Just Call Me Wanda!

I felt super awkward in school, especially elementary.  Imagine being the only girl named Wafa amongst the hundreds of Amanda’s and Jennifer’s.  I was made fun of; A LOT.  I was called Waffles for a while, and then people got creative and started adding toppings: Waffles and syrup, waffles and cream cheese, waffles and whipped cream; anything to get a rise out of me.

 Because I was only 3 feet tall, I really felt like I couldn’t stand up for myself.  I would run home and cry because kids made fun of me. There weren’t a lot of Afghan, Persians or Arabs in my school, so there was no one to relate to.  How could my parents do this to me? Who names their kid Wafa?! That’s just asking for trouble!  I would beg for them to let me change my name to Kelly, but they wouldn’t let me.

 It got a little easier once I was in grade 7, because now there were even stranger names than mine in school.  I would get so excited when I would meet a new friend with a different name.  All the Zeenat’s, Shugufah’s, and Khadija’s made me so happy! I wasn’t going to be singled out anymore.

As I got older, I made a lot more friends who were also from Afghanistan.  I was shocked at their names though.  In one year, I met 6 Afghan Carlito’s.  I couldn’t understand how these boys with the heavy Afghan accent, tried to pass off as Latino.  How you can turn Farid, Ajmal, Zulmai and Aarash into Alejandro, Pablo, Ricardo and Miguel, I will never understand.

With the girls I knew, most didn’t change their names completely; they would just change where they were from. They would always say they were Persian (from Iran), not Afghan. This was so common; Fatimah became Fatimeeh; Latifa became Latifeeh, and so on.    Something seemed cooler about being from Iran instead of Afghanistan. Maybe it was the accent?

I remember asking this one girl in high school where she was from;

 “I’m half Persian, Half Afghan.” She said.

“Really… So your mom is Persian, and your dad is Afghan?” 

“No, my uncle married a woman from Iran.”

 Girl, if that is how it works, than I’m part Asian, Ukrainian, Jamaican, and Irish!  Try to understand that.

I’ll admit there were times where I would try to hide, but only conditionally at work. Whenever an Afghan family would walk into the store, I would introduce myself as Wanda, so they wouldn’t suspect anything. Not because I didn’t think it was cool enough or because I wasn’t proud; it was merely to avoid certain conversations.  If they knew I was Afghan, they would either ask me for a discount, or try to introduce me to their son/brother/uncle.  I remember this one woman in particular that asked me for a discount, telling me that I owed it to my people to help out Afghan’s in need. Lady, you’re not in need.  If you have the money for that Louis Vuitton purse, I’m sure you can afford the $20 shirt in your hand. Silly woman.

All jokes aside, I would never really change my name, or hide where I was from.  It’s who I am, and I am very proud. All the torment from those evil kids just gave me more to blog about!

Bye Bye Uni-brow!

There’s an old wives tale that once you shave a baby’s head, his/her hair will grow in thicker.  If this is true, that means my parents must have shaved my entire body!

 

Most of my Persian, Afghan, Greek, Indian, and Arab friends have all had to deal the same annoying problem I have: Hair; it’s everywhere!  From bushy uni-brows, to forest legs; we all have them. Epilators, depilatory creams, razors and wax are all things we have become a little too familiar with in our lives.

 

I never really noticed hair as a problem, until I was in grade 5.  I was sitting at my desk, and one of my friends in class decided to lift his pant leg up, and reveal the 2 hairs that had grown on it (he was Asian).  Because of my competitive nature, I thought it was a contest so I lifted my pant leg up, and showed him mine.

“Look, I have WAY more than you!” I proudly told him.

His response: “Eeeeeeew!  That’s disgusting!”

Disgusting?! I just beat him at his own game! Shouldn’t I get a prize for it? 

 

My parents made such a big deal when I was younger about shaving legs and doing my eyebrows.  The leg thing mostly because I wanted to shave them when I was 10, and they said I needed to wait until I was 12. They said I was a little girl, and didn’t need to worry about silly things like that.  But the eyebrows, they wanted me to wait until I was at least 18.

 

Back in the day, it was frowned upon if a girl did her eyebrows before marriage; and some people still follow that practice today. They believe that a girl should only make that big of a change on her wedding day, so that she looks like a “bride”.  It is supposed to be an overall transformation into womanhood. Some people have gone as far to say it is against God’s will (Gunnah dara/Gunnah lari) to do this before marriage (which isn’t true). I have always had a problem with anyone who said that to me.  No disrespect to those who had to wait, or chose to wait, I just personally don’t agree.

 

When I turned 16, I got SOOOO much grief from relatives because I had done the unthinkable, and plucked my brows.  I remember one of my aunts being so worried that people would “talk”, that she tried to convince me to grow them back out. Give me a break! I just did a great thing; I turned my one big eyebrow, into two beautiful eyebrows! Why does having two of something suddenly make me so bad? They eventually got over it, and left me alone, but not without a hoard of lectures!

 

Looking back, I’m still a little bitter about all the drama over my brows.  I felt like I lost a part of my childhood because of it.  While the rest of my friends sat around, dreaming of Jordan Knight and Nick Carter (like normal teenagers), I spent my time fantasizing about Gilette and Mach 3!

A+

I was a horrible student growing up.  I manipulated, scammed,… anything to get a good grade. I loved the rush knowing I could talk myself out of any situation. I once took an entire class in high school, passed with an 89%, and never did a single assignment!  I had a way with words…

Whenever report card time would roll around though, I was always in a panic.  How was I going to show my Afghan parents that I was only an average student?!  75% was super low in their eyes, especially because I was following in the footsteps of my freakishly smart brother (thanks Hamid).  I managed to sweet talk myself out of getting into too much trouble with them by promising I was going to try harder… well, until high school; those puppy-dog eyes stopped working!  They saw right through me.

I was in grade 11, and it was that time of year again; I needed a new plan. How was I going to change the 70% I just got in history into a 90%?  I tried talking my way into a higher grade, but for some reason it didn’t work this time.  What was I going to do?? 

I got it!  I was going to make my own report card.  This was brilliant! Why had I never thought of this before?!?  So I got cracking…. 

I first pulled out some blue construction paper, and cut and paste numbers and comments onto it. It looked like an elementary school project; I threw it out.

Then I printed the entire thing on the computer; but something felt off about handing my parents a flimsy piece of paper with my grades on it. 

I needed to do some research, and find out if anyone else had tried to do this before.  To my surprise, there was an entire business running in my school, right under my nose!  Students who sold fake report cards!  These geniuses had come up with this million dollar idea before me! 

I paid the $25 fee, and told them the grades I was looking for; and they did it!  I felt great!  I was about to pull the scam of all scams! 

Report card day had arrived, and I saw my grades.  I had a 76% average; which wasn’t THAT bad, but not good enough to show my parents.  I grabbed my “fake” report card, put it in the envelope, and proceeded to go home and show them my marks.  I was super excited!  I was finally bringing home a report card that was as impressive as my brother’s.  It was time to step out of his shadow, and be the gifted student for once!

FML, my brother had come home for a visit!  He is WAY too smart to believe this; plus he has always known how devious I could be.  I had no choice, and had to hand my report card to my father.  My heart was racing… I was so scared!

My dad took a look, read all the amazing comments my “teachers” had written, and saw my overall average; 91%.  A normal person would just be happy adding 5% to up their grade, so it wouldn’t be as obvious; not me.  I’m just THAT smart.

He didn’t say much… instead he handed my report card to my brother, and asked him to take a look.  Hamid took one look at it, handed it to me, and told me I was an idiot.

I couldn’t understand how they figured out I had faked it.  It was done by a professional (or so I thought.) I took a close look at the grades,… I AM an idiot!  This so called “professional” copy was awful!  The girl had cut out little numbers, glued them over the old one’s, and photocopied it onto new paper.  It was so horrible!! On two of the grades, the new numbers were so crooked that it still showed part of the original grades underneath!  I guess that’s what you get for buying a fake report card from someone who’s getting worse grades than you!

Nothing else was ever said about this infamous report card of mine.  I knew I had gotten caught. I guess they were just so disappointed I would lie like that, that instead of punishing me, they would let me deal with the guilt for the rest of my life. It worked; I still feel guilty.

Sorry mom and dad.  

Life Is Like A Box Of Chocolates

Chocolates are one of the most common gifts to take to someone’s house, suiting almost any occasion.  Lovely to enjoy over a cup of tea with your guests; each piece holding a special surprise in the middle!

 

As a child, I was under the assumption that a box of chocolates was like a fine wine; it got better with age.  Instead of a wine cellar at home, we had a chocolate cellar.

It was like clockwork; once a box of chocolates entered the house, it was immediately taken to the only cupboard with a lock on it, never to be seen again.  This seemed to a common practice in Afghan households. 

 

I had never tried a piece of chocolate from a box before.  What was in a Pot of Gold?  How were the chocolates on Quality Street? Who was Russel Stover? Was I ever going to find out? I have to admit, I felt a little deprived; what was the point of chocolate, if you could never enjoy them?

 

I decided it was time to question these parents of mine, and get to the bottom of this.  Why did we never open, or ever see these boxes again?  Why weren’t we allowed to have them? They explained that a box of chocolates was meant to be gifted, not opened. Really? If no one ever opened these, how long were these boxes being passed around for?

 

Once Ahmed and I got our own place, many of our friends and family would come over to visit, always with a box of chocolates in tow. Since it was now OUR place, I decided it was time to end this silly cycle, and finally get what I’ve been pining for all these years.

 

I remember carefully tearing the cellophane off the box, feeling a rush I had never felt before.  It felt like everything was going in slow motion; I mean, I was about to do the unthinkable.  Was I ready for this? Would I be the first to have ever done this?  Was I going to be famous?! As all these thoughts raced around in my mind, I had finally reached the final step; the lid.  As I lifted that lid, my childhood quickly flashed before my eyes.  I was about to have my first piece of boxed chocolate!  This was big; bigger than anything I had ever done in my life thus far.

 

The lid was off, and I was finally going to have it all…

WTF?!!!! What was this?! THIS was what I was waiting for all my life?! These weren’t chocolates; chocolates don’t look like this! I flipped the box and checked the expiry date: February 23^rd, 1988!  SERIOUSLY?!  I can’t even imagine how many houses this poor box of chocolates had been passed around in before it reached mine! I swear a family of moths was living in there! They had spent so many years being passed around in Afghan homes, as they flew out, they greeted me in Farsi!

 

Here’s a tip: if you get a box of chocolates from a company that has gone bankrupt 10 years ago, chances are they’ve gone bad.  And no matter what your parents tell you, there is no such thing as “vintage chocolate.

My Beef With Dora

My daughter is obsessed with the show Dora the Explorer.  I can understand her fascination; she’s an adorable little girl that goes on all these fabulous adventures, along side her best friend Boots the Monkey. 

But I have a few things I’d like to discuss with her…

Dear Dora, 

It’s Wafa, Mia’s mommy.  But since you re-introduce yourself to us everyday like it’s the first time we’re meeting, I guess you wouldn’t know. I’m confused; we’ve been going on these adventures with you for an entire year, why do you still feel the need to introduce yourself? That hurts! I thought we had a special bond, especially since the time we helped you save the babies from the gooey geyser…

I feel like you never listen.   There are days I just don’t feel like going on an adventure, and I just want to sit back and watch.  But you never care, and just pretend like I’ve said yes, and still make me go on one!  It’s like you don’t hear me.  I’m a busy woman, taking care of Mia, Ahmed, Eliana on weekdays, cooking, cleaning, etc. I can’t always be ready to go save the sun, feed the Big Red Chicken, or to stop Swiper from swiping.  You need to respect that, and take no for an answer sometimes.

You ask me a lot of questions, which is great!  Knowledge is power.  What bothers me, is whenever I shout out the answer, you pause for an extra ten seconds, making me second guess what I just said. It’s not just once or twice, you do it each time!  Oh, and I don’t appreciate being mocked.  Sometimes I don’t even know the answer, and yet you still say “great!”  I didn’t say anything… What’s with the sarcasm Dora??

I have no problem you asking me for help… I’m an adult, and that’s what I am here for.  But there are occasions when I am not there, and I hear you asking Mia instead.  She’s only 2!  I don’t know if I’m comfortable with her going to save the King, or going through the forest of prickles and thorns.  It’s just not safe for her, so please don’t ask her when I’m not there.  I don’t want her being peer pressured into doing something she’s just not ready for!

I thank you for teaching Mia all that Spanish, but I have already expressed how important it is to us that Mia learns to speak Dari and Pashto first.  She’s speaking English and Spanish all day, and it’s upsetting my parents.  Can we put a hold on that until she has a firm grip on the other two languages first?

I hope I have not hurt your feelings, because that was not my intention.  I just had a few issues I wanted to address, and hope you understand.  I will continue to support your adventures, but on my terms. 

Please tell Mami, Papi, the twins, and Boots I said hello.

See you today at three!

Sincerely,

Wafa

The Day I Stopped Doing My Homework

I remember being in health class, when I was around 12, and the teacher was talking to us about puberty, and what was going to be happening to our bodies.  This was all before the whole permission slips were sent to parents for their kids to attend.  I can’t say I was excited for this class, but I did want to know what this big thing called a period was, and what it was going to do to me.  I was too shy to ask my parents about any of this… and I guess cuz I didn’t bring it up, there was no need for them to either. 

 

After getting a thorough explanation (over the span of two weeks of health class), I now finally understood what was inevitably going to happen to me.  These were his instructions for when it happened… “get an adult, explain to them what has happened, and have them assist you”  (there was more to it that that, but this is what I took from the two week class)

 

So the day finally arrived… I got my period.  I could hear my teacher’s voice, reciting those instructions.  Though I knew exactly what I needed to do, I decided to follow step by step what he had advised us to do.  Step one, get an adult.

 

By getting an adult, most young girls would run to their mother.  But not me.  I decided that since my mother was taking a nap, I wouldn’t bother her, and instead go to my father (my AFGHAN father), and tell him the exciting news.  I will never forget this.  I went downstairs, to see my dad sitting in his usual spot on the couch, beside the phone.  I informed him that I needed to discuss something with him, and because my older brother was sitting there (who was not quite an adult yet, so no need to discuss it with him), I told him it was private.

 

My poor baba.  My poor, poor baba. It was like I was having an out of body experience, watching myself drop this period bomb on my dad.  I whispered in his ear “baba, I got my period.”  He asked me to repeat it louder because he couldn’t hear me.  “BABA, I GOT MY PERIOD!”  His entire head turned beet red, not just his face, and he ran upstairs, to wake my mom from her nap. 

 

I don’t know what was more traumatizing… the look on my dad’s face, or the look on my mom’s when she found out I told my dad instead of her.

 

After explaining to my mom why I had decided to tell my dad, she fell on the floor laughing!  She thought I was insane (as usual), and told me that just because my teacher tells me to do something, doesn’t mean I have to go and do it.  Those words stuck to me like glue, and that was why that was the last day I ever did my homework! 

Old Stories

I’m going to start this off by sharing some of my old stories that I have posted in the past.  So if you’ve read it before, hope you enjoy it again! 

Letting it all out

Hello all!  So I finally took the step I’ve been saying I was going to take a year now and start my own blog.  I’ve been sharing stories of my childhood, my thoughts, my pet peeves, my randomness all on facebook, and decided it was FINALLY time to get organized and do it in a more consistent manner.  

I will be posting a few times a week about various things… just letting everything that is squished up in my mind out for the world to see!  I hope you enjoy!  

-Wafa