Being A Secret

At some point between meeting and dating, and meeting the parents and getting married, there was about a year limbo. Most of the time it was just a usual relationship, but every once in a while we'd get one of those weird flare-ups that only occur when you're a part of an intercultural relationship. Some of them are basic intercultural issues, such as when I tried to get my very Pakistani husband-then-boyfriend to attend a performance of The Vagina Monologues. (Interesting story - will write about it soon!) Some of these flare-ups are peculiar to the SECRET intercultural relationship.

Because that's what we had - a SECRET intercultural relationship. We moved about freely in my city and in M's college town, but because he had almost no family in America, and no real connection between his family and his then-current-student life, he had no reason to fear that his family would find out about me. He certainly wasn't offering them any information about his American girlfriend. 

I, for the most part, didn't really care. Actually, at first, a better characterization was that I really didn't KNOW. I didn't know about what sometimes happens when a Pakistani guy tells his parents he wants to marry a non-desi. People often run into a lot of roadblocks from their Pakistani parents when the relationship with a non-desi is found out. There are arguments, disownments, suicide threats from upset parents. (Luckily we didn't meet much resistance, but a lot of people do.) 

It only took me about six weeks to introduce M to my parents, but that was only because they pressed the issue. It seemed very early to me. Meeting the parents often takes a lot longer than that here in America. Months into our relationship, though, when I knew more about M, and I knew more about these kinds of half-desi relationships and how they panned out (or sometimes didn't pan out...) I do remember, a few months in, that I asked M, "Do you think you'll tell your parents about me eventually?" and that he answered "Um....I was thinking about it..." (LIE.)

But for the most part, I don't think I cared much about that. Here's why, I think: I can understand if you are in love and want to marry this guy, and you feel like he will never be willing to tell his family (or if he were willing, that his family would never accept the relationship) I can understand being upset about that. It's like you are already committed - you want to marry this person and are that much more invested in the relationship - and the other person clearly does not feel the same way. At least not yet. For M and I, though, that wasn't the situation. 

I mean, I did love M, but I never thought I wanted to marry him. First, I was way too young for marriage. I didn't expect to get married until I was at least 30, and I was only 22 when I met M. Second, M wasn't really "marriage material." I mean, he was nice and cute and well educated, he had a great sense of humor and was kind and polite and friendly, but every once in a while, he'd say something offputting that would make me think we could never coexist in the long run. Something about women being different than men, or about how his sister couldn't do this or that. Like once he talked about how his sister was upset because no one would "let" her take the family camera to school with her because girls were so naive and prone to losing things. Or something about race that just shouldn't be said. Plus, he was very immigrant-y. He had a bottle of coconut oil in his apartment that I'm sure he put in his hair regularly, and he had a thick accent. It just wasn't what I thought of a husband material.

The scales tipped gradually. Either I got used to the coconut smell or he stopped using it, and his views (and the things he said to me) about gender and race changed over time. On the 1 year anniversary of the day we met, we planned a big dinner celebration. As I was preparing, a friend mentioned that perhaps M would propose that night. It hadn't occurred to me before that, but I suddenly realized that I would say yes. If he asked me, I would say yes. It was quite the revelation.

After that, I certainly started to care about being a secret. 

Sometime after that, M and I were walking somewhere, and he mentioned that a distant family member had not contacted him in some time, and that this family member was friends with one of his local classmates - perhaps this classmate had informed the family member about "what he'd been up to." All of a sudden I was furious. I was so mad at this classmate who may have done something like that, I was mad at the family member who would judge me and our relationship without evening knowing about it, and I was mad at the universe for putting me in such a situation and then making it seem impossible to survive unscathed. 

But I was also mad at M. He had a responsibility to me - to make sure that I was loved and taken care of and protected from anyone who would wish me - and us - harm. We had been in a relationship for more than a year and we had exchanged "I love yous" - even if there were clearly no promises of a future, he was by that time my best friend and most trusted confidant. By keeping this secret, he was refusing to stand up for our relationship. He'd already met my family, and while they liked him, they still had qualms about me being in a relationship with a Pakistani muslim. I'd been on the defensive for some time now, and M had refused to even let his family know there was something to defend. 

We didn't talk about it anymore that day, but it became a catalyst for much more serious talks about what the point of our relationship was. I just wasn't willing to be a secret for much longer. It's hard to get these kinds of conversations started when they're one sided, though, and M's reaction to these kinds of topics were never very encouraging. He's not by nature a "talk it out" kind of guy, and he would just try to deflect, postpone, and delay these talks. Not really the kind of thing that convinces your girlfriend that you're completely invested in a relationship.

In the end, it wasn't really communication that made the difference, but a last-minute hail-mary showing of courage and determination that made all the difference, to me and to M's family. Who knows if any other path would have been as successful, really. But it's nice not to be a secret anymore. I've heard of women even marrying and having children with Pakistani men and still being a secret. What a life that must be!

One HUNDRED!

Hey, ya'll! This is my 100th post in the 150 days I've been writing here! And to celebrate, I thought I'd let you all in on how I decided to start this little blog of mine. You see, it all started because I am the world's biggest procrastinator. No, really - you would not believe the depths to which my procrastination will go.

I started reading blogs because I was procrastinating. I was pregnant at the time, and in school, and as I surfed the internet in class rather than pay attention to the professor (Civil Procedure, of course), I saw the computer screen on the girl in front of me, and it had these tiny, adorable cupcakes on it. I can't even remember what blog it was, but I googled it and found it and a new time-waster was born. I can't even begin to estimate how affected my GPA has been by reading countless blogs. 

 

Then, sometime last year, we decided that M's parents should go for Hajj. At the time, they had two kids in Saudi Arabia, and they'd visited earlier last year and preformed Umrah, so it seemed like the optimal time to send them for Hajj, too. At some point in the planning, there was a hangup and M's father wouldn't be going. Rather than scrap the whole plan, we pushed for M's mother to go. But she couldn't travel alone to Saudi (not only because women are not allowed to travel alone in Saudi unless they have "permission" from a male relative, but also because of health and mobility concerns), and to send one of the sons back to Pakistan just to escort Ammi seemed a waste. And during Hajj, everyone travels in their own group, so M's two siblings in Saudi couldn't even just meet up with Ammi if she were to fly there alone. So I had the great idea that M should go for Hajj, too. If you're going to spend money to send one of the kids to get Ammi, might as well get an extra Hajj trip out of it, too, I thought.

But that meant I would be alone, with our son, for a whole month. And it was the worst month too - December. When I have a three-week long exam season at school. (It also includes my birthday, our wedding anniversary, and Thanksgiving and Christmas when we fly to visit my family.) But I was adamant, I could not be swayed. I didn't need a man around the house! So off he went and my son and I settled into the business of single parenting. 

We did pretty well, I think. I wasn't expecting much in the way of contact from M while he was gone, but his company had just changed his cell phone plan (because they still needed him while he was gone) and he had text messaging and everything while he was there. It was amazing! I got to speak to him at least once a day and got at least 3 text messages per day - morning, lunch and night. It was very comforting. 

But I also slacked and procrastinated more than I ever had in my life! It became clear that much of my daily needs are only met because of M. Needs like food and water. And someone taking out the trash and picking up the mail and doing to dishes. And bathing out son. And forcing me to STUDY ALREADY FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! And as if I didn't waste enough time on the internet instead of studying for me exams, I decided to start writing a blog! 

I had thought about writing for some time, but my mind wanders and my life is very compartmentalized; school; baby; husband; house; white family; brown family; etc.. So I needed some focus. Meeting M has always been the most interesting story I tell, and I never tire of talking about him, so I figured that talking about desi stuff would be perfect. 

And it's turned out well, I think. I still have a lot of stories, don't you worry! We haven't even scratched the surface. Thanks for making this so much fun!

Where The Kids End Up

It's completely understandable that parents of young children start to envision the lives their children will lead. They fantasize about eventual spouses, weddings, graduations. Everyone does it, right? 

In THIS half-desi house, however, the parents are often caught talking about things like, not IF, but how many Ph.D.'s our son will get and whether or not we will live with our eldest son when we are older. (Note to my son's future spouse: I am trying to explain things, but I don't know if I'll be able to do any good. Please be kind to your father in law if I can't talk some sense into him in the next 30 years.)

So have you all planned out anything for your kids?

Memory Lane - Now with pictures!

Take a stroll with me, if you like, down memory lane. 

You see, as one finishes law school, (classes ended last week! Exams for two weeks and soon - Graduation!) one must apply for the bar exam - that behemoth of a two day long exam which determines whether one will be licensed to practice law. But before even being allowed to sit for the exam, one must provide the Board of Bar Examiners with A LOT one's pertinent information, such as: all employment records from the last 10 years, all school attendance records from the last 10 years, driving records - from any state - for the last 11 years, fingerprints, court records, name change records, and all addresses from the last 10 years. Should one forget the addresses of the place one lived at 9 years ago, when one was but an adolescent, never fear! One may go spelunking through one's memory boxes. (AKA the beginnings of a "hoarding problem".) 

I knew that if I went through these boxes I would find cards and letters with the addresses I needed. I wasn't prepared for the time-suck that would become this evening, spending hours looking through all our old mementos long after I'd found the information needed. 

You see, I'm a bit of a romantic. I like to save things. Only weeks after meeting M, I stumbled upon the beautiful box pictured on the right and thought it perfect to keep the trinkets and tokens of our time together which I had been keeping. Isn't it poetic that my tiny trinket box of what I thought would be a lovely yet short-lived relationship has blossomed into the trunk pictured on the left, which is stored in the house - nay the LIFE - M and I have built together?

I love looking through all the things in these boxes and periodically break 'em open just to look through them again. Writing this blog for the last few months has given me a new perspective, and looking through them again today I was struck with how much our early relationship was infused the exploration of our cultural differences.

Like, see the picture above? There's so many cute stories to the stuff there! The broken pieces of a bangle bracelet: M bought it for me at the first ever desi store I went to, and it's the biggest size available and it barely fits on my hand. I tried to put some of them on in the parking lot and it broke and scratched my wrist and then I bled on his shirt on the motorcycle ride on way home. I found that if I used some soap and water to put them on, I could get them on without breaking them, but they're so delicate that they'd break anyway when I'd bang against some wall or desk. I'd wear a few at a time until I was down to my last one - that one in the picture - which I saved when it too, finally broke. 

Or the little bunny candy! It's from our first Valentine's Day together. When M went to the store to find a Valentine's Day present, he knew to buy candy and a card, but what he didn't realize was that sometimes seasonal candy displays in stores are put up a little early. He didn't know he was in the Easter candy aisle - he just bought whatever chocolate he thought looked nice. And then he was embarrassed when I was confused about the bunny candy in my Valentine's Day gift box. (Awww....)

There's also the Pakistan flag pin he gave me (clearly a few months into our relationship) and all the tickets to the movies and plays we used to see. (Remind me to tell you about the time I took the desi boy to The Vagina Monologues!)

You see the little plastic thing, behind the earrings? We were hanging out one night and he was playing with a flashlight and M - the geeky desi Electrical Engineer since birth - on the spur of the moment said that he could take the light bulbs out of the flashlight, stick them in the little plastic cup, and wire the thing with a an adapter. All while his not-that-interested girlfriend watched in non-amazement. (When I asked M to proofread that last sentence, he said "Hm, I remember - but I had to bring the voltage down too...." what a geek!)

And these receipts - they're from two different times we went to Wal-mart; the first time M cooked for me at my apartment and the first time he said he loved me. Sounds so normal, but the memories behind THESE are so desi-fied. 

The cooking one: M had come to my apartment to cook something for me, and he decided we needed to go to get some fresh ginger. When we got to the cash register, the terrible woman behind the counter didn't know what it was. She asked M what it was, and he told her it was ginger. She didn't even bother to ask him to repeat it, she just looked at ME with this vapid stare and said "I can't understand him. What he just say?" It was terrible. M was so. pissed. off.

The I love you one: Long story short - we were in Wal-mart talking about a friend of M's who had recently very publicly vented his disapproval with M's new relationship with the white girl, and I made a remark about that guy that M thought was funny and as he laughed, he sort of absentmindedly said "that's why I love you." Imagine your first "I love you" coming from a conversation about how someone was talking about how you're not good enough for their friend? He didn't even realize he'd said it - then or later. In fact, he doesn't count that as the first time he said I love you.

Even THAT story is desi-fied, too. The first time HE thinks he said "I love you" to me was on our way to a function on New Year's Eve 2003. On the drive there, he'd asked if I wanted to practice some of my Urdu. He even goaded me into it when I said I didn't really want to. On the way we practiced a lot of new words including "I like this" and "I love vegetables" and "I remember you" - all the vocabulary I would need later when he would rearrange them to say "Mujhay tum se pyar hay" - I love you - at midnight. He also wrote me the same thing in a note when I left for college a few days later.

(Even all these postcards are signed "Tumhara M" - Your M.)

It's nice to look through these old things and think about how far we've come. It's nice to be on the other side. Wondering if learning Urdu would ever be useful, whether M would ever truly my "Tumhara M" to me - those days had their own charm, but it's nice to know he really is. My Urdu is useful, even if I'm still not fluent, I have plenty of intact bangle bracelets these days, and M's accent has reduced enough that cashiers don't look to me to translate for him. He even buys heart-shaped candies in February. 

Hey look! I even found that Curious George book!

Peanut Butter & Root Beer

One day, a long long time ago, M used to visit me at my apartment. I was a poor college student and my house wasn't full of delights and delicacies for visitors. To put it another way, my apartment didn't always have food in it. 

One day M came to visit, and after awhile he took a KitKat bar out of his jacket pocket. He's never been much of a candy eater, so I questioned him about it and found out that he'd brought his own food because, he said, "You never have anything to eat here!" I took offense because he'd eaten PLENTY of food while he was at my apartment, but he said he was "tired" of "stealing" food from my "roommate." 

Whatever!

Anyway, that's how I ended up on his doorstep, just a few weeks later, with some candy in MY jacket pocket - to make fun of him. It was a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup. But what I ended up doing was finding out that he hated peanut butter. 

Since then, I've met a LOT of desis who don't like peanut butter. And then one day, while visiting a tourist-y place in Amish Country with M and my mother- and sister-in-law, we stopped for some kettle corn and root beer and ALL THREE of them didn't like the root beer. They said it tasted "soapy." 

I've since asked other desis about their feelings about root beer and peanut butter, and a LARGE percentage of desis I know don't like either of them. In fact I can't think of anyone who said they did like those things. So I wonder - is there something about certain foods that desis just don't like? When I asked M if he thinks that all or most desis don't like root beer and peanut butter he said "Which desis have you ever seen eating those things?"

One of the reasons I thought he may have initially been resistant to root beer was because it had the word "beer" in it. I know that he was reluctant to try a "ham"burger before on of his friends assured him there would be no ham in it. And I know that one of the reasons he was against peanut butter is because it has the word "butter" in it. He's very anti-butter. I come from a butter-loving family, so this sometimes leads to tension. Especially when my mother visits and cooks all my favorite foods, and then I have to hear M later: "Did you SEE how many packages of butter she bought? I know that there was one more earlier, and it's already gone - she's only been here a few days! I can feel it in my arteries!" 

In our experience, though, I've found these things can be overcome. (Not the butter thing, the root beer and peanut butter thing. Butter will be a lifetime struggle for us, I'm afraid.) M does eat peanut butter now, and he likes it. I think because he started eating my favorite cereal whenever he ran out of his favorites and it grew on him over time. I just asked him if that's how it happened, and he told me some story about buying lumber (he's a hobby woodworker) and seeing the shopkeeper making himself a PB&J in the main office and thinking it was "really American looking" so he thought he should give it a second chance - so what do I know?)

Also, he does like root beer, but I don't know when that tide turned. He seemed really resistant to it for a long time and you'd think I was some kind of pervert for ordering a root beer float because of the gross faces he'd make; but now when he says whenever he wants a change, he'll order a root beer. He likes Dominion brand because, as he says, it's "extra soapy."

Building Up A Tolerance For Spice

I can pretty much handle my spices these days. It wasn't always like that though. Back in college, I used to work at a place that was across the street from various restaurants, among them a Taco Bell. We would all take turns making meal runs, and I was usually against picking Taco Bell because I usually thought the food there was too spicy. Yep - even the mild sauce. 

M, on the other hand, is used to spicy food. Really spicy. He eats these tiny little green peppers - no bigger than your pinky finger - RAW. He likes to have a couple with most any meal we eat, kind of like a garnish. They are so spicy that people sometimes wear gloves when they are cooking with them. They are so spicy that the one time I tried them, my lips burned for HOURS afterward. 

When we eat at places that serve Buffalo Wings, he always orders the spiciest version. Sometimes, when a particular buffalo wing restaurant has a whimsical spice-level scale, he'll end up ordering the "Nuclear" or "Insane" style wings, and the waitress will look ominously at him and ask "Are you SURE?"

It's not that the spice doesn't get to him. His nose runs and his eyes water. He just says that it's "fun" to eat really spicy food. He likes it. It's a challenge and it reminds him of eating in Pakistan. Actually, the first fast food he ever really liked eating was Taco Bell - precisely because of their spicy food. He hordes their 'Fire Sauce' packets and uses A LOT of them. He even collects them and send Ziplock bags full of them back to Pakistan - that's how much he loves Fire Sauce.

I, on the other hand, really couldn't take ANY level of spiciness when I first met M. I didn't like spicy food, I never ate spicy food, and the first few times M cooked for me, the meals probably consisted of 10% food and 90% cool-down-my-tongue-water! 

It was about two months into our relationship that I noticed I was able to take more spice that usual. We were eating at a Thai restaurant and nothing really appealed to me on the menu and I'd ordered something I didn't like at all - I don't even remember what it was, but I remember that it had chicken in some yellow sauce - with grapes in it - who cooks grapes? Anyway, I didn't like it at ALL, and M offered to switch with me. After I'd eaten a portion of his dish and liked it, he told me that he was impressed that I was able to enjoy so much spiciness. It was one of those spicy dishes that had the little dragon next to it on the menu, and I hadn't even had to rely on the water too much!

Six years later, my tolerance for spices still isn't the same as M's, but it's pretty darn good. So often we're invited to dinners and I realize that the host has obviously cut the spices in half when they were cooking for this non-desi girl. It's always me that says "Where's the spice in this briyani?!" My mother in law did that too, both when we were first married and when I visited Pakistan a year later. The first time, when they stayed with us for two months after we were married, I barely noticed and really appreciated it! The second time, when I was in Pakistan in 2004, my tolerance for spices had grown significantly after being married to M for a year and I really noticed the lack of spices. I told her that she didn't have to reduce her spices, I could take it! 

Boy did I regret that! I lasted about a day and a half before I had to go crawling back to her and say Please! Enough! Too spicy! 

In the end, I think we ended up splitting the difference.

What Life Must Be Like When You Live In A Foreign Country

We went out to dinner over the weekend. M took me - after weeks of promising and then forgetting - to Outback Steakhouse. It's not the normal place we go when we eat out, we're more of a Taco Bell kind of family. But once in a while we splurge and eat out at a real restaurant. I don't remember exactly how we picked that particular restaurant, but there we were.

Outback Steakhouse is a restaurant that has "and Australian-inspired environment." Their menu has Australian slang, their entrees are named with Australian names. At one point during dinner, M got up to go to the bathroom. When he came back the following very funny exchange took place:

M: What does 'bloke' mean?

Me: Oh, it's Australian slang for 'guy'.

M: Oh, thank God!

Me: Why?

M: The doors to the bathrooms were labeled 'bloke' and "Sharon."

Me: You mean "Sheila?"

M: Yeah, like only women named Sheila can go to the bathroom?

Me: No, it's Australian slang for woman!

M: All I know if that I didn't know which one to use, and I first walked into the 'bloke' one, but I didn't see any urinals so I walked back out quickly!

Still a mystery as to how he figured it out - or if he tried the "Sharon" one too....

Muslim Motherhood

I am a Feminist. I don't always subscribe to everyone's differing definitions of feminism, but I have always thought that because I consider girls and women to be people too, and because I want to help disseminate that information to those who might think otherwise, that qualifies me as a feminist. 

I have no problem rectifying this with my religion, although it seems other people might. Some people seem to think that because I do things a little differently, perhaps I'm not really convicted to my religion. I don't care what they think, basically, and I think we all have to make our own way in this life (Right!?). So: For me, my religion, for you, yours. 

But that's as far as I gotten. Which isn't really all that far. I don't really have a lot of this stuff worked out and when people call me on it, I don't always have the most eloquent explanations for why Islam says this or why Muslims do that. 

Which is why I felt like I really dodged a bullet when I had a baby and it was a boy. I just don't think I'm ready to parent a Muslim girl. How will I explain these things to her if I don't always understand them myself? I hope to be able to stop feeling so defensive before I have a daughter so that she doesn't have to grow up feeling constantly challenged on her (or her family's) interpretation of our religion. 

But there's a saying of the Prophet that someone who raises two daughters will make it to heaven. That's how important raising good daughters is. I've always wondered - if you have a fantastic husband and you and he would raise either wonderful sons who would always treat women well, or you'd raise wonderful, strong, and independent daughters - which one is better for "the cause?" Do we need better girls in the world or better boys? Kind of like the civil rights movement in America was fought by both blacks and whites (although of course in unequal numbers.) Which one do we need more of? 

As it is, I was given a free pass this go 'round. I didn't have to confront any of this yet. Except that's not really true because just as a daughter would ask why I'm one of the few ladies in the mosque with some hair showing, so will my son.

Me and My MIL

I'm the #1 google hit for the search gori and mother in law issues.

How did this happen? I like my mother in law!

Curry

The word curry probably doesn't mean what you think it means. 

People ask me all the time: "Can you make a good curry?" I tell them that question is like asking "Can you cook almost every Pakistani meal?"

The truth is that non-desis use the word curry to mean an kind of spicy meat or veggie dish - usually if it has a bit of a gravy to it. But there are lots and LOTS of desi dishes that are a spicy meat or vegetable dishes cooked with some kind of gravy. In fact, probably most of them are like that. And they're all pretty different from each other. 

For example, I cook a dish that has potatoes and hard-boiled eggs in a slightly spicy tomato and onion puree (Unda-Aloo Salan - basically Egg-Potato Gravy). And I also cook a lentil dish that's lentils and spices cooked to make a soupy consistency (Daal). And there's also a beef dish that has tomatoes and is considered a fancier and is served at social functions like weddings. (Qorma) Believe me, all of these dishes are very different from each other, though they'd all probably qualify under the misconceived understanding of "curry."

That's not even considering similar dishes make with fish and coconut milk that are typical South Indian dishes that are considered VERY different from the "curries" listed above.

There's another meaning of curry, of course. The curry leaf is a leaf from a plant that's used in some Indian cooking. And curry powder is frequently used in Indian(ish) cooking also. Usually I see curry powdered called for in Americanized versions of Indian food, like curried chicken salad of curried deviled eggs. The reason is that "curry powder" is really just a mixture of common desi spices, and it's the same as the "curry" use above. Desi cooking uses a lot of different mixtures of spices depending on the dish! Curry powder basically means little or nothing to the desi cook because they're usually using the actual, individual spices depending on the dish.

I actually wanted to make curried chicken salad for the first time this weekend, and the recipe called for curry powder. I don't have curry powder on hand, so I didn't know what to do. I looked up "curry powder substitutions" online and found many different recipes for making your own curry powder. Usually it called for a LONG list of spices, including weird ones like Anise and Mace and Allspice. (As opposed to some of the more "common" spices like coriander powder, turmeric, and red chili powder.) The funny thing was that I had every single spice on those lists in my cupboard, but I didn't have the "curry powder." I was able to whip up my very own blend of curry powder in no time. 

And the chicken salad turned out fantastic, if I do say so myself!

VISA! YAY!

Ammi and Abbu had applied for a US visit visa and they got it this morning!

(We applied on the basis on my graduation - we wanted them to attend the graduation and party afterwards, but now it seems they might miss it if their passports with visa don't arrive in time. Their original US visa was on the basis of M's graduation, but I thought that the Embassy workers would be a little more hesitant to give a visa for a daughter-in-law's graduation as opposed to their own son's. Of course it's helpful that Ammi has traveled here 3 times in the last 5 years, and never overstayed her visits and always returned. And Abbu is still employed in Pakistan. He's retired but returned to the teaching that he'd done part-time while he was still working. I'm just happy because with a five-year, multiple entry visa, if and when we have a 2nd kid, Ammi will be able to come.)

White Girl in the Desi Store

I used to hate going to desi stores. 

When M lived in CollegeTown, USA, there were only two little desi stores around. One sold "halal" meat and was run by Pakistanis, and one was an Indian joint selling mostly spices, Indian housewares and beauty supplies as well as holding down a considerable Bollywood movie rental business.

I remember the first time going into one of those stores. M had brought me with him to buy some meat for a dinner party he was throwing at his apartment that evening. A lot of his friends only ate "halal" meat, so he had to buy all the meat at that store. I think I started hating shopping at desi stores right then because of the looks the Pakistani store keepers were shooting in my direction. 

Part of the reason for the looks is because it's just still fairly uncommon to see a desi intermarry, but the main reason is that M had shopped here for a long time before bringing this white girl with him. They knew him. They knew he was here as a student and that he came from a good family who was all back waiting for him to return. They knew that the type of family M came from would not approve of this match, and that they must not know about it. 

ALL of that was included in each side-long glace from the Pakol-headed guy sitting behind the register. Don't get me wrong - the men working there (only men...) were never unkind to me. Not overly welcoming, but not hostile either. The shopkeeper never once touched my hand when he was giving me change - he'd always drop the change into my palm in order to avoid touching. 

It was almost WORSE going to the Indian store, though, because they didn't know all the background. The looks on their faces made it pretty clear that they were trying to figure it out. What IS he doing with HER???

Ever since then, I've never really liked shopping in desi stores. I just feel like I stick out like a sore thumb. Everyone's watching me. I feel so conspicuous. I wonder what they think of me - crazy Yoga girl who's gone over the I-Love-India deep end? Why is she buying the extra hot chili powder. Should we tell her that it will definitely be too much for her? Or do they know I've stolen one of their men?

Things are a bit better now. There are plenty of stores in the very diverse area we live in. One on every corner, at least. We have a regular store we go to where people semi-know us. They still say "salam" to M and "Hi" to me, though. But there is one butcher at the local meat shop who even speaks to me in Urdu sometimes. And at least I know most of what's sold there now so I don't have to ask stupid questions. I can just make the quick rounds, get what I need, and go home! 

The Naming Of Babies

All of our kids will have desi names. 

People talk about "Muslim" names, which I guess for most people means rooted in Arabic. But there are plenty of Muslims out there who don't speak Arabic, right? What do people in Malaysia name their kids? Indian Muslims? Well, whatever - there are semi-wavy lines in these name things, is all I'm sayin'. 

For us, the names have to be Pakistani. Which mostly comports with Arabic-sounding names, I guess. But the idea that the kids in a multicultural relationship will be named after the most-recently-immigrated spouse, or the one who was raised closest to his or her culture of descent, is not an uncommon one. I don't actually know any half-desi couple who have children with non-desi names, (I don't think.) I'm not sure why this is. (Other non-desi wives feel free to chime in!)

Personally, I never had any problem with this Paksitani-names only idea. I don't remember if there was ever any specific discussion (M: "My children will only have PAKISTANI NAMES!" Me: "Who the heck do you think you're talking to, Mister?") I actually had already picked out names for my kids and they were Capital-W Weird. So marrying M just meant legitimate access to a whole NEW brand of weird baby name. So I was on board with naming my kids with Pakistani names even before said kids were even a figment of my imagination. 

I did have constraints though. I wanted the name to be pronounceable by white Americans, and easily spelled. But I didn't want a name that was already normal in America (Layla, Jamal) because while they are perfectly lovely names, I still wanted the Weird-name aspect. And actually, I wanted it to start with the same letter as M's name. It's such a good letter! I love that letter!

We had a short list of names. We were 100% agreed on baby girl names, but we both had a boy name picked out that we loved. We liked each other's boy name fine, but we were both pushing for our #1 boy name pick. We decided that we'd wait until the baby was born and we actually MET the baby and knew the gender (we were waiting to find out - SURPRISE!) and we'd pick them.

People - the kid wasn't named until he was FIVE (5) days old! We both held pretty tight to our first-choice name. Eventually M won, only because everyone in the family jumped on his side of the boat - yes - EVEN the white people!

I guess it kind of matter that my first choice was the name of a brutal dictator in Pakistan's not-to-distant past...

Getting My Foot In The Door

I still remember exactly when I felt like things might one day loosen up between M's parents and me; that we might one day be a family.

When they came to America for our wedding, they were very nice to me. They brought gifts and sat pleasantly in my parent's house for the first dinner meeting. They waived money around my head and fed me bites of dessert at our wedding ceremony. But things were still tense. 

After the wedding we spent a few days doing tourist-y things, and then we all flew to the state M was living. (he had graduated and begun working in a new state a few months prior, I was still finishing up school and living in the previous state.) His parents stayed with him - with us, I guess - for fifty-two days after we were married. That was our honeymoon. 

During that time M worked most days. Weekends were spent shuffling his parents around to see or do different things. It was his parents' first trip to America. (Well, actually his father had spent a few weeks here twice before, but he was alone and it was mainly occupation related.) We took them to the major theme parks, we took them to some national parks. We took them shopping. A lot of shopping. 

But most of the week it was just me and them at home. We cooked a lot. Ammi would cook and Abbu would translate and write down her recipes for me. We looked through old pictures. M was working on editing a video of our wedding, so we would all work on that - M editing, me picking out pictures, Ammi and Abbu picking out old Indian songs. 

But it was still weird and awkward and difficult. After all, I had never met these people until a few weeks before, and now I was spending 8 hours a day in a one-bedroom, 700 square foot apartment with them. And only 2 out of 3 of us spoke the same language at the same time. Abbu was a constant translator. Things were difficult, is what I'm getting at!

But, I still remember the first time the wave crested and I could see the possibility of us all living happily ever after as a real family on the other side. In our wedding preparation week, I had also taken the LSAT test. During all the final wedding details and honeymoon period, I had largely forgotten about it. One evening close to the end of M's parent's stay, M and I were in the bedroom working on the wedding video, and I decided to check my email. I saw an email from the LSAT people and I immediately knew what it was. I gasped, and cried out to M that my results were here. He called out to Ammi and Abbu and they rushed into the room just as I was scrolling down to get my results. They were pretty good. Everyone yelled some kind of "Hurray!" or "Yay! Everyone was excited. I was smart!  I was going to get into a good school!

And then Ammi patted my head. 

And I beamed and glowed and was so happy. Somehow that one little gesture meant that it was all going to work out just fine.

Of Tailors

When I'm buying clothes in Pakistan, I'm mostly buying fabric and taking it to a tailor to be sewn into an outfit. Shalwar Kameez is a three-piece outfit consisting of pants, shirt and a scarf. For those, you go shopping at places that sell fabric in matching three piece sets. You pick out a pattern that you like and take the fabric to a tailor. There you choose the style and cut that you like, and the tailor makes the outfit to your specifications. It's not like in America where tailors are hard to find and expensive. Tailors are everywhere in Pakistan, on every corner and at all prices. 

A shopkeeper standing in front of rows and rows of fabric, many in three-piece sets for making a shalwar kameez outfit.

Finding a good tailor can be difficult, though. Tailoring seems to be a mostly male. family profession, so a son might take over his father's tailoring business. My mother-in-law uses the tailor down the block from her house, and the first outfits I got as gifts where sewn him him. I even used him for the first clothes I bought for myself when I went to Pakistan. I think he's not a very good tailor at all. Things I had sewn my him were almost always ill-fitting. The armholes on one of my shirts were even two different sizes once. 

The next time I bought clothes in Pakistan I asked one of M's fashionable cousins to hook me up with her tailor. Last December when we traveled to Pakistan, I bought a big heap of clothes and took them to the new tailor and he did a pretty good job. Some stuff was still botched though.

I think that one of the reasons tailors can botch the tailoring is because men in Pakistan aren't always comfortable touching women. Especially unrelated women. Especially unrelated American women. Who are wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Suffice it to say that my first tailor wouldn't take my measurements at all, ever. He would only accept my measurements written down on a paper. No wonder nothing ever fit right. The second tailor took my measurements himself, but only once and he still tried to keep his distance, ifyouknowwhatImean.

This is the tailor. It's just a small shop. It's just a very small storefront, and M and his cousin are inside talking with the tailor. There's a counter that the tailor stands behind when customers are in his shop, and some completed outfits hanging up on the back wall. The interesting thing is that the store is very small, and the tailors are actually working in a loft above the rest of the store. 

This is the inside of the (2nd, better) tailor. The main tailor and store owner is standing behind the counter. Some of the completed outfits are on the shelves behind him, rolled up and waiting for their owners to come pick them up. The book that M's fashionable cousin is leaning on holds different pictures of the tailor's best pieces and designs. This includes all kinds of style and cut options that you can choose from. People can get really creative with a neckline design or cutouts on the sleeves of pants, so the tailor can show you one of these books to give you some inspiration. Notice above M's cousins head is the loft where the tailor sits and sews the clothes. The entire store where 3-4 tailors work is no bigger than 10 square feet.

Here's a shot of the loft. The tailor can only just sit up there, he's so close to the roof! They've got their sewing machines up there and they sit up there for hours each day. On Eid, the holiday when everyone wants to have new clothes made for the big day, they can spend almost all day in there working for weeks beforehand.

Here's the other shot of the loft, with the other tailors. I don't think I could spend all day in that tiny loft cramped up with three other guys. What a job!

You need tailors for more than just shalwar kameez, too. A sari,  a several-meters long piece of unstiched fabric that you wind up and wrap around yourself -  would presumably not need any tailoring. But actually you wear it with a small tight blouse underneath that must be sewn, and also a thin petticoat underneath. The petticoat helps the skirt part of the sari flow without sticking to your legs, and also helps with the thinner saris which can be a little transparent. Also, because a sari is so difficult to wrap up and get the folds just right, you can even get it sewn up already folded & pleated, taking the skill right out of it! (Guess which kind of saris The Gori Wife has made - HA!)

Shopping for Shalwar Kameez

Who wants to talk more about Shalwar Kameez? Shopping, Tailoring, Choosing a design?

My first shalwar kameez - 2 of them, actually - were brought to America as gifts by my mother- and father-in-law. A dark blue one with gold accents, and a purple one from really wrinkly fabric. Both had elastic waisted regular shalwars, and very striking, holes-cut-out and beaded necklines. I liked them allright, I guess. I'd never given much thought to shalwar kameez before, and I don't even think I'd seen any other than the plain white ones M wore only twice before. That's part of the hazard of dating a desi guy - most of his friends will be guys and you might not get  lot of exposure to the desi women's experience. 

Over time, of course, I knew more desi women and got a chance to see more ladies shalwar kameez. There are so many different styles and choices! Being completely foreign to shalwar kameez, I couldn't even tell which people were fashionable or weren't. (I probably still don't.) In fact, lots of you left comments on the first post about shalwar kameez and mentioned different sytles like evergeen, flapper, anarkali - and I have no idea what those mean even NOW! (although some of you gave really good descriptions, thanks!)

I rarely get to buy my own shalwar kameez anyway. They are so so SO expensive in America, and I've only been to Pakistan twice. When I did go to Pakistan, I shopped for a lot of different shalwar kameez. The first time I bought mostly cotton outfits, and then when I got back I realized I had very little to wear to a dinner party. So the second time I bought mostly nicer outfits. 

Unfortunately I think my style tends toward the crappy stuff. My family calls my style "Lalukhait-y" after a market in Karachi where I guess more lower-income people shop. (Although I have never shopped for clothes in any market except Hyderi Market.) I once bought a pair of shoes with bells all over them and someone in M's family told me I shouldn't be wearing them, they were too ugly and unfashionable. Ha! 

Luckily, I've found that two of M's cousins are really good shopping buddies. One is REALLY fashionable and so kind and patient with me, so she always helps guide me to a nice choice. She also helped me find a good tailor. The other is older, and probably less fashionable, but she's such a good bargainer that I take her when I'm buying the really expensive stuff like shararas and sarees. 

As far as the cut of the outfit, I prefer a little longer kameez, or shirt. In America, these days all I see from the young girls at the desi parties we go to (which are usually a mix of more recent immigrants and 2nd generation born in America) are shorter kameez and a ghair or patialashalwar - which are big pants that have all these pleats either all around the hips or all through the thigh area. My hips aren't exactly the slimmest part of me, so I'd be afraid to wear so much fabric at the hip or thigh because it might look like my hips were never ending rolls of fabric. I like my kameez a little longer, too, because it covers up a multitude of sins. So it seems I'll continue to be unfashionable until my hips get smaller, or more likely, until fashion changes up again.

As far as designs, I've always like tribal looking prints and hand embroidery. Classic, simple. Nothing neon or electric yellow. For some reason desis think that shocking orange or pink looks good with my skin tone, but I can't stand it. Also, I don't like prints with geometric shapes - which seem to be pretty prevalent. I feel like a geometry equation. I like litte embroidered flowers and paisley. I found a couple of pictures of some of my favorite outfits (all headless, of course!)

The first ever shalwar kameez I bought myself at a desi store in Houston. It cost like, $75, I think.

The first shalwar kameez I bought in Pakistan. I like the simple, traditional floral pattern. (and notice that M is subversively putting his hand on my knee even though were sitting in the street outside a cafe. Scandal!)

One of those terrible geometric patterns they're always trying to get me into.

One of my favorite outfits! I even used the dupatta/scarf part of this as a tablecloth sometimes! I love that it's mostly simple, but with just a hint - the borders - of heavy embroidery.

A nicer outfit that was supposed to be a tight-fitting churidar pants style, but the tailor messed it up. I loved the color and the delicate white embroidery.

One of the more recent purchases, I still wear this one a lot. Also, the baby standing on our luggage as we were trying to finish up our packing for the return trip from Pakistan last year.

A family shalwar kameez photo! (Also, another outfit picked out by my mother-in-law; you can tell by the color.)