HAJAR, ASLI MIRIAM

[ASLI MIRIAM HAJAR]

ASLI MIRIAM HAJAR
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ASLI , TWENTY , NYC CITIZEN , MARDY

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”My Asli, why must you lift your skirts so, dancing like such a foolish girl?”

My grandmother was a bitter woman, each wizened mark on her face accenting only the hate in her eyes. Her hands were like worn leather, dark and calloused to the touch. My Asli, she would cry as I came home from the local pool, tattered hijab in hand. My Asli, she would scold as she noted my wandering eyes whenever Salib Akmir delivered our water. My Asli, it is punishment enough that you are a shakhs, you needn't be so strong willed. Shakhs. Light skin. That was who I was to her, who I was to all of my village. An error in the genetic pool. I did not posses dark caramel skin that only grew darker in the sunlight. Eyes darker than onyx were not of my own. I cannot be at fault for her son falling in love with a shakhs only to leave her when she was with child. My jaddah I would say as she reprimanded me so. I will not be a burden for long.

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I was sixteen when Mohammed took me behind his barn. I had been to his family's farm many times before with my grandmother, seeing as his jaddah and mine were the best of friends. All day long they would spend with one another, telling stories about the townspeople. News traveled quickly in such a small village. Mohammed was tall and darker than I, but that was not much to say. Where are we going? I asked. He had mentioned a slide he made of hay that he wanted to show me. We stopped when we reached the very back of the barn, closest to our family's well. He turned to look at me with his serious gray eyes, lighter than my own. His hands, worn from days in the fields, found their way to my waist, masked by the burqa that hid every aspect of my body. What are you doing? I asked, looking away from him. We would get in trouble for him touching me so, and I was not to be in the company of a boy when I was alone. You are most beautiful, Asli. Before I could reply to this, he was struggling to unwrap my hijab. I did not want to do this. Shying away, his grasp on me grew stronger, frustrated. Mohammed. My hijab fell to the dust, derelict and forgotten. He was smirking now, moving his hand up my body. Mohammed, no.

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Hey little girl is your daddy home
Did he go away and leave you all alone?

Bruce Springsteen fever hit me hard. Granted I was about two decades too late, but none the less, I bought every single one of his CDs I could find. I would play them over and over again on my radio as I knit, singing along whenever grandmother was out of earshot. He was my only company when I bought my one way ticket from Rabat to New York City. I was seventeen years old and carried but one bag, full of new clothing I purchased in our nation's capital. There were women there who did not wear the burqa and this was all new to me. At the airport I saw one young woman who was wearing shorts far shorter than what I wore underneath my garmets! I was going to become a western woman, a free one at that. I would not need to hide my body and censure my words. I would not report back to my grandmother, to be reprimanded with a slap. I was heading to New York City, where I would start fresh.Here I would be able to dance without the negative connotation it holds back home. Here, I would find a home.

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The bitter alcohol stings the petite blonde's throat, a dirty glass held between two hands. Upon placing it back down on the wooden table surface we see the red mark left by recently applied make up, paint on a chipped surface. Her whole face is done up, cat-like eyes rimmed with black and glitter liner. Her fingers find their way to her hair, which hangs long and curly down her back. Asli, a dark man calls. The sound of house music is pulsating through the very walls of the structure. It smells like sweat and cheap perfume. Asli, you're next. His teeth are stained yellow, exposed when his lips turn upwards into a forced smile. The girl's face is unmoving as she simply nods, shrugging out of the lightweight robe she wore. Underneath she wore little more than a matching set of black lingerie. It was exposing. It was gaudy. It made her sick.