Lightness of Being…

In the meantime, I renewed my interest in Islam in general and all things Ethiopian in particular. I had come to the point of near conversion when I read Malcolm X back in the day, but then I had been swept up in an Afrocentric group that chided me out of my embracing of an Arab doctrine. But here he was, a man from the motherland itself, spanning the oldest cultures in existence, and a Muslim as well.

We talked of the Quran, and the differences between Islam and Christianity. It was more like me talking and him listening, and me attributing his silence for a reserved well of wisdom. He couldn’t understand certain concepts, like how I was an agnostic back then. 
“What does that mean?”

“Just that, we can’t know whether God exists or not, God is essentially Unknowable. Humans make these things up to make ourselves feel better.”

“But God is everywhere, look around you, and the Quran? Who could have written the Quran, Prophet Muhammad was an illiterate you know?” He could have made a more sophisticated argument I concede, but in those heady days I listened to him and extrapolated a lot more than what his relatively limited grasp of English could offer. 

It wasn’t till much later that he mentioned his three children and ex-wife (emphasis on EX) back in Ethiopia. I was a bit jarred by this piece of crucial information he held back from me, but when we talked more, he spoke of the deep seated pain of being so far away from his children, and how close he was to them, and how much he misses them, and I immediately fell into the task of comforting and consoling him. “Don’t worry you can go visit them anytime!” I learned another key piece of information then, he was an illegal “alien” (how I detested that word) and thus had no documentation. I found out more about the convoluted immigration laws and procedures of our country than I had ever wanted to know.

I loved him, what can I say? Love makes you do the most foolish things.

Now I look back and can see how I loved the “idea” of him, more than what he truly was. When he was quiet and withdrawn, I exclaimed to my friends that he was actually so deep and thoughtful! When he talked hesitatingly in his borrowed tongue, I thought his accent was beyond precious! When he withheld from groping me or even attempting to kiss me during our whole “courtship” period, I imagined him to be the most gallant and chivalrous of men. My Ethiopian prince could do no wrong, and under his critical (but loving) gaze, I readily exchanged my tight fitted jeans for Kamis woven dresses, Meknat-sashes, and threw Netelas over my shoulders. I also wore pretty scarves to match my new found religiosity.

I still remember my co-workers’ mute astonishment when I walked in wearing my colorful outfits, “she went and turned a foreigner on us!” An older woman clucked mean spiritedly, but I could care less. They were too blinded by Western brainwashing to see the depth of my new found roots.

Yet this same man who elevated me to the heights of my African throne, had me groveling and pulling my hair all over him.

We got married twice, the second time in a simple mosque with his brother, his sister in law, and a few friends. By that time, Sandra and the rest of my friends were no longer in my life. I didn’t invite my parents or family, because I really wanted to spare my daddy the heart attack of stepping foot into a mosque. In retrospect, I was a bit ashamed of them seeing me garbed and transformed into something I clearly was never going to be.

Three months earlier we had gone to an bald aging attorney who conducted a perfunctory civil wedding, and stamped our application for marriage license form. Under the benevolent image of Statue of liberty, we were thus declared married. At my insistence, my Ethiopian prince hired an immigration attorney to begin the long process of naturalization. He was married to a bona fide citizen now, and his alien status was about to be declared “legal” at the very least.

Things went very smoothly in terms of his paperwork, the immigration officer took one look at my high-yella complexion (no thanks to some Master somewhere in my roots), my Ethiopian regalia, and assumed I was Ethiopian too. He asked minimal questions, approved everything and within three months my Prince had his Work Authorization ID. We had many plans back then, plans that I conceived and articulated in the depth of the night, unawares of the monologues I was carrying on. We were going to gain custody of his children and bring them to the land of plenty, I was going to be the best mother ever, and we should at least have two more of our own babies to complete the family circle.

I signed him up for English classes and even got him a job at our sister company in the mailroom (”You can work your way up! It happens all the time!”). He quit after about a month or so, he hated the stuffiness of an office environment, and sorting mail gave him a  migraine. He then confessed that he actually missed hanging out at the restaurant where he had plenty of “back home” company to keep homesickness at bay. I was annoyed at his lack of ambition, but what can I say? I loved him and I was happy as long as he was (or so I convinced myself).

Our wedding wasn’t exactly what I had planned since my teen years. Back then I pictured church pews filled with family and friends, Sandra as my Maid of honor, Sarah, Tisha and Sophy as my bridesmaids. I pictured ushers, church music, and the exchange of vows. A simple but gorgeous reception would follow and we’d be whisked away to an exotic honeymoon far beyond the sunset. My actual wedding was sparsely attended, in a little mosque without the frills and decorum of a stately church. He couldn’t leave the country for our honeymoon, and didn’t want to waste that much money on trivialities. We compromised and booked a hotel room downtown for the weekend. I cried (out of joy I convinced myself then) but now I realize it was tinged with self pity too.

At the hotel, we were both reticent and awkward. Unaware on how to exactly approach each other. It wasn’t our first time, not even mine, but there was something holy and sacred about that night, and our chaste courtship had set up firm boundaries that we were not to cross. Our mutual bashfulness left me in awe of how pure and delightful our bond really was.

Marriage life was blissful for me. I went to work giddy, unable to contain the joy and radiance of being initiated into his world. He moved in with me, since he had been living in his brother’s basement and continued working for his family. I bought a lot of Ethiopian art work and filled my home with his peculiar incenses and spices. Although I was tired from working all day, I couldn’t wait to come home and prepare a loving meal for him. I woke him up many a times to breakfast in bed, and surprised him everyday with a new word or phrase I had learned of Amharic. On weekends, I cleaned the house from top to bottom (he was very particular about my former messiness); did all the laundry and ironed out his clothes for the week. I pre pasted his toothbrush every morning, laid out a clean towel for him, and kept his shaving gear clean and charged for him. He didn’t “order” me to do any of this stuff. I wanted to do it, lovingly, for I thought this was what being a good Muslim (and more importantly Ethiopian wife) meant.

Some nights he came late from work, and the feast I had prepared went cold and untouched. I found out much later that he did not like breakfast at all, and was just humoring me by nibbling a bit of everything I prepared for him. I had learned how to brew Ethiopian coffee from scratch, letting the beans heat up on the stove under low heat for what seemed like hours, and blending them into a nice fresh roast. He loved the coffee, and seeing him drink it with much satisfaction made me feel whole and complete. Sometimes though, he would comment that the beans were a bit burnt (he had very particular taste), and I always strove to get it right the next time.

The love I held for him knew no bounds; and each subtle criticism thrown my way, made me press harder on my soul, to contort and twist into what was acceptable and worthy in his eyes.

He was still reserved and I realized it went beyond our linguistic barriers. It almost felt like there was a whole universe within him, that I had no access to at all. I lay myself bare to him, telling him all the little details from my childhood that I was astonished to still remember. I told him of my joys, fears and dreams and probed him of his past, to tell me more of his children and country. But he managed to tell me a bit of this and that, trivial anecdotes about Addis Ababa where he grew up, nothing more substantial. He turned on and off, sometimes cool and aloof and others warm and loving. I lived for those brief flashes of loving moments, right after a satisfying night, we would lie wrapped in each other’s arms and he would smoke (I hated that habit but put up with it) and promise to whisk me away to Ethiopia, away from “all this American madness”, where we can live simply and raise our children in peace. I was on cloud nine, my earlier suppressed dreams of traveling were unraveled and I couldn’t wait to see the world. To live in the motherland, the way my ancestors did, and walk those same paths they had traced (of course they were technically from the other coast, but it didn’t matter to me).

When I was stuck in the cubicle, I could at least see the light at the end of the tunnel, and was even heard to hum some Amharic folk songs I had memorized. I couldn’t wait to have a baby with him, I was pretty sure a gorgeous little bundle of joy would bring us only closer and grant me a peak into the shadows that he harbored inside. We didn’t conceive right away, but it wasn’t for lack of trying, I refused to take any pills, even though he insisted he wasn’t ready for babies. I actually lied, shamefully, and told him I was on the pill, to ease his anxiety a bit. I just knew he wouldn’t be able to resist the baby when he/she finally arrived, with our combined complexions, his pretty eyes, and our curly hair, I just knew we would have the prettiest baby on earth!

My looks that I had just despised when I was growing up, with my light skin, and long curly hair, were always a bit too conspicuous (on the white side) for my afrocentric struggle. My attempts to sport a ‘fro, were completely blighted by hair that insisted on falling over my shoulders. My truly black sisters shunned me on the sly, I was never Black enough, was loathed to be anywhere near White, and thus stuck in this forever abyss of rootlessness and no belonging. I had finally learned to love my looks, and my ability to pass for an Ethiopian woman convinced me of how my whole life was primed for this marriage.

I ignored other little signs, the way he never let me talk to his back home family, or his children. The way he stayed on the phone with them late into the night, always whispering beyond earshot, making me wonder what kind of long intimate secrets did he have to share with his kids and mother? The way he never fully committed to any of my grand plans for our lives, always vague and just a bit out of reach from my embrace. I threw myself into perfecting my Amharic and ensuring all his needs were met.

Our household was a picture perfect frame of the 1950’s, I swear I even read some of those long buried advices on how to “please your husband” and how to relax him and put him in the “mood”. There were of course plenty of Islamic books outlining the “ideal Muslimah”, the virtues of a good wife, and the 101 ways of pleasing your husband and I studied those like the good sincere devoted woman I was. I attended study circles during my free evenings (since he almost always worked late), and my Muslim sisters mainly from the Ethiopian community, taught me how to pray, how to read Quran, and on the side we exchanged recipes and confidences.
I got pregnant the same year he was up for Naturalization, about three years into our marriage. I was elated. I just knew that my struggles were over, and this baby was a true sign and blessing for us. His reaction stopped my blood cold though. He was enraged “You have to get rid of it” He curled his lips at “it” in disgust and spit on the side for good measure (all over my spotless carpet at that).

“Are you insane?” I was aghast.

“Are YOU insane? Didn’t I tell you I wasn’t ready for children?”

“But you are knocking on forty! What do you mean you aren’t ready?”

He walked out without a response, leaving me heaped up on the floor drenched in tears. I didn’t see or hear from him for a whole week.

Sarah, my little precious, tumbled out all wide eyed and innocent in the midst of a bitter silence that had settled in the house. He never did apologize nor did he embrace the growing life within me. He stayed out even longer and the protracted phone calls in the middle of the night increased. I lived in pure torture throughout the pregnancy, half willing my body to miscarry and half terrified that I will lose my baby and die of guilt. My nerves were frayed and I would break down everywhere, in the car, in my cubicle, in the shower. I woke up night after night, begging God, begging Him to make my husband love me, love us, and incline his heart towards his family. I lost so much weight, accumulated so many shadows under my eyes, my doctor yelled at me and ordered me on a mandatory vacation to get away from it all.

With the baby’s arrival, the exhaustion and bitterness I had accumulated burned my patience out. I went back to my unkempt ways, the house was perpetually messy (not out of choice) but of zapped energy drained from a listlessness and depression that hung over me. I had taken off a whole year from work, and lived partially on my extended leave and some savings, hoping to stretch it out, before having to bring in an income. I realized I was the only one paying bills, buying groceries and taking care of the whole house. I started asking him for money and requesting that he helps out around the house. He naturally resisted, the money was for his children and a “real” man does not do housework or change diapers, everyone knows that, besides a “real” Ethiopian woman would never make such preposterous demands on him.

I was crushed under the weight of his foot on my soul.

As he was packing, I wondered why I didn’t feel more relief? A side of me was yelling “Why are you begging him to stay? What has he brought into your life but heartache?” But I was deigned to admit defeat and didn’t have the courage to mourn over corpse of my dreams and heightened illusions or look them straight into their dead eyes.

“WHY CAN’T YOU BE HONEST WITH ME? WHAT KIND OF MAN ARE YOU? A REAL MAN WILL NEVER DO THAT TO A WOMAN!” I spit at him, my voice filled with venom and my face twisted with vile. He was already heading for the door, but the words “real man” stopped him in his tracks.

He turned around slowly, and for a split of a second I really thought he was going to hit me, questioning his manhood was definitely crossing a solid boundary.

“I am sponsoring my wife and children to come live with me. I don’t need you anymore. You want the truth, there deal with it” He spoke in a soft voice, a malicious smile playing on his lips, his eyes speaking of a victory in a battle I had no idea I was a part of.

“Your wife…” All the hate, bitterness, confusion, even common sense drained out of me. I just looked at him with a stupid blank expression on my face, repeating “your wife?”

The door slammed with a thud, momentarily pausing Sarah’s screams.

I stood there in my nightgown, crow’s nest of a hair, bloated face, red eyes shadowed by the clinging of night, hearing a ringing emptiness from somewhere in outer space, gathered and piled up into my soul, squeezing my insides out, choking my breath, and murdering the dewy eyed romantic lover that resided somewhere within.

My African prince plunged a poisonous arrow into my soul, the necessary blood price he was willing to pay for a lousy piece of paper.

Yet I did love him, what more can I say?

Why else would I have been so foolish and determinedly blind all along?