Lily is seven years old and flying across the atlantic for the thirteenth time in her life. From Logan in Boston to Charles DuGall in Paris to the airport in Riyadh, the plane travels over miles of sand, rocks, and srub bushes. Vainly, she keeps her eyes peeled for cacti and camels, saying in in an awed voice again and again, “This is where I'm going to live!” Lily's mother sighs in vain and doesn't even try correcting her after the fifth time. The small girl ignores the women in black who surround her and her mother, their oddness vanishing after the first diplomatic faux paux that the seven year old has preformed.
The plane lands at last in Riyadh, where Lily's mother grasps her hand tightly. She manuevers with many years of practice and locates Lily's two older brothers. The oldest, Ben, is put in charge of Nathan, because Lily is the baby of the family. Each of the four members of this family carry a backpack and the three children carry in theirs each, two changes of clothing but four pairs of underwear, a toothbrush, and whatever books, toys, or games got stuffed into the backpacks before departing New Hampshire. The mother carries everybody's passports, travelers checks, and American money.
The airport in Riyadh is dark, closed in despite the high ceilings. At some point during the journey night had fallen. Lily needs to use the bathroom, but the only one her mother can find has not been cleaned, and there is shit on the floor among used toilet paper. The smell is overwhelming. Mom whisks Lily out the door, back into the large terminal conjunctions.
“Can you hold it?” She inquires.
After the smell, the green fluorescent lighting that filters onto the stained tiles, Lily can hold it. It is only an hour until the plane leaves for Jeddah. Lily and her mother go back to the terminal they left Lily's brothers in, and find them quickly.
Bored, and tired of sitting after long hours on various planes, Lily points to the balcony edge, a large circle of open air looking down on the airport level below the terminal conjuctions, surround by a plain, modern railing.
“Stay where I can see you,” her mother admonishes, and off Lily goes, to observe in secret the going ons of the people one level down.
Eagerly, the young girl crouches next to a decorative vase, and presses her face through the wooden bars. She stays very still for almost three minutes, a vast accomplishment at her young age. Then, she begins to contemplate what would happen if she spat. Just as Lily is measuring how much trouble she could get into, a she feels a hand run its fingers through her hair. She whirls, nearly tripping over her own feet, at this invasion of her personal space. She stands there, arms rigid, mouth slightly gaping. Her eyes are wide, shocked, staring at the three women cloaked in black who stroke her hair, one who touches her hands to her lips before pressing it to Lily's forehead. Lily waits, tensed, for them to walk away.
She runs, then, to her mother who is resting with one eye on her children and another on their bags. Lily runs into her mother's arms, and says “they touched me.”
Her mother turns abruptly, “What?”
“On my hair,” Lily nearly wails. “They, they pet me!”
Mom soothes Lily, running her fingrs through Lily's almost shoulder length hair. At seven, Lily's hair is still blond, and though darker now than it used to be, any light still catches the gold highlights that will fade in three years.
Her mother explains, not worried now, “Some of these women have never seen hair like yours, they're only admiring it.”
Lily nods, watching her brothers as they huddle over a gameboy.
***
Hot, humid. Dusty, yellow, tan. Five times a day there’s a musical language pouring out of minarets, five times a day the bustle of the city pauses, five times a day it is painfully obvious you don’t belong. But the cars still move because even Wahhabi Islam lets you continue to travel during the call to prayer. The fountains continue to run, beautiful cascades of fresh water over blue tile, or shooting ten, twenty, fifty feet into the cloudless sky; a tribute to Jeddah’s desalination facilities. Jeddah is the greenest, most lush city of Saudi Arabia. Of all of the King’s cities, palaces, and resorts, he prefers Jeddah—the botanical gem in a country where the sun bakes greenery dry, where the wind scours plants from the sand, and where anything left in the sand is consumed by the goats, sheep and camels.
Rain. For the first time in the year and a half she’s lived in Jeddah, there’s rain. Her face is pressed to the glass, watching, entranced by the water pouring down, rivulets streaming and pooling on the windowpane. Her breath fogs the glass, and she draws a happy face, wishing she could go outside. Downstairs her mother is laboring over the stove top, carefully measuring ingredients into a pot. The woman is making chocolate pudding, and she’s taken the day off from work—the rain making terrible drivers even worse. The real motive for her day off, however, is to keep her three children from going outside and playing in the downpour.
“It isn’t clean, it will make you sick.”
And she’s right. It doesn’t rain in Jeddah. The city hasn’t seen a downpour like this in the past hundred years. Every so often, perhaps during the winter months, where the temperature of the city might drop down to 60 degrees Fahrenheit and the children wear windbreakers to school, there might be a short shower, lasting perhaps five, maybe ten minutes. It doesn’t even get your hair wet, this shower, and children lay on the asphalt of the playground to make rain angels. All the greenery of Jeddah is provided by the ever vigilant gardeners, the extravagant sprinkler system set up in private gardens, the public workers watering the median strips were the palm trees grow. Jeddah’s sewer system isn’t equipped to handle rain. The sewer system was never meant to handle this much water.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Walnut
I remember the screech of tires, my body soaring into the air like a bird. I saw white, and heard a sickening crack when I landed. I don't remember any pain, or what came after.
Sally woke up. Her eyes opened, and then closed at the glare of the ceiling lights. Nurses came in, one of them held her hand. Another asked her questions. Sally looked at these nurses, and announced “I am a walnut”. She pulled her hand away and curled up into a fetal position, somewhat hampered by the wires that attached to her.
Sally woke up. Her eyes opened, and then closed at the glare of the ceiling lights. Nurses came in, one of them held her hand. Another asked her questions. Sally looked at these nurses, and announced “I am a walnut”. She pulled her hand away and curled up into a fetal position, somewhat hampered by the wires that attached to her.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
A room in my childhood
This is the room where I first tasted wine. This is the room where I grew up, learned how to use roller skates. This is the room where my family would come together in the evening.
The carpet is blue, and the windows take up all the walls. Turn right from the door, and there is a bathroom. The tile falls out into the main room, a path from the bathroom door to the room door. This is neutral territory, you don't play rough on the tiles. A couch sits back against the windows, and it is here that my family gathers to watch a movie or my brothers play video games. This is where I learned to play Duck Hunter and Mario. This is the base of all couch forts, the place where we beat on each other and cried. This is the room my brothers and I were exiled to during political dinners, where the maid and sometimes her son would sleep if it was too late to walk home. This is where the TV lived, along with the VCR and Nintendo. They sat on a hutch that also contained our entire movie collection. We had one lazy susan chair to go with the couch, and a lamp at either end of the couch. our maid would take our toys from this room, carelessly discarded in lieu of another adventure, and place the My Little Ponies or Legos back in the appropriate bedrooms.
Boardgames lived in the hutch, and I learned to hate Monopoly, but learned to love Sorry and Mousetrap. We would place Jenga on the tile, there being to table to play upon. Nathan would build elaborate wooden train sets. In our bedrooms we could shut the door to our sibling's faces, but this room everyone was welcomed. This is where we prepared our armory of water guns and balloons, where we painted ourselves like tigers and snakes. This is the room I grew up with my brothers.
The carpet is blue, and the windows take up all the walls. Turn right from the door, and there is a bathroom. The tile falls out into the main room, a path from the bathroom door to the room door. This is neutral territory, you don't play rough on the tiles. A couch sits back against the windows, and it is here that my family gathers to watch a movie or my brothers play video games. This is where I learned to play Duck Hunter and Mario. This is the base of all couch forts, the place where we beat on each other and cried. This is the room my brothers and I were exiled to during political dinners, where the maid and sometimes her son would sleep if it was too late to walk home. This is where the TV lived, along with the VCR and Nintendo. They sat on a hutch that also contained our entire movie collection. We had one lazy susan chair to go with the couch, and a lamp at either end of the couch. our maid would take our toys from this room, carelessly discarded in lieu of another adventure, and place the My Little Ponies or Legos back in the appropriate bedrooms.
Boardgames lived in the hutch, and I learned to hate Monopoly, but learned to love Sorry and Mousetrap. We would place Jenga on the tile, there being to table to play upon. Nathan would build elaborate wooden train sets. In our bedrooms we could shut the door to our sibling's faces, but this room everyone was welcomed. This is where we prepared our armory of water guns and balloons, where we painted ourselves like tigers and snakes. This is the room I grew up with my brothers.
Down came the rain...
Hot, humid. Dusty, yellow, tan. Five times a day there’s a musical language pouring out of minarets, five times a day the bustle of the city pauses, five times a day it is painfully obvious you don’t belong. But the cars still move because even Wahhabi Islam lets you continue to travel during the call to prayer. The fountains continue to run, beautiful cascades of fresh water over blue tile, or shooting ten, twenty, fifty feet into the cloudless sky; a tribute to Jeddah’s desalination facilities. Jeddah is the greenest, most lush city of Saudi Arabia. Of all of the King’s cities, palaces, and resorts, he prefers Jeddah—the botanical gem in a country where the sun bakes greenery dry, where the wind scours plants from the sand, and where anything left in the sand is consumed by the goats, sheep and camels.
Rain. For the first time in the year and a half she’s lived in Jeddah, there’s rain. Her face is pressed to the glass, watching, entranced by the water pouring down, rivulets streaming and pooling on the windowpane. Her breath fogs the glass, and she draws a happy face, wishing she could go outside. Downstairs her mother is laboring over the stove top, carefully measuring ingredients into a pot. The woman is making chocolate pudding, and she’s taken the day off from work—the rain making terrible drivers even worse. The real motive for her day off, however, is to keep her three children from going outside and playing in the downpour.
“It isn’t clean, it will make you sick.”
And she’s right. It doesn’t rain in Jeddah. The city hasn’t seen a downpour like this in the past hundred years. Every so often, perhaps during the winter months, where the temperature of the city might drop down to 60 degrees Fahrenheit and the children wear windbreakers to school, there might be a short shower, lasting perhaps five, maybe ten minutes. It doesn’t even get your hair wet, this shower, and children lay on the asphalt of the playground to make rain angels. All the greenery of Jeddah is provided by the ever vigilant gardeners, the extravagant sprinkler system set up in private gardens, the public workers watering the median strips were the palm trees grow. Jeddah’s sewer system isn’t equipped to handle rain. The sewer system was never meant to handle this much water.
Rain. For the first time in the year and a half she’s lived in Jeddah, there’s rain. Her face is pressed to the glass, watching, entranced by the water pouring down, rivulets streaming and pooling on the windowpane. Her breath fogs the glass, and she draws a happy face, wishing she could go outside. Downstairs her mother is laboring over the stove top, carefully measuring ingredients into a pot. The woman is making chocolate pudding, and she’s taken the day off from work—the rain making terrible drivers even worse. The real motive for her day off, however, is to keep her three children from going outside and playing in the downpour.
“It isn’t clean, it will make you sick.”
And she’s right. It doesn’t rain in Jeddah. The city hasn’t seen a downpour like this in the past hundred years. Every so often, perhaps during the winter months, where the temperature of the city might drop down to 60 degrees Fahrenheit and the children wear windbreakers to school, there might be a short shower, lasting perhaps five, maybe ten minutes. It doesn’t even get your hair wet, this shower, and children lay on the asphalt of the playground to make rain angels. All the greenery of Jeddah is provided by the ever vigilant gardeners, the extravagant sprinkler system set up in private gardens, the public workers watering the median strips were the palm trees grow. Jeddah’s sewer system isn’t equipped to handle rain. The sewer system was never meant to handle this much water.
I can has rights?
It came in the mail today. A thick, padded envelope. Cream, with my name printed on the outside, my address. The wood floor is cool beneath my feet, the house dark without the afternoon light that the small windows exclude. I sit in an uncomfortable chair that extra padding does nothing to disguise the hard surface, the splinters beginning to pop up from the wood. The table I lay my forearms against is dark, with light colored worm-like trails tracing complicated maps across the smooth surface. Potted orchids cover every windowsill in this room, their broad leaves devouring what scant sun comes through, leaving nothing for me to read by. I hold my breath, and slip my fingers beneath the glue that holds this envelope down.
I remove cardstock, and grin. I look over my absentee ballot, before setting it aside, according to the label, and read carefully over the set of instructions accompanying the ballot. I'm supposed to vote with another person present, someone who can witness my actions. I look around. Dust drifts silently, landing gracefully on the broad leaves. The garden is brown, this time of year, viewed through dismally dirty windows. I go into the kitchen, with the linoleum tiles that are the color of vomit, and the florescent light that buzzes threateningly over head, casting sickly green shadows to match the vomit colored floor. The microwave numbers glow in the dim yellow light. There's over an hour before anyone will come home. I fill and set a kettle of water on the ancient white stove.
I go back into the dining room, and reread the instructions. I pad around the house, with the oriental carpets and a mix of antique and Ikea furniture, all stained dark brown. There are books on every horizontal surface. Dust is visible on those books, this neglected household chore falls to whomever has the energy. No one has the energy after work; I'm to restless to even think about dusting. The water boils, and I make myself a cup of tea, and settle on the couch. Black leather, cool even in the summer, a splurge on my parents part. No cleaning, my mother explain, no need to vacuum, and no need to dust, because everyone sits on it. I get up, tea half finish, porcelain mug in my hand. No body's home, but I find a pen. I open the cardstock ballot, and read. I make a selection, dark ink on white paper. This is my vote. I close it up, and wait for someone to come home and give witness that I followed instructions. My mother signs the witness, and I seal my ballot.
I remove cardstock, and grin. I look over my absentee ballot, before setting it aside, according to the label, and read carefully over the set of instructions accompanying the ballot. I'm supposed to vote with another person present, someone who can witness my actions. I look around. Dust drifts silently, landing gracefully on the broad leaves. The garden is brown, this time of year, viewed through dismally dirty windows. I go into the kitchen, with the linoleum tiles that are the color of vomit, and the florescent light that buzzes threateningly over head, casting sickly green shadows to match the vomit colored floor. The microwave numbers glow in the dim yellow light. There's over an hour before anyone will come home. I fill and set a kettle of water on the ancient white stove.
I go back into the dining room, and reread the instructions. I pad around the house, with the oriental carpets and a mix of antique and Ikea furniture, all stained dark brown. There are books on every horizontal surface. Dust is visible on those books, this neglected household chore falls to whomever has the energy. No one has the energy after work; I'm to restless to even think about dusting. The water boils, and I make myself a cup of tea, and settle on the couch. Black leather, cool even in the summer, a splurge on my parents part. No cleaning, my mother explain, no need to vacuum, and no need to dust, because everyone sits on it. I get up, tea half finish, porcelain mug in my hand. No body's home, but I find a pen. I open the cardstock ballot, and read. I make a selection, dark ink on white paper. This is my vote. I close it up, and wait for someone to come home and give witness that I followed instructions. My mother signs the witness, and I seal my ballot.
A Place Exercise: Ode to Libraries
Libraries are a favorite place of mine. Rows of books, neatly organized by author and the Dewey Decimal system. The smell of paper, glue, and dust. Not overwhelming, as in some used bookstores where the dust pan has yet to be invented, and dust motes are busy learning to use other dust motes as clothing, and creep along aisles, ducking behind books, in their every constant desire to hunt the vicious dust bunny. Library dust motes are of a different sort, idles, lazy, like cherry blossom petals in every bad anime ever made, floating and swirling among the books and shelves, fearful to set foot upon anything that a vicious librarian might come along and clean with a vengeance. But people can settle here, in this timeless place, come rain or shine, and the assistants will help you, or leave you alone when you say "thanks, but I'm fine."
Here I find Niffennegger, Kushner, and Bujold. I rediscover Orson Scott Card (you closet homosexual, you). Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events turns up one day, and I finally read my favorite childhood movie, Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn, discovering that yes, it was actually a good story. I rediscover who I want to be through reading. Let me brave, kind, considerate. But most importantly, here, in this world of books, I can seek tranquility, a sense of peace in a chaotic world. I can leave Baltimore behind, I can escape the problems of America, and visit imaginary memories and worlds no less real than mine.
Here I find Niffennegger, Kushner, and Bujold. I rediscover Orson Scott Card (you closet homosexual, you). Lemony Snicket's Series of Unfortunate Events turns up one day, and I finally read my favorite childhood movie, Peter S. Beagle's The Last Unicorn, discovering that yes, it was actually a good story. I rediscover who I want to be through reading. Let me brave, kind, considerate. But most importantly, here, in this world of books, I can seek tranquility, a sense of peace in a chaotic world. I can leave Baltimore behind, I can escape the problems of America, and visit imaginary memories and worlds no less real than mine.
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