Honor Aside

Chapter 3

I was five years old when we left Pakistan. I remember my parents arguing about emigrating to Canada several times. Another snapshot from a childhood spent amidst unproductive conflict: lying on a bed across from my parents, who sat in chairs and argued about leaving the country. I think my mom was angry because she wanted to get away from my dad's family, but he jokingly made excuses for why he had yet to decide about the move. Many arguments happened this way, during the endless domestic routines that happened each day. Near us. Near me, specifically, since my siblings didn't seem to be as bothered by it as I was. Even now, you neurotic fucking idiot. I wanted to make things easier for my mom, but she was often mad, which frustrated me.

I didn't understand what Canada was, exactly; it was maybe an adventure. We did leave, and that started a long, arduous journey. I remember waking up early (or late, maybe) and going to the airport. It was dark as we drove away from home. My parents seemed tense and sad. The lights at the airport were so bright. Many of our male relatives came to wish us farewell, and I boarded a plane for the first time that I could remember. Along the way, we met relatives in a different country whom we hadn't seen for years. Eventually, we arrived in Canada.

We lived in a hotel for a couple of months. That is where we lived when I started school in Canada. My first day of school terrified me. I understood nothing people said, but then the teacher and children came to help me put together a crafts project showing a penguin wearing a scarf. Being so young, I quickly became fluent in English. I tried to be nice to people and make them happy, and I had lots of friends. We would make snow angels in winter and run to faraway parts of the playground to tell secrets. Back then, it was easy to trust people. I was open and wanted to make as many good friends as possible. I wanted to like and to be liked by others. Such a fucking spaz now.

Our lives changed again when our dad bought our first home. We helped to clean it out and paint all the walls a boring beige colour. For the most part, I grew up in that house. When I was young, I played outdoors with other children from my street. I'd return home and my mom would be washing the dishes with so much intensity, her face angry. I felt guilty. I always feel guilty. I don't think I deserve to not feel guilty because my mom had to put up with so much. She was so stuck and so sad, and I didn't help as much as I should have. I created more problems. I became a burden, and that is inexcusable. That feeling stayed with me like it was part of me. The stain does not wash away easily. Maybe it will never leave me.

My parents fought constantly in that house. I think the stress of providing for and raising a young family created a lot of tension. Many fights ended with my parents in different rooms, still screaming at each other. My mom might barricade herself in my room with me still in it, shouting through the door. I thought she was the bad one because when your dad doesn't yell as much during an argument, tells you to take your mom to the doctor because she clearly needs psychiatric intervention, or tells you that your mom learned to be such a bitch from her own mom, you think that you should treat your mom disdainfully. You model what the "rational" parent says to do, because you think that they are the ultimate authority. I didn't understand the dynamics at play.

My mom was always a complicated woman. The word "complicated" seems neutral, as if it represents that which must be skillfully navigated. Go slowly and carefully enough, and you will succeed. I never felt that I succeeded with her overall. We had good moments, but I still feel that gnawing guilt at not having been more mature and less anxious so that I could have comforted her more. At the very least, I could have been less reactive and not yelled at her when she brushed me aside. She would talk for hours with family overseas. Sometimes, I overheard confusing half-sentences about my dad. I understand somewhat how disappointing life has been for her. She tried her best. She learned from her parents and her husband that she could trust no one fully. It makes me sad because I can hardly bear the knowledge of how bad it's been. And because the person I love who was treated so badly ended up acting similarly toward me. I think the power imbalance in our culture and family between men and women grinds the latter down over decades. Many start as joyful children and end as shadows. Worse still are the women who defend tradition and shame those who complain.

I don't know if my dad is truly a bad person or not. I used to want his approval, but nothing was ever good enough. I wanted to be so good that he'd remember even when he was in a bad mood and not take it out on me. Both parents vacillated between their good and bad moods. They didn't know how not to let it affect everyone around them. I would squirm when they got along - they would laugh about something that had caused an explosive fight a few days before. They'd laugh like hyenas, a little bitter and not at all content. More than anything, I felt stuck in a cycle that I couldn't control.

Once, my dad left on a trip. In my room, I stood close to a wall mirror and looked into my eyes. I was proud that I hadn't cried. More than anything, it was a numbness that overtook almost everything. It was better than the pain and confusion. However, repression hurt me more over the long run than it helped. I needed an outlet, a relief valve for the overflow of emotions. I fought constantly with my mom in junior high and high school. I didn't know how to manage my anger, and her advice was always to stop being so ungrateful and pray because God would probably punish me and take it all away if I persisted in being angry and uncooperative. She smothered me with such talk all the time, and then had her own blow-ups every once in a while. She would read my journal entries, which were full of anger and bitterness, and berate me for having thought and written such things. She said I was lucky my dad even bothered to take care of us and that we had a house and a family.

At some point when I was 12, I was angry enough with my family that I kicked in my door. I agonized over what I had done for years afterward. I fixed the door by attaching the broken pieces of fiberboard to the rest of the door with glue. I glued a small piece of paper over an area for which I could not recover the corresponding missing piece. Then, I painted over the rough edges of my work with white correcting fluid from my pencil-case. I hung many long scarves on the back of my door to hide the patch-up. At some point, my mom noticed and asked about it. I said it was nothing, but she had to have checked when I was at school. Over the years, the secrets and non-acknowledgements became harder to bear. To be seen was torture, and so was being ignored.

To live that life, you have to be in denial. I couldn't do it. I became depressed and anxious, to the point of eventually becoming suicidal. I was told what my life would be like, and since there was no other option for me within my family, I tried to force myself to accept it. I grew up expecting to become a doctor since my parents constantly urged me toward that, and since I loved science (among many other subjects), I thought that was my path. Also, I would have to have an arranged marriage eventually. But stability at home depended upon my performance at school and at home, or so it seemed. My mom often said she was sick of everything and wanted to go home. She said she needed a divorce, that we would be okay without her because we had to be. I heard many times that I had to get good grades and make something of my life or there was no point to her staying. She might curse at me if I asked how we'd survive without her. Fucking useless. Apparently, we didn't need her at all. She would tell us how to divide up the chores, and some of them would go to the woman my dad would marry after my mom had left. A bitter laugh, and I was numb. And if she had actually had a choice, she would have left. Thinking of it still kind of makes me want to slit my wrists. The pain was part of me, and I constantly tried to reject it. I still can't fully accept just how bad it was for me. Maybe later, it will be less difficult. When you somehow get over the fact that you fucking abandoned them.