It’s also why I know not to yell when Riad Fancy-Dance ambushes me a different day at the mall, when I am outside smoking away from anyone’s view. Along he comes with his green eyes, sad for today, and pleads for my love. I turn away from him and I don’t scream at first when he comes from behind and his body parts are touching me. But soon too much of him is on me and all I can do is explode, “God damn you. God damn your lies and your whores. How dare you call me your sister, with all of your lies and your pimp ways ... !”

He hangs his head and tries to hold on to my hand, to grab any affection I will give him, which is none.

And the next day, which is the last day I ever see him, he asks me to marry him bi-halal, which is the opposite of bi-haram, in sin. And I tell him he’s crazy and no way and get out of here.

Riad Fancy-Dance walks away to pour more drugged stories into the sweetened coffees of lovely American beauties who will hand him their jewels and their innocence in a plastic box and never realize that he has taken them only to try to fill his own empty self.

And I turn to steel the soft part inside of me that wants to crumble with rage and sadness. I’m so sick of everything being haram or halal, but nothing in between. I am in between.

So I drive home with the windows down and the stereo blasting, and even though I can’t close my eyes, in my mind I am dancing the rage away.

18 HALA Sharif

18HALASharif

“As-salaamu alaykum.”

I am startled by the deep voice that is louder than the television.

“Who is that?” I ask Latifa.

“Probably Sharif,” my sister answers, getting up to see. “He has been away on business for a couple of weeks.”

“Who?”

“Don’t you remember? He is our cousin, Hala. He went to Europe for several years and just came back last year. Now he and our father enjoy each other’s company and Baba treats him like his own son.”

I go through the pictures of our Jordanian relatives I have stored up in my mind, but I cannot remember.

“Sharif. Sharif Abdel-Hameed.”