Read Online Ten Things I Hate About Me by Randa Abdel-Fattah - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Randa Abdel-Fattah
Tags: Fiction
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should not be endured by my children. That means we have not progressed. We have gone nowhere and learned nothing. There’s something very wrong with that.”
It’s one of the rare occasions in my life that I can see that my dad has a point.
13
WE’RE AT AUNT Sowsan’s house for dinner tonight. Aunt Sowsan is older than my dad by six minutes. She acts as though this gives her a license to boss him around. She tortures him with lectures about watching what he eats, keeping up with his exercises for the arthritis in his knee, quitting smoking, and cutting back on his intake of makhalil (spicy pickled cucumber, radish, onion, and carrot) because of his blood pressure.
Aunt Sowsan is married to Amo (Uncle) Ameen. They don’t have any children. Maybe that’s why she pours such lavish affection on Shereen, Bilal, and me. She’s always coming over and cooking us surprise meals. She remembers each of our birthdays, spoils us with presents at Eid, and stopped us from fading away after Mom died.
As for Amo Ameen, he doesn’t say much about anything at all. In the face of Aunt Sowsan’s loud, bossy, and controlling personality, he doesn’t stand a chance. Amo Ameen is placidand inconspicuous and is content to smoke his argeela —his water pipe—read his newspaper, and eat a bag of pumpkin seeds after dinner.
I’m sprawled on the couch, the top button of my jeans undone, as I try to draw in oxygen after savoring the delights of stuffed cabbage leaves, roast chicken, and creamy potato bake (Aunt Sowsan apologetically claims that she was too tired to cook up a real feast tonight).
Amo Ameen and Dad are sipping mint tea, chewing on pumpkin seeds, and discussing New South Wales politics. Boring.
Shereen is sitting at the dinner table poring over a pile of photo albums.
Bilal has decided to grace us with his presence for a change. He doesn’t really like family get-togethers, but the prospect of so much delicious food is sometimes too strong a temptation to resist. Plus, he has a soft spot for Aunt Sowsan. She can be pretty cool and easy to talk to—the complete opposite of my dad.
“So how many hearts have you broken since I last saw you?” she teases Bilal as she hands him a cup of tea and takes a seat next to me on the sofa.
He grins at her cheekily. “Oh, only about ten, and there’s one in the lifeline.”
“Pipeline, you intellectual vacuum,” I scoff.
“Boofhead,” he says, and I throw a cushion at him and stick out my tongue.
Aunt Sowsan laughs and draws me to her chest, engulfing me in a hug.
“I can’t see why you should be asking him about his girlfriends as though it’s the most acceptable thing in the world,” I say, pouting. “If I so much as received an innocent, friendly telephone call from a guy, Dad would ground me for life!”
“It’s called a double standard, Jamilah,” Shereen says without looking up from the photo album.
My dad, who hears me use the words “telephone call” and “guy” in the same sentence, has suddenly lost the urge to talk about Labor backbenchers. “Huh? What’s this I hear? Who’s calling who?”
“Nothing, Hakim,” Aunt Sowsan scolds. “Nobody invited you into this conversation.”
“Did you hear that, Ameen?” my dad says. “My sister is telling me to be quiet in front of my own children.”
“You’re right, Shereen,” Aunt Sowsan says. “We’re taught to apply the same rules to men and women, but unfortunately that’s not how the world works.”
“You’re telling me,” I mutter.
“We live in a patriarchal community,” Shereen says, “which finds it convenient to manipulate the sacred text to satisfy the male ego.”
For once, I’m on Shereen’s side. Bilal, of course, isn’t batting for our team.
“Another simple thought flash from our lovely sister,” he says,rolling his eyes at her. He looks to me for support but it doesn’t take him a second to figure out I’m not impressed either.
“I’m only joking,
It’s one of the rare occasions in my life that I can see that my dad has a point.
13
WE’RE AT AUNT Sowsan’s house for dinner tonight. Aunt Sowsan is older than my dad by six minutes. She acts as though this gives her a license to boss him around. She tortures him with lectures about watching what he eats, keeping up with his exercises for the arthritis in his knee, quitting smoking, and cutting back on his intake of makhalil (spicy pickled cucumber, radish, onion, and carrot) because of his blood pressure.
Aunt Sowsan is married to Amo (Uncle) Ameen. They don’t have any children. Maybe that’s why she pours such lavish affection on Shereen, Bilal, and me. She’s always coming over and cooking us surprise meals. She remembers each of our birthdays, spoils us with presents at Eid, and stopped us from fading away after Mom died.
As for Amo Ameen, he doesn’t say much about anything at all. In the face of Aunt Sowsan’s loud, bossy, and controlling personality, he doesn’t stand a chance. Amo Ameen is placidand inconspicuous and is content to smoke his argeela —his water pipe—read his newspaper, and eat a bag of pumpkin seeds after dinner.
I’m sprawled on the couch, the top button of my jeans undone, as I try to draw in oxygen after savoring the delights of stuffed cabbage leaves, roast chicken, and creamy potato bake (Aunt Sowsan apologetically claims that she was too tired to cook up a real feast tonight).
Amo Ameen and Dad are sipping mint tea, chewing on pumpkin seeds, and discussing New South Wales politics. Boring.
Shereen is sitting at the dinner table poring over a pile of photo albums.
Bilal has decided to grace us with his presence for a change. He doesn’t really like family get-togethers, but the prospect of so much delicious food is sometimes too strong a temptation to resist. Plus, he has a soft spot for Aunt Sowsan. She can be pretty cool and easy to talk to—the complete opposite of my dad.
“So how many hearts have you broken since I last saw you?” she teases Bilal as she hands him a cup of tea and takes a seat next to me on the sofa.
He grins at her cheekily. “Oh, only about ten, and there’s one in the lifeline.”
“Pipeline, you intellectual vacuum,” I scoff.
“Boofhead,” he says, and I throw a cushion at him and stick out my tongue.
Aunt Sowsan laughs and draws me to her chest, engulfing me in a hug.
“I can’t see why you should be asking him about his girlfriends as though it’s the most acceptable thing in the world,” I say, pouting. “If I so much as received an innocent, friendly telephone call from a guy, Dad would ground me for life!”
“It’s called a double standard, Jamilah,” Shereen says without looking up from the photo album.
My dad, who hears me use the words “telephone call” and “guy” in the same sentence, has suddenly lost the urge to talk about Labor backbenchers. “Huh? What’s this I hear? Who’s calling who?”
“Nothing, Hakim,” Aunt Sowsan scolds. “Nobody invited you into this conversation.”
“Did you hear that, Ameen?” my dad says. “My sister is telling me to be quiet in front of my own children.”
“You’re right, Shereen,” Aunt Sowsan says. “We’re taught to apply the same rules to men and women, but unfortunately that’s not how the world works.”
“You’re telling me,” I mutter.
“We live in a patriarchal community,” Shereen says, “which finds it convenient to manipulate the sacred text to satisfy the male ego.”
For once, I’m on Shereen’s side. Bilal, of course, isn’t batting for our team.
“Another simple thought flash from our lovely sister,” he says,rolling his eyes at her. He looks to me for support but it doesn’t take him a second to figure out I’m not impressed either.
“I’m only joking,
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