Polar Opposites

It was hot.

I wanted so badly to reach up and rip the scarf from around my head. I stared down at my sweating hands—the only part of my body, other than my face, that I was allowed to show. I began to whip them around in the air, hoping I could dry them off a little. I was cursed with constantly sweaty hands. And it being so hot out and having to completely be covered in cloth didn't help much. Every time a white person would come here, they would admire our golden skin. I would give it to them in a heartbeat if they were willing to take my place in the blazing sun of the Middle East.

They described us as exotic. I didn't know what that word meant, but I didn't care whether or not it was an insult. I had managed to pick up a little English, and that was because they came to our school to teach us. To talk to us about their religion. My parents didn't like that very much; but the white people gave the school money, so the school didn't mind the parents's criticism.

Life was so boring. There were so many restrictions. There were so many unexpressed emotions that I began to think that I would rather be locked up to my lonesome than listen to the superficial talk of everyone around me. It was all a game of show and tell. Who had the smaller hips (because generally, Arab girls had huge hips), who had a smaller nose, whose eyebrows were better groomed...of course, no one ever said any of that out loud. They only showed it off as best as they could, and I believe that was to hide their own insecurities. For in reality, no one actually thought they had the smallest nose. They just looked at other noses and wished that theirs could be as small. I didn't see the big deal, to be honest. All their noses looked practically the same to me.

Speaking of badly groomed eyebrows, I had to bite my tongue to keep from commenting on my best friend's newly shaped ones. I think the shape was called the ruler. Every time I saw her, it bothered me. But I knew it was rude to say anything. I looked away from her and out the window to see a few of the boys in my class outside, playing soccer. I wondered how they could stand the heat. The rest of the students were crowded around a small fan, and I believe it was even more suffocating crowding around the thing than it was to move away. I grabbed Lara's hand and pulled her away. I was right: it did feel better away from the crowd.

Something that Lara said about being on a bicycle the other day (I never really listened to what she said, and as long as she got to talk endlessly, she didn't care) sent a buzz of excitement through me. Memories flashed through my brain. It had been the last class, and a white female teacher with hair that resembled wheat had kept me after class. At first, I was scared. I didn't know what to expect. She spoke to me in broken Arabic, telling me that she knew I could read English. I could read English. The problem was understanding it. I nodded shyly, making her break out into a grin. She wasn't pretty, per se. She had green eyes and the skin of fresh milk. But there was something too structured about her face. It was too masculine to be considered pretty, but she wasn't ugly either.

She shuffled through her bag. "Here you go, Amira. I got you this book. It has the English words, and there's Arabic translation above it."

I didn't know what to say. I never read for fun, but that was because I only ever had school books. I gave her a nod and a small smile, not wanting to seem to eager. My parents always told me that being too emotional is a weakness. I stuffed my new and first book ever in my school bag, and I then walked home.

Ever since that day, I'd been taking my time reading the story. And I loved every bit of it. Lara's bicycle reminded me of the boy in the story. He took his bicycle to school everyday. Ever since then, I began to put myself in his shoes on my way to school, in school, on my way home, while I did my homework. I felt like he was my alter ego, written down in paper. And for once in my life, I finally felt so alive. I had something to look forward to. My adventures of being Alex Harris. Our lives were so different but so similar. He was a boy, and I was girl. He liked red, and I liked blue. He had pale skin, and I had brown. But the most interesting thing? He lived in a city where it was always cold. It was called London. I wondered if a place like that did really exist. I kept wanting to ask a white teacher, but anytime I remembered, they wouldn't be there, or I was too shy. I couldn't believe it, though. I couldn't remember the last time I was cold. I guess the fact that I was currently being stifled by the heat had something to do with that.