My Aleph Is a Taboo

Written by: McArabian (republished)

Jorge Louis Borges found his Aleph on the dark staircase of a friend’s cellar. I found mine in the lit end of a cigarette: Benson and Hedges, menthol lights, one hundreds. Where I come from, women who smoke are (un)attractive. We are not allowed any phallic symbols anywhere near our precious lips. Pure lips above mean pure lips below. I will give an example:

My mother tells me a story about two women at a popular local café. They are drinking tea and chatting. They are young, very pretty, and very hip. They have their Villa Moda clothes on. They are hoping some handsome man will notice them and perhaps set the wheels in motion for a relationship; clandestine or otherwise. They are lighting a cigarette each. The first tendril of smoke that drifts out between their beautiful lips carries with it a message. The men turn to receive it. It is subtle, but clear. The cigarette has breached the two lips; it has released its smoke into the lungs. The body is no longer pure; it has been tainted by a foreign object that is unforgivable in its assault. But that is not the message. The message is in the crime of expulsion. It is a man’s duty to expel, a woman’s duty to receive. The two women exhale the smoke and it is involuntarily sucked in by male nostrils. I will say it is the cultural equivalent of ’snowballing.’ I see you disagree. I will interrupt my story and explain.

Snowballing: the act of moving semen from one mouth to another. You are right in pointing out that smoke is not semen. It is artificial. I am positing that exhaled smoke is a form of bodily expulsion. It is a byproduct of a pleasurable act. The symbol is just as important as the object it symbolizes. There is a reality inherit in it. I am smoking a cigarette, I am sucking a cock. When men smoke it is homosocial. When women smoke, it is sexual. I will continue my story and you will see what I mean.

Our two lovely, and hip smoking women are not approached by men. They are approached by four women. These four women are young as well. They are wearing hijabs, abayas, and burkahs. They are four women who are not hip. They are angry because they see the two smoking women. There is a social taboo being broken and that is an affront to their sensibilities. They feel a correction is needed here. The correction comes in the form of accusations. These are the accusations: 1) You are smoking in a public place. 2) You are advertising that you have no morals. 3) You are “fallen” women. 4) You have no shame. Imbedded within this correction is the abuse. It is only verbal, but all connotations are sexual: 1) Your filth knows no bounds. 2) You are a slut. 3) You might as well be sticking your ass out of your pants. 4) You deserve to be raped.

This correction is loud enough for the men to hear. It makes them laugh. It makes me laugh as my mother tells it. I think to myself, “I am a smoker but at least I’m not stupid enough to do it in public.” That thought makes me feel guilty; I am betraying our two lovely ladies. I will return now to my Aleph.

The Aleph is the first letter in the Arabic alphabet. It is a vertical line topped with an accent. In looks, it is very similar to the English ‘i’. The beginning and end of me. My “I”. I am bilingual, and I read Borges. In my head, his Aleph and my English ‘i’ converge. They pull my identity with them. There is a backdrop behind them, and on it is a lit cigarette. It is similar in form, and my Aleph translates. It is now the lit cigarette. It is both finite and infinite. In it I find freedom and constraint. It empowers and breaks me. It makes me promiscuous. Today, it will take at least ten of them to satisfy me. They are lined up in a pack at the bottom of my purse. They are next to a half-opened package of condoms, and for that, I apologize.

© COPYRIGHT MCARABIAN 2005

The Devil in Me

Written by: McArabian

I walk into her apartment and the smell of onions, curry, tomatoes, and a hundred spices (that I have no name for in Arabic and she has no name for in English) assault my nostrils. It makes my stomach rumble in hunger and slight nausea. It is too strong for me, and I wonder if I am not Kuwaiti enough to appreciate it. She is pleased to see me and greets me with an enthusiasm that betrays a hint of desperation. She is lonely, and though I am not the best company, I am all she has in the States. I, and her Son. A good Kuwaiti woman, she is everything I am not, do not want to be, and am afraid of being. As I watch her move around the kitchen, quick and efficient, I find myself once again composing a letter to her in my head. My Arabic fails me, and my English words are weak, but I write nonetheless:

Dearest Auntie Laila,

Dinner is almost ready; it is never truly ready until her Son arrives. So we wait. She tells me we will listen to Allah’s words in the meantime. She is slow as she gets up from the couch, already old in her mind. Avoiding the flashy sound system with its double tape deck and six CD shuffler, she makes her way to the one sitting next to it, a brown and battered cassette player, and pushes down hard on the PLAY button with some satisfaction. Verses of the Koran, recited by an aged mullah, pour out into the air around me. Sometimes it is a speech we listen to; in the voice of a younger mullah, angry and righteous. I’m not sure if she notices that I am uncomfortable.

Auntie Laila, can you not see what your religion is doing to you? You are so ready to let men dictate to you how you should feel about your body. These are men who know nothing of your life, or the countless tragedies you have witnessed. These ignorant men tell you to cover your hair, cover your arms, and make sure your ankles don’t show. Act modest. Be timid. Be afraid. And you listen to them! You believe in their lies because it is easier for you to believe that possession is love. This dependency on a man is drilled into you. It is something that would be desirable, even admired, back home. We talk of husbands and you tell me, advise me, not to be too financially successful, not to build a career, not to hurt my man’s pride that way. I cannot argue with you about my own pride; that I value it more than any man’s pride. You will surely think it is the devil in me.

We eat as soon as He arrives. I am amazed by how animated, how alive, she is in His presence. She bustles around the kitchen, chattering excitedly; serving Him, serving me, serving herself. His replies are monosyllabic at best, perhaps tossing out a sentence or two to keep up her enthusiasm. Once dinner is done He retires to His room only to reappear an hour or two later, showered and shaved. It is time for Him to leave again; to get drunk, get high, and go visit his fuck friends. The scent of his His cologne, Pleasure by Estee Lauder, silently announces His plans. It is more believable than any insipid reason He volunteers to explain His absence from our company for the rest of the night. She will not stop Him. She will not preach to Him what the righteous voice in the small brown cassette player preached to her, to me, to us. He will leave with her blessing.

Auntie Laila, explain to me why I cannot be as free in my movements as your Son? Explain to me the wisdom of our confinement. I do not understand your complacency, or the blind faith you have in the rules our society has wrapped us in for our own protection. Did you ever think to ask: protection from what? What is this virtue that we are forced to hide away in the center of our beings? Why must we hide it from prying eyes, ears, words and ideas? Why do you feel the need to police me and not your Son? Explain to me why a man’s virtue is cheaper than mine.

I am required to stay behind. My correct place is by her side until she tires of me. She pulls out a deck of cards and shuffles them. It has now become part of the routine to play cards until He comes back: stinking of sex, drugs and alcohol. He will thank me for taking care of His mother. He will walk me home, and regale me with stories of the night’s adventures. Within it all, He will confess that he cannot control the devil in Him. He will admit that His virtue has ceased, and compel me to keep mine untouched. But not tonight. Tonight I discard my mental letter, pull out my cigarette, and introduce Auntie Laila to the devil in me.

© COPYRIGHT MCARABIAN 2005