While Tats finishes, I sneak a glance at Sarah and am thrilled at the delight on her face. She’s so happy, she’s actually tearing up, watching all of us.
I tear up.
She’s not going to be my sister.
She always was.
* * *
After the dance Sarah grabs me for a hug, laughing with happiness. “Janna! You’re an amazing dancer!”
I hug her back tight. Because she’s mine, someone I’m completely comfortable hugging. “Thanks! But I’m actually just good at following directions.”
“You have to do it again at the reception next year! Because it’ll be split women and men, so we can dance our hearts out!” she says excitedly, before turning to hug Dania, Lamya, and Khadija. “I got some great selfies to share with Maysarah. Her first henna party!” Khadija tells me before I move from them. She adds a wink. “And to bless Lateef’s eyes with.”
I smile and make my way to someone I spotted while spinning around.
While carefully picking a path through the crowd, I see Sarah’s mom and aunts on the chairs at my right, so I go over to give salaams. Only one of them hugs me, even though I veto my no-hug instincts and start out by trying to tentatively hug Sarah’s mom. She gives me a small pat on my back in response.
She has the same look on her face as when I first saw her at the mosque in Eastspring a few years ago, when Sarah’s family moved there. It’s the same slight frown that’s greeted me each subsequent time.
The frown that I previously attributed to a facial tic.
But now, without me summoning them, Dad’s warning words run through my mind: The same thing is happening to Muhammad. The way Sarah’s family is treating him.
Is it because we’re not Syrian that Sarah’s mom always scowls at me?
Why didn’t Muhammad answer the question when I brought up what Dad had said about the way Sarah’s family treats him?
After forcing myself to smile at Sarah’s mom one more time, I head over to the person I really want to see.
Sausun, seated on the floor niqab-less, grins big when she sees me coming and stands up to open her arms to receive me. After we hug, she points to someone still seated. “Nada.”
I bend to shake hands with Sausun’s sister, who I’ve met a few times since Sausun helped her and her toddler son escape an awful situation in Saudi Arabia. Now Nada lives with Sausun and is still adjusting to her new life. She’s mostly quiet, like right now when she just whispers salaam to me and doesn’t add another word, even when I ask her how she’s doing.
Straightening up, I make the mistake of looking beyond Sausun.
Sarah’s aunt is scowling at me from across the room and whispering something to another of Sarah’s aunts. Then the first aunt gets up from her chair to move toward us.
“Uh-oh,” I say to Sausun. “Don’t look, but I think there’s trouble headed this way.”
Sausun is cool as a cucumber, so she doesn’t flinch. She just tosses her jet-black, dead-straight hair behind her shoulders and looks at me calmly from under her fringe of long, severely level bangs. Her eyes are hazel and big and there’s no escaping their probing, and I can tell she’s already assessed that I have a lot of things to tell her soon.
“Janna? Right? Muhammad’s sister?” It’s Sarah’s aunt who owns several salons and who’s always giving me and Mom advice on facials on the few occasions we’ve met. I think her name is Rima.
I nod and smile. Sausun begins to turn to Auntie Rima, but, before she completes the 180, she loops her arm through mine.
“Can I ask something? As Sarah’s aunt?” Auntie Rima says.
“Sure,” I say, stiffening, wondering if I’m the right person to represent Muhammad and our family. Should I call Mom over?
I look around for her and notice she’s at the food table with Auntie Maysa and Auntie Ameera, her best friends.
“Why are you wearing this Indian outfit? Did your dad tell you to?” She’s cocking her head like she really wants to know. “I’m not trying to offend you—I hope you know that. It’s just something our family is wondering. Why you couldn’t have honored our traditions.”
I’m stunned. I look down at the carpet and then at her face again, to see if she’s being serious.
She’s awaiting my answer.
“Janna, you don’t have to answer that.” It’s Sausun.
I turn to her. Her gaze is unmoving from Auntie Rima’s eyes.
“You don’t have to answer offensive questions,” Sausun continues.
“Excuse me, I just told her I’m not trying to offend anyone. And who are you? You’re not family.” Auntie Rima’s eyes flash angrily.
“And neither are you if you’re coming to a happy occasion and then asking my friend, who’s a part of YOUR family now, why she chose the happy, beautiful clothes she did,” Sausun says, her voice growing louder. She turns to me. “Because they are, Janna.”
I nod as it sinks in how awful this is—being accosted for the clothes I’m wearing. “I’m of dual heritage. And I think I can honor the part of my culture I want to.” I say this quietly, wishing I could be as firm as Sausun.
“When are you going to honor our culture?” Auntie Rima shoots out. She sweeps a hand over the basement. “I don’t see anyone here doing that.”
“Not true,” I say. “Sarah’s honoring her culture beautifully. Everything she has on is of her culture. And it’s beautiful.”
“But many of the songs, the dancing, and most of the clothes are all from your father’s background. Even your stepmom has on Indian clothes!” Auntie Rima thunders.
It’s a good thing there’s music on. Otherwise everyone would have heard “even your stepmom has on Indian clothes!” and turned their heads to us.
“So? Maybe everyone’s choosing to wear whatever they think goes with the vibe they’re feeling. Who are you to police them?” Sausun indicates her own clothes, a kaftan dress in pale, barely there mint green with silver beadwork. “I’m of dual heritage, and I’m wearing Arab clothes. Because my sister Nada and I are going to do a traditional dance from my dad’s side for Sarah. And you know what? I don’t think Janna’s mom’s going to have a problem with that. Or her dad.”
Well, Dad might, I think. He and Auntie Rima may get along just fine.
I mean, just fine in their opinions on the world, but not culturally.
I look over at Mom again to see if she can rescue me, and realize that she, an Egyptian American, and Auntie Ameera, who’s Somali American, are both wearing Pakistani suits like Auntie Maysa (who is Pakistani American). Auntie Rima is probably affronted by that, maybe thinking it’s a planned emphasis on one culture—while I know that Mom and her friends just wanted to match each other and that they saw a deal at a desi store when they took a trip to Devon Street in Chicago together.
I need to exit this situation. “Oh, look. The line’s cleared around one of the henna artists. She’s the one I’ve been waiting for. I’m going to get my hands done.”
“And it’s time for my dance, I think.” Sausun holds Auntie Rima’s gaze. “You’re free to join us if you want to. We’re dancing to an old Arabi song you may know.”