Christmas Shopping 2001

Zainab had decided that she wanted to form new Christmas traditions with her family and friends this year. It was time for a transformative, Muslim American Princess shopping trip.

She tried to contain her excitement and fear as she sloshed down Telegraph Road to the Mecca of the Middle East known as Dearborn. Zainab’s Polish babushka lived in Dearborn as well as other friends and family but this was different. She was going to the East side of the divided city.

Zainab was intelligent for sure but a bit too trusting. As a child she caused numerous problems for her family because of it. On visits to her Grandmother in rural, Southern Georgia, she openly asked why the Black adults wouldn’t look her in the eye and called her ma’am. She was a child. Every adult in Detroit had absolutely no problem treating her as such.

She couldn’t understand why the Georgians were different. The White adults nervously tried to say that it was Southern Hospitality, like being called Miss Tina. The poor African Americans just kept praying to God and all that was holy to get the damn Yankee girl away from them so that they had a better chance of seeing the sunrise once more. It was naturally thought in the presence of said damn Yankee girl for the same reason.

This led to an intense rulebook being created specifically for her so that she wouldn’t get herself killed. The rules were instantly created by anyone and everyone at the first sign of her getting her crazy ideas. Detroit and the bordering suburbs, including Dearborn were banned well into adulthood unless she was with a responsible person.

Many times the responsible person was a child. She understood and had no problem taking directions from 8 year olds. They are incredibly intelligent and not as trusting. She was far safer with them guiding her.

After the obligatory ‘Look who’s coming for dinner’ moment, they all just threw their hands up and awaited her murder. It happened at a family party in a crowded and packed basement. She had shown his photo to the less racist members and asked their opinion. The consensus was to never bring him home to Daddy.

She sat beside her mom and showed her the photo. Her mom didn’t give a rat’s ass about anything other than a person’s happiness. Zainab understood this and that she was divorced and childless. She was just a bit too trusting of her dear, sweet, beloved mother.

I’m afraid of daddy. I don’t know what to do. I guess that I’ll just wait.

Maybe you could say that he’s from Europe instead of Africa.

The closest would be Spain because of Andalusia but he doesn’t know Spanish and France is far lighter. Daddy nor anyone else would be fooled by a man named Mohamed Ali. I can’t make him White. It’s impossible.

Yeah. I guess that you’re right. Can I see the photo again?

Sure.

Umm Zainab took the photo with love in her heart before excusing herself. Zainab watched in horror as her beloved ummi walked over to her beloved abbi with the photo that she felt for sure would result in her honor killing for disgracing herself in that manner.

She watched as if time had slowed to a crawl. Her mom got his attention. They spoke briefly. He looked at the photo. She eyed the stairs and only exit. It was blocked with loved ones. She quickly calculated who she could shove into her daddy’s path as she ran for her life.

They spoke again while both looking at the photo. Daddy was getting older. Maybe she could miraculously outrun the former Marine. She prayed as her daddy looked up, scanning the room for her. She gulped while awaiting her sentence for interracial, inter religious and immigrant marriage.

She gave her daddy the biggest fake grin of all time while shaking violently. She loved her daddy but love and truth will always win with her. He nodded in her direction with a chuckle. Was it the chuckle he gave before beating you or his ironic chuckle? She wasn’t sure as her nails dug into the palms of her hands and she positioned herself to run like Forest Gump.

“A sand nigger, eh?” was his reply with a chuckle. He smiled at his crazy daughter. He was never sure what she’d do next. He had finally learned to just go with it. The world was changing. The future always belongs to the youth.

Zainab smiled, nodded and said, “Yes, daddy. A sand nigger.” He said, “okay,” before going back to his man talk. It was going to be okay. She was sure of his words. He always kept his word because that is all that a person truly has.

As Zainab turned left towards the east side of Dearborn, she grew in excitement as she read the Arabic signs. Fast food restaurants offered halal options. Souqs lined the modern American streets. She was transported into a whole different world. She spotted a woman’s clothing store with a more modern and American esthetic. She figured that it’d be a good start at least.

She was wearing a malehfa, the traditional clothing of certain Muslims in Africa. The majority of Arabs in Dearborn were from a different culture and style of dress. It was a constant battle between religion and culture from around the world.

She entered and was greeted with the typical women’s clothing store greeting in English.

Good morning. Let me know if you need help finding anything.

Thanks. I want to look at everything but I need an outfit for a Christmas party for sure.

There’s some fancier dresses in this corner. We have jilbaab, shalwar khameez, every kind of hijab and the accessories are in the counters.

Zainab was excitedly looking through the luxurious scarves when she heard the door open. She glanced up and smiled at the hijabi before returning to her mission. The lack of talk confused her so she looked at the Arab clerk who was helping her. The woman looked intently at Zainab and then the new comer. It took her a moment to realize what was happening.

Immigrants bring old grievances with them sometimes or acquire hate from Americans. She waited to see the woman’s face before reacting. The three spent a few minutes looking at each other while pretending that they weren’t.

Zainab played the Muslim game of who are you which is impossible. When she was asked in all sincerity and in Arabic if she was Sudanese, she realized that it was pointless. She still did it for clues but it’s a toss up.

The new comer had a dark complexion but no distinct features of any particular country. She presumed that she was African American. She looked at the Arab clerk like she was being racist or something but the look she received back was that she was being an idiot.

She looked back and thought for a moment as she roamed the globe of hate. The clerk wasn’t nervous for herself. She was nervous for Zainab. Having indistinguishable European features wasn’t helpful among colonized people. She was the undeniable enemy of everyone, especially in Detroit with redlining, riots and more.

That’s when she remembered Malcolm X. The Nation of Islam still has adherents in Detroit. After the defection and martyrdom of Malcolm, they usually kept to themselves and didn’t socialize with mainstream Muslims who have little in common with them. Zainab’s complexion meant that they considered her a devil.

The Arab clerk meant that Zainab was safe in the store. She wandered over to a rack near the new comer and pretended to look at clothes while acknowledging her, smiling and then casually saying, “Salam alaykum,” before returning to the rack. She noticed the woman out of the corner of her eye. Her nervous smile grew wide as she replied with a quiet, “Alaykum Salam.”

Once the women realized that they were fine, they got down to the far more important pursuit of the perfect scarf and accessories for their finds. They’d fight for the ummah tomorrow.

Zainab left with the perfect outfit and made her way to the Mecca of every busy Middle Easterner during holidays, Shatilla. She had yet to attempt the seemingly complex and ubiquitous desert known as baklava or baklawa, depending. She entered and instantly felt like a peasant. The Princesses were in every corner with their designer clothing and accessories perfectly arranged like models.

Zainab was good at hiding in plain sight. She blamed her daddy for answering her questions about being a sniper. The boys of the VFW would discover her and panic about what she heard and what wife was about to go off on them. She did it to the wives too so a truce was reached. They all agreed that she was no match for them and prayed for the entire world.

Zainab wove in, out and around the fashion models to spy the various versions on display. She listened to conversations to note what they enjoyed or purchased while appearing to belong. Once she had overheard the consensus and descriptions, she confidently pointed to a large box of assorted baklawa and put up 2 fingers.

The clerk spoke in English to confirm her choice. She nodded her head and got the cash out of her wallet. She handed over the money, completed the sale and left without saying one word.

The words of her friends rang in her head, “You’re an American. You speak English.” She shook her head realizing that she was never going to be the same. She was a familiar stranger in her own country and never happier.

Until next time. Ma’salam. With Peace.

Min Sadiqatuk, Drsy.

From your friend, Darcy.