Fall Traditions 2001

Zainab was excited to introduce Mohamed to one of her favorite traditions of her favorite season. She had the entire day planned out but Allah is constantly laughing at us humans. This was certainly no exception.
Zainab got ready and had Mohamed climb into her car for the life and times of Tina Marie Stein tour. She tried to make a more universal description of her hometown and social class within American society but failed miserably. She figured that seeing was believing but it doesn’t always work between cultures.
They pulled up to Plymouth Canton High School as she explained the classes that she took there before graduation. She then drove to the other side of the campus to Plymouth Salem High School as she explained the classes she took in that school. She tried to explain that it was modeled after community colleges and offered many of the same classes.
She was always ashamed of saying where she graduated from in certain areas or the public school system there.
She was born on Detroit’s West Side to a single mother. Her daddy served in Vietnam and was blue collar along with most of her family. Tina Marie Stein got lucky.
They moved to what was an exurb that had professionals and old monied Detroiters. It exploded and became a somewhat affluent suburb. She had the finest education with the finest students.
She even married one of her old monied classmates and attended Michigan State University as a premed, prelaw, business major. She was the toast of Canton and the blue collar, newly monied crowd. When she visited her in-laws and the old monied crowd, she was reminded of her place. She was the bastard daughter of a factory worker, granddaughter of a maid and the only man in her life was a disabled auto worker who was wounded in Vietnam. The only husband the whore could find.
Zainab and her family endured for the couple but her husband became an addict and destroyed both of their lives. They finally, mercifully divorced.
She tried to explain this nuance to Mohamed but he saw what most non Americans and even some Americans saw, the stereotypical, affluent American High School as seen in Hollywood movies for decades. Mohamed hadn’t seen Pretty in Pink unfortunately so that example was out.
When they drove to the Cider Mill in Salem, Zainab prayed that he’d eventually understand American society. The country drive of her childhood had been paved over. The farms she played at with friends were sold to make way for McMansions. These were huge, expensive, cookie cutter houses with a deck instead of a yard. They were typically bought by young professionals trying to impress their way up the corporate ladder. They had no belongings and were rarely seen except when they’d host a party for executives.
She knew some of them. Many were exhausted, miserable and eventually lost their prized McMansions. It was heartbreaking to watch. They wanted to make it big, took a huge gamble and lost it all to greed.
Zainab prayed for Mohamed. She didn’t want him to see her potential and get the fever for greed like so many of her friends.
Zainab guided Mohamed to the petting zoo first. She figured that the farm animals would help him forget the opulence just next door. She pointed to the animals, said their names in English and then described them in several ways.
He was getting good at remembering the words in English. He wandered away slightly and excitedly told her about what he had just seen.
Zainab, beouf.
Beef? Where? Wait. What beef?
Baby beef.
Huh? Veal? We’re outside.
As the crowd cleared, she saw what excited him, paused and continued.
Oh. I see. The baby cow which this is, is called a calf. When we eat the big cow, it’s beef. When we eat the baby calf, it’s veal. You probably don’t really need to know that right now though. Sorry, kids. Cow. Cow is good. That cow. Aiwa. Huwa cow.
Cow. Okay. Cow.
It was a long day of “this is a…” lessons in English. She was happy to get fresh pressed apple cider that they watched them make. Yummy donuts and caramel apples with peanuts and some popcorn to cut down on the sugar overload made fresh for them as they waited.
Zainab simply looked lovingly into her husband’s eyes and said, “Huna. Eat. Haloo wa zain.” before chowing down herself. The translation of her ridiculous version of languages was, “Here. Eat. Sweet and good.”
She saw the irony in her crappy speech and frustration with Mohamed’s actually better but still crappy English. She figured that she would play the we’re in America card and follow up with the poor woman card if ever called out on her hypocrisy. Thankfully everyone just laughed along with Allah. Zainab tended to keep everyone in stitches with her antics. It made the hard times they all faced a bit easier.
By the time they climbed back into Zainab’s car for the drive back to their apartment, they were stuffed full of sugar and ready to pass out. Words didn’t matter as Mohamed hauled in the pumpkins, bag of apples, gallon of cider and other finds.
They fell onto the couch to watch old Abdel Halim movies with English subtitles. They were Zainab’s favorite. She lovingly turned to Mohamed and asked the most wholesome of American requests that even her gruff father would never deny her.
“After the movie, let’s carve the pumpkins together. I’ll bake the seeds. We can watch another movie curled up together with our treats when we’re done. I can even make popcorn and hot cocoa.”
His answer was swift, simple, decisive and pissed every feminist bone in her body into open rebellion that she tried desperately to quell. Thankfully she had plenty of practice. He stated.
That for women. I go my friend. You have fun. Go you mom for that.
I watch Abdel Halim. Ahaybhoo hatta, hatta, hatta. Huwa jamil wa haloo wa zain. J’adore Abdel Halim owie, owie, owie. Huwa parfait, no?
Good. You watch your love. Ma’salam.
Mohamed was already dressed, with his keys in his hand as he bent over to kiss her goodbye. The only American tradition he liked. Her family had to casually ask her at a party why he kissed her every time he left the room.
The answer was that he was against any public displays of affection. She had to convince him to be okay with it for their official American wedding where her family would break the glasses trying to get every last kiss seen.
Mohamed told every Muslim and Arab invited about the tradition which most understood better than him. He apologized profusely but Americans. What can you do?
He nervously grabbed her hands as he tried desperately to repeat the words of the minister. He was so careful and cautious that he performed flawlessly. The entire chapel breathed a sigh of relief for the poor man.
Zainab breathed easier for him, gave him a huge smile and squeezed his hands to let him know how proud she was. The minister then turned to Zainab and asked her to repeat after her. She smiled happily at her words, turned to her husband and said,
I, Tina Marie Stein take thee Mohamed Ali to be my wife. Umm, husband.
She then turned to the audience gathered and spoke directly to their faces full of love and hope for the couple.
Sorry. No speak English.
The foreign born side of Muslims and Arabs who were nervous around the American born Christians burst out laughing at her adorable error and recovery.
It made the American side feel at ease as well. They were trying desperately not to create an international incident in a Little Wedding Chapel in Farmington Hills, Michigan.
When the wedding party arrived at La Shish for the reception, they had all grown accustomed to asking about and figuring out customs of everyone there. The entire staff surrounded the couple and toasted their marriage as they knew them both well. They showed them the wedding cake that Mohamed had purchased from an Arab bakery. They had set it up for them.
Zainab was the first to notice the wedding topper and laughed hysterically. The bride and groom were in American wedding attire like they were dressed in but the color of the couple was a dark shade of black. She pointed at it and addressed the crowd.
I wish. I feel like a ghost surrounded by white in this gown.
The crowd laughed but Zainab knew the pain Mohamed felt at the sight. She’d try to soothe his ego later but never could.
She was actually impressed with her rough, uncouth family, especially her daddy. Daddy still called Mohamed and the others sand niggers to Zainab’s face every time but never or rarely to them. He even apologized to Zainab about it sometimes. She looked at her daddy who was grinning from ear to ear and clapping for his nigger daughter. She felt truly blessed.
As the Americans clinked glasses, Mohamed momentarily forgot how America saw him, grabbed his American wife and kissed her unabashedly on the lips. The Muslims and Arabs respectfully looked away with every clink before everyone decided to just forget decorum and live for the night!
Life was truly sweet in the midst of hell when they all learned to live and let live, at least for one night. Zainab felt like a poster child for multiculturalism in the Whitest body ever sometimes.
Zainab talked to Mohamed about the concept of race in America and Europe as opposed to that of Africa or the Arab world after he shared his anger about the wedding topper.
In Mauritanian society, Mohamed was from the ruling class of bidhan. These are people who trace their paternal ancestry to the prophet Mohamed (pbuh). They consider themselves Arab and White to distinguish themselves from those whose paternal ancestry is traced back to sub Saharan Africans. There are several tribes and classes but many of them are haratin or slaves.
You heard right, my friends. Zainab got to find out that her new mother in law owned slaves. One still worked for her even after slavery was outlawed numerous times because they were so close.
The Civil Rights loving White, Muslim American spent weeks begging every Arab and Muslim she knew to say that slavery was somehow different in America than it is in Islamic countries. They looked at poor Zainab and smiled. She knew better but was hoping against hope.
She quickly learned to just go with it. When Mohamed saw a fellow Mauritanian in line at the Secretary of State, he pointed him out and said very clearly,
I see a White Mauritanian there. I say hello. I come back soon. You wait.
She glanced over at the darkest brother that there is and smiled. She tried desperately not to spit in his face laughing in public while letting out a meek, “Okay,” in response.
She went to work, looked at Ibrahim and said,
The more that I learn about the world, the less I understand. We all just seem to be morons. Americans call me a nigger even though I’m intelligent, ghostly pale and have no recent ancestry in Africa or the Middle East.
My African born, medium brown husband insists that he and his darker than dark black countrymen are White somehow.
I am obviously an anti semite. You must absolutely detest me as a Muslim terrorist, you mensch, you.
I just don’t know how we can manage to figure it out here in America on this little corner but nobody else can seem to do the same.
I love you, Ibrahim.
“I love you too, Tina.”
“Ugh. Stop calling me Tina. It sounds creepy from you.”
“It only means vagina to around 4 million people worldwide and mostly in Africa, Tina.”
I don’t care. Don’t make me call Bubie, Diane and Lily.
Yes, Tina.
Zainab glared at Ibrahim who rolled his eyes while sighing.
Yes, Zainab. But why Zainab?
Ibrahim would find out soon enough.
Until next time, Ma’salam. With Peace.

Men Sadiqatuk, Drsy.
From your friend, Darcy.