Read Online Ten Things I Hate About Me by Randa Abdel-Fattah - Free Book Online

mainstream TV too. He insists on watching every single news program and bulletin, even if they’re back-to-back. But his writing and reading skills are still poor.
    “Can’t you get Shereen to do it?” I moan. I’m feeling too lazy for a translation exercise.
    “She’s not home from college yet. Please read them to me. It says here ann-an-re-re-port. That is important.”
    “Annual report,” I say in a huff. I sit down next to him and go through the pamphlet. Half an hour later Shereen arrives home, crashing down on the couch.
    “I’m so tired!” she exclaims, rubbing her eyes. “But guess what I got you, Jamilah?”
    “What?”
    “A friend of mine just got back from Egypt. She brought along a whole stack of new CDs. Ihab Towfeek, Amr Diab, Nancy Agram. All their new albums.”
    My eyes light up in excitement. “Wow!”
    “I borrowed them from her. Do you have a burner at school? You can take them with you tomorrow. Just make sure you bring them back.”
    “Don’t you have a burner at the university? I’d rather not take them to school.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’d never hear the end of it.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “It’s woggy music.”
    “Jamilah!” my dad cries. “You are not to use that racist word in this house. Do you understand?”
    I look at him in surprise. “All I meant was that in my school you only announce your background if you’re prepared to deal with people calling you a wog.”
    “The word wog might not necessarily carry with it the negative connotations we traditionally associate with it,” Shereen says in a tone that would put Lisa Simpson to shame.
    “There is no excuse to use such a word. It is an insult, even as a joke.”
    “Seriously, Dad,” Shereen argues. “In America the n-word in rap and hip-hop culture has metamorphosed.” Shereen is oblivious to my dad’s fallen jaw. “Contrary to the traditional derogatory meaning of the word, rappers and hip-hoppers use the word as a term of endearment. Wog has undergone the same transformation. I’m not saying I justify its use—I abhor typecasting individuals and creating social cleavages based on ethnicity, religion, or race—but I can understand how—”
    “Shereen,” my dad interrupts in an impatient tone, spit flying off the tongue as the Arabic words shoot out of his mouth, “I haven’t understood one word you are saying. Do you try to make me feel embarrassed that I don’t understand all this university language you keep using?”
    I resist a grin as I watch Dad’s radar move from me to Shereen.
    “Of course not, Dad,” Shereen says, looking wounded. “I would never try to embarrass you. I’m just trying to explain—”
    “Then go invest in an English to Arabic dictionary, spend two weeks in your room translating that speech you just subjected me to, and come back and we’ll talk about it. Although I have no idea what this rip and hippy-hoppy music has to do with my youngest daughter using the word wog so casually!”
    “But, Dad, you can’t deny it. We are wogs,” I say.
    “No, we are not! When I came to this country people would call you a wog and spit at you! It is offensive. You are an Australian, not a wog.”
    “Well, Dad, most people don’t think that way. At my school if you speak two languages or have dark skin or don’t celebrate Christmas, you’re never really accepted as an equal. That’s why keeping a low profile is the best option.”
    My dad almost falls off his chair. “You should be proud of who you are, Jamilah! You can be Australian and still have your heritage and religion. They are not at war with each other. Why is this life always like a battlefield for you? You are Australian and Lebanese and Muslim. They go together, Jamilah.”
    “Sure thing, Dad,” I say halfheartedly.
    “You were born here. You were raised here. I am the immigrant. And yet I feel more comfortable with my identity thanyou do!” He shakes his head in disbelief. “My struggles