomach.
Ami shook her awake, hissing, “Your father’s home.
What if he’d seen?” If we weren’t permitted to let our guard down in front of our own family in our own house, how could Abu be okay with Asma displaying sexuality, even just playacting it on a stage?
There is a polite way to leave a theater mid-show and there was the way Abu left.
He barreled down the row without regard to anyone in his path.
He pushed forward, unapologetic for knees or toes.
Ami might have followed in his wake if the audience members Abu had just trampled weren’t between her and the aisle.
Eventually, the lights went on. I stayed huddled in my seat, anxious about Abu, anxious about Asma, and anxious about what would happen when they saw each other.
By an unspoken understanding to spare Ami’s discomfort of being jostled in close proximity to male strangers, we waited until the theater emptied before walking out.
We couldn’t see Abu in the lobby, so we awkwardly milled about the backstage doors, waiting for Asma to come out. Aunty held a bouquet of pink roses. Ami and I exchanged looks. She, jumpy. Me, hoping we wouldn’t see Asma.
After a while, when Asma didn’t come out, we went outside.
The air was cool and crisp, and the smoky smell of autumn leaves filled the night.
Abu was pacing next to our station wagon.
I wrapped my arms around myself as we approached.
I did not want to be there and reminded myself that none of this had anything to do with me.
I was simply flotsam, floating along on the surface of our life.
“Yar, it’s just a college play,” Mamoo said as we walked up.
“Get in the car. We’re going back home tonight,” Abu said to me.
“Musharraf, it’s simply acting. Don’t make too much of this.” Mamoo tried again.
“When you have your own children, you can raise them any way you want. But these are my daughters, and I decide what’s too much for them.”
Mamoo’s jaw tightened. He took the flowers from Aunty and silently handed them to me. He looked long and hard at Ami, who was twisting her dupatta in her hands, and then he and Aunty disappeared between the rows of cars. Everyone else could walk away, but not me.
“Did you know this was going to happen? Huh?” Abu glared at me over the roof of the car.
“Me? How would I know?”
“You two talk about everything. Your sister didn’t tell you?”
I stayed silent. What could I say?
“She didn’t think this was something to tell us? That she would be . . . be . . . doing sex, in front of an audience? In front of her parents?” he whispered.
I wanted to say it was called having sex, not doing sex.
I wanted to clarify that Asma wasn’t actually having sex and that it was called acting for a reason.
I wanted to say we weren’t kids and I was quite certain that she wasn’t telling me everything anymore.
I wanted to say that I was sick of being the one to help them process whatever rebellion Asma was seeding.
Instead, I slid into the back seat, frustrated that despite my resolution to stay an impartial observer, I was stuck here answering for Asma’s misdeeds.
Abu settled himself behind the wheel, and we almost got away. But before I closed the door, I heard Asma’s voice and saw her run across the parking lot.
“Sal! Sal!”
It was impossible to miss her jubilance.
My basic operating platform was that if Asma was happy, I was happy, and for a split second, it worked.
I caught her elation. Maybe there was a second where I could have told Abu to drive away.
Maybe I could have waved Asma back. But it was too late.
Abu heard her and stepped out of the car, drawing himself to his full height. And then she was upon us.
“Did you see me?” she asked, her eyes shining.