On Being Single

It was about 10:30 PM on a Friday night. The main street was bustling as everyone was just beginning to leave their houses to go out, eating and visiting. Again, I had another epic yet “to be expected” encounter with a taxi driver. He wouldn’t listen to my directions—the ones I know “work” because I’ve memorized them from an Arab. He wanted to chit-chat with me [no, sir] and offered to take me to his house to visit with his two wives. [Ugh.] Frustrated and annoyed, I get a little sassy and pay him the exact fare, as he dropped me off about 5 “American blocks” from my desired destination. [Thanks, dude.]

I decide to delight in the opportunity to get to walk outside at night, something that doesn’t happen unless THIS happens. I put in my one working earphone on my little iPod shuffle and listen to the sweet sounds of some old-school Caedmon’s Call. We weren’t even on the chorus yet and I was already being followed. By a guy in a white Toyota van—ya know the one I’m talking about? The totally stereotypical “Middle Eastern” van? I pay him no attention and note that I’m alone on the dark side street. No shebab [youth males] are even out to… “protect me” [what? My neighborhood shebab love me.] There’s only one street light on. He does the classic follow behind and then speed up, rolling down his window to make kissing sounds and talk to me. I read the side of his van: Mohammad’s Plumbing Services.

This continues the whole way home, me ignoring him and him driving at 1mph to tail me. Eventually, I glare in his direction, hurl some [pathetically structured] insults and watch as he gets excited about how I’m showing a little life now. I definitely don’t want him to know what building I go into but I was just about home. In God’s sweet protection and provision, the bottom floor of my apartment building is a dukan [a little food/convenience shop—a gas station without the gas]. I walk up the stairs and am greeted by my three main men in the building, who take care of the place and subsequently… me. They only know “Helloooo” and “One, two, three” in English. So I say, in Arabic, “He is no good. He is my problem,” [Arabic’s hard…], and point to the guy waiting in the white plumbing van outside on the street. My three guys jump off their white plastic chairs and race outside, yelling at this man. All I heard was “shame on you!”, “American”, “blonde” and “good girl.” The rest, I’m sure, were bad words I’m not allowed to know.

The guy drives off, quickly realizing that he chose the wrong Shagra to follow, that I did have some male protection and that he did just waste 20 minutes of his night. I was exhausted and my guys could tell that. I sat and had some tea with them before going up to my apartment. I thanked them incessantly and they wished Allah’s protection on my life always. Sweet men.

I know, this makes my life seem so dramatic. But really, this is a story I wouldn’t even really share with friends in the ME—just because it’s “too everyday-ish.” This stuff happens all the time. And we just deal with it. I mean, when I noticed him following me, I just rolled my eyes and my temper flared up since I hadn’t fully recovered from being upset with my lazy taxi driver. When I talk to my married friends they say, “Oh, I just call my husband and he meets me outside and yells at the guy,” or does whatever the situation calls for. Well, guess what? I don’t have one of those—a husband.

I get to fight these fights by myself. Often, Father sends me men who can help, but ultimately, I’m alone in this.

And what makes me laugh is that married women look at me, with big, round eyes, filled with tears, pitying me that I don’t have a husband—especially for a night like this. Haha. No, I don’t have someone to fight for me. No, I don’t have someone to come home to and tell what happened in my day. [Instead, I blog.] And no, I don’t have someone to walk with me and avoid situations like this in the first place.

But I see it as God’s goodness to me right now:

• Other people are blessed by the time and energy I have to give them because I don’t have a husband or kids to be home for.
• I get to experience so many other families and friends because it’s just me—it’s easy to bring along just one more person into their families of 8… or 15.
• I’m forced to learn how to ask for help, trust other people and navigate “community.”
• He’s the one Who fights for me, protects me, provides for me…

It’s good for me to be single… let me be single. :)
No, I don't hate men—I adore them. I’m just not partnered with one right now.
Today, let me, and whatever single women around you, find delight in His perfect plan.
Remind us that we are useful and valuable to Father’s Family as His single daughters.
It’s not a pity—it’s great.
Just because it’s just hard sometimes, doesn’t mean it’s not Good.
I really just want people to “walk with me.”

Other Foreigners

“…and they’ll know we are [His] by our love…”

The longer I’m here the more I start to pay attention to other ex-pats. When you first meet someone, another ex-pat that is, your first conversation takes a total nosedive into a short, yet intensive, interview process. You ask and/or answer these same questions:

What’s your name?
Where are you from?
What company do you work for
[What do you think you’re doing here]?
How long have you been here?
What’s your language level?
Marital/Familial Status?

You then decide if you’d like to proceed to your first date or if you both will just keep your distance. I’ve found this exercise to be shallow and... BORING.

I finally met another girl who felt the same way.
We both dreaded the sight of a new foreigner in a room, car, whatever,
because we knew we were going to get interviewed instead of met.
A few months later, I was blessed enough to
become this girl’s roommate—she is lovely and pure fun.
And while we watched each other fall victim to this
stuffy cycle of meeting new people
who either just being polite and practicing their English
[but really wanted to know who we were],
or who lacked good conversation skills
[the ones we so obviously possess],
we decided to do what any other single lady living
in the Middle East would do:
Take Control.

Ahhh, yes. Roommate, as I’ll call her, just wants to meet someone and have them ask her her favorite color. That’s all she wants: For someone to care enough to know that she has a favorite color. So she started introducing herself and immediately saying, with a smile, “What’s your favorite color?” I found this to be highly entertaining and started joining in. [Ya see, Roommate is much sweeter and gentler than I, so if we get a rowdy one, someone who wants to stick to the above script, I step in and pretty much refuse them entry until they answer her question. It’s fun. For us...]

They’re so caught off guard, because this color question is not listed on the “How to Quickly Size Up Another Foreigner” index card that they have memorized, that they either fumble around or get a little intrigued. This pretty lady doesn’t want to know where you’re from, where you’re living, what company you work for, what work you’re doing or even how novice your Arabic is or isn’t. She wants to know what your favorite color is. Because obviously every person who possesses a soul also has a favorite color. And sometimes, she gets to have a real conversation with a stranger, in her heart language, where she doesn’t feel like the last thing she has to say is: “World Peace, Stan.”

Roommate’s inspired me to not ask these questions. And it’s been a lot of fun. The color question is hers, so instead, I like to ask: “What’s your favorite food?” Everyone has to eat at some point and if you’re living in my region, it means you eat a lot and quite often. I’ve found it so interesting that, when faced with a non-routine [silly] question, people go off auto-bot mode. I think it’s because when we meet other foreigners, we feel like we’re being judged and measured. We have to somehow, for some reason, prove ourselves to the other “Whiteys” in town to legitimize our own presence, so we have our little story prepared. And we resort to these lame, impersonal questions.

Maybe I’m making people a little uncomfortable. Maybe I kind of don’t care. We’re in the Middle East as Americans. I think that it’s pretty reasonable to be somewhat uncomfortable anyways, so what’s a few more moments with me? If we’re going to love each other and support one another’s work and lives, the best way to start is by appreciating each other. To let each other know that we care that you’re a real person, not just another commissioned warm body. I’d love to know that you’re allergic to peanut butter—I’d hate to make your whole apartment building peanut butter cookies and you not get one. [Sad.] We’re here to introduce and live out our Father’s Love, right? So let’s start with one another, ya know, our teammates. I don’t want to spend all my time with you—don’t worry—but I would like to know how I can best love you, not judge you. It’s not my town—it’s His. And I welcome your work and value your life. I, of all people, should be able to at least partially identify with the commitment you’re making and the sacrifices you continue to make. After all, I’m doing it, too.

By the way, Roommate’s favorite color is teal.
She’ll be happy to know you asked.