Their Daughter and Their Sister, Their Very Own Shagra

When I talk to my American friends who are still in “my” country, we somehow always get on the topics of how “fearless” and… mostly “ridiculous” I was… am… whatever. I wasn’t there to study language, so I never found myself getting “caught in the perfect” of communicating. Some of my most favorite interactions were always when I was on my own with my protector guys who were always posted outside of my building at the little dukan [gas station without the gas]. Again, they didn’t speak a lick of English, but they were fun. I brought them cookies and other food occasionally and they checked their watches and watched who dropped me off at night. Always curious, always protecting.

One afternoon I came home from work, sunglasses on, one working earphone in, big bag full of papers slung over my shoulder. I was chewing gum [chewing gum is like a hooker thing to do…] and seriously sauntering up the stairs into the dukan. The three main guys were in the shop watching the TV. I walk in, don’t even bother to remove my glasses, and say, “Hey guys, what’s up.” Not even as a question. I didn’t look at them. I just proceeded to get some eggs that still had chicken poop and feathers on them in the open air cartons.

I heard a long pause, felt them look at each other, and with a huge smile on his face, Mohammad [my guard] makes a hearty and loud response of, “Walaykum salam, ya Sarah,” and they all laugh. [“Walaykum salam” is literally “and on you, peace” as it’s the response to the traditional greeting of “Salam alaykum”—“Peace be upon you.”]

I stop, look at him, pull my sunglasses up to my forehead, shift my weight, and chewing my gum say, “Oh. I didn’t even greet you in Arabic did I? My bad, guys. But yeah—you got it. ‘What up.’ ‘What up’ zay ‘Salam alaykum,’ bas bil inglesie,’ [‘What up’ is like ‘Peace be upon you,’ but in English.].” Not quite, Sarah….

We smile at each other and the three of them turn to one another to laugh and talk about me. I keep talking to them, in English, about my day and the weather and how they can’t understand a word I’m saying and how that totally amazes me—that I’m just like a blonde chimp before them just talking and talking and talking and how it kind of makes me so happy that we can even share such a special interaction. How I love how they just watch me like I’m a special moving exhibit in a really awesome museum and how all I really want to do sometimes is to tell Sami to put a nous-comb [a t-shirt] on under his terrycloth jogging suit so that I don’t have to see his chest hair. After all, I wear long sleeves, cover my bum with a sweater or dress, and always wear pants. I never come outside with my hair wet and I apologize for chewing gum today.

I take a deep breath, carefully put my little plastic bag of eggs on the quasi-counter, sigh and say, “I’m making cookies.”

“COOOOO-KKKEEEEESSSS???” they all exclaim together in excitement.

“Yes,” I say with a smile, “Cookies. You guys want some?” in Arabic.

“Yes, ya Shagra. Bless your hands. Your cookies from Amreeka are so delicious,” they tell me.

I pay for my eggs, smack my gum and skip down the stairs, around the corner and into my apartment building.

Praise God I live in a neighborhood with no English. I’m forced to constantly engage with people, with these MEN, who want to honor me and who delight in my ridiculous displays of comfort, familiarity, trust and…today… semi-giving up on the culture.

There’s a certain level of stress and tension that enters your body when you have to encounter a man. And walking into any other dukan I would feel my body tighten, avoid eye contact, wear a straight face, confidently and solidly get through my Arabic interaction, giving him the correct amount of money without touching, saying the right phrases and blessings, and be gone. I wanted to prove to them that I was strong, didn’t need their gawking and didn’t want their conversation with me, and that, YES! I’m from America. And no, I don’t know Obama.

But with these guys, with “my guys,” we kept a healthy and appropriate distance, but I also quickly found that I was “theirs” and they were “mine.” We trusted one another, yelled at one another, made fun of one another and delighted in one another.

Praise God, al-humdilallah, for man friends who acted as family, treated me with respect, and watched over my coming and going, without ever speaking my heart language or intimidating me. I became their daughter and their sister, their very own Shagra. Praise God.

Sorry, no pictures with those guys.
Even I didn’t cross that line. ;)
[And this shirt is Haram: Forbidden.
Outside of this place, which was all women and children,
I’d wear a big sweater and scarf to cover up allllll that skin you see.
It was hot. I promise.]

language & culture..."still alive."

TYD Trivia: I’m pretty [usually, secretly] excited that I have a master’s degree. Not so much for things public, but rather internal—I have tools in my pocket with which I can organize and understand… my life and the world around me. My most favorite course in grad school was “Language and Culture.” Bottom line: Language and Culture must be approached in tandem: they are co-dependent while co-existing.

For example, here, when something great happens to you, your friend will tell you something like Congratulations-- “Mabrook!” or “With blessings!” And your required response is, “Ahlayabarakfiki!” or “The same [or greater] blessings on YOU!” You don’t just say, “Thank you”—that’s rude! You wish the same goodness back on your well wisher! This is the culture being shown in the language.

You begin to see the hospitality and deep graciousness of the Arab people in the sweet dance that is the Arabic language. [You can also see their desire to constantly “one up” each other in goodness and well-wishes. It’s beautiful. Haha.] So here’s to reaching my dorkiness quota before my 200^th word. Let’s keep going.

So, while I was in the ME, I bet you would guess that I grabbed this “Language and Culture” bull by both hands and fully engaged!!!

Wrong.

I was much too… somethin’ to actually study Arabic while I was there, ya know, totally immersed in it. [Oh, regrets… let’s line up.] What it really came down to was that I was too tired, too poor and…. kind of… too sick of Arabic by the end of the day that I didn’t want to hear another word, let alone study and practice it. [In my defense, I always gave my best efforts to memorize and understand what I could via auditory skills. But I definitely recommend a more disciplined and committed way of learning. Shame, Sarah, shame.] I can’t exactly form an accurate, functional sentence, but I got me some colloquial phrases and a little Arab accent that made people think I knew more Arabic than I do. Or they’re so nice and just flatter me beyond what is the truth… Hmmm…

Well, one day, I came home from work especially exhausted and a little down-trodden. My day had turned out to be more than I was prepared for and I just wanted some flowers, but was too pathetic in the heart to go get them for myself [see previous post].

One of my big ole’ protectors [pictured to the left] met me on the street, just smilin’ away, and greeted me more extravagantly than normal [sometimes he doesn’t greet me at all]. He suddenly became very concerned about my posture and countenance.

He gave his best impression of my usual self to communicate his disappointment in my weariness. [That makes two of us buddy—but how did you notice?!] So after the charades he again asked how I was, and I finally responded, “Good! … VERY good!!”

Immediately, I received a personalized, gift-wrapped 3-minute lecture [no lie], in Arabic, about how my Arabic is wrong and how I am not allowed to say this. [Who died and made him the Boss of Arabic?!] He said that I can’t say this because it’s like taking a glass that is already half full of water and pouring “too much” water in it—to the point where it overflows! [Yes, I understood this in Arabic. “Mabrook” to me.] And I interjected that, “Yessss!!!! Shukran!!! [Thank you!!!] This is EXACTLY what I wanted to say!!!”

No. According to him, this is exactly what I don’t want to say.

[Oh.]

But in my mind and in my heart, it really IS what I want to communicate: My cup runneth over. This land, its culture, its language, its people—they’ve all exhausted me today, but I love it. Yes, sir, my cup runs over.

However, I’ll kid no one—I did not attempt to explain that in my dilapidated Arabic. Instead I let him finish up insisting that I can’t say this, that’s it’s not good to say, that it’s bad for your cup to spill over. [Probably some other thing in the culture I haven’t encountered and therefore don't understand yet.]

But it makes a little sense to me. In my mind, it’s as if you can never really be overly happy or just “really good” here. DAILY, I would ask people, in Arabic, how they were and the response I would get, always in English, with a dead-pan serious face was, “Still alive.”

And then I look at the person like this:

"What? Still alive?!”

And then they laugh, like it’s so funny. Haha, “Scared the Shagra” or something. But I guess we say it in English too. Not gonna complain, but I’m not gonna be happy, either. Ok, ya Eeyores!

But until I get yelled at by a considerable amount of Arabs, reprimanding my poor Arabic, I’m going to continue to sing that my cup runneth over.

For, indeed, it does.