We do not associate

When I was in fourth grade we moved to the house that I lived in until I got married. It's been my experience that when new people move to the neighborhood (or in our case, cul de sac) that the current residents welcome the newbies in some neighborly way...my dad would disdainfully refer to this as the "hi Joe" including a raise of the arm which was supposed to indicate a bbq griller in hand...as in "I'm regular guy grilling dinner and when I see my neighbor over the fence I raise my arm and say Hi Joe!"

Some of these ways include a bottle of wine, a plate of cookies, or just a random doorbell ring to introduce themselves. Our street was definitely of a more extreme version of "hi Joe". They had monthly house parties that rotated through the houses on the street. Lucky for us, we had arrived just in time to be invited!

The selected ambassador came to talk to my dad while he was planting his trees...after listening for a while, my dad raised his hand in what appeared to be the "hi Joe" fashion but instead uttered something that would define us for the next twenty years: "Thanks, but we don't associate."

And we didn't. I was convinced that if something happened to us and we were all murdered gruesomely by my dad, the neighbors would point to this incident as the moment when they knew he wasn't right.

Is that a kind of tree?

My father was convinced that every boy, man, grandpa, uncle, stranger had only one thing on his mind...if you guessed sex, then you're right! However his attitude was shaped not only by his extreme religiousness (Jesus said "if you even think lustfully about a woman, you've committed adultery with her in your heart) but his Middle Eastern upbringing where women were pretty much to blame for inspiring any kind of "lust." One of my dad's common lectures entailed my not becoming "an object of lust." Decent advice from a dad to his daughter, but a little creepy since I'd been receiving this lecture since I was about 8 (hence the virgin Mary swimsuit query). As I actually got to an age to even begin to inspire lust in men, this lecture took on a more serious tone: I was warned to not let any man make me his concubine, which he pronounced "con-cue-pine." As in, "if you go to Spain, how will you avoid becoming a con-cue-pine?" It was somewhat amusing, because I always imagined a Chinese dynasty or an Arab harem with genie outfits whenever he said that.

A doctor talks to 4-5 year olds

My mother, an ObGyn, led me to have an inordinate amount of knowledge about where babies came from at an early age. One day, she gave me a book entitled "a doctor talks to 4-5 year olds." This was supposed to describe in kid friendly terms how babies were made. I was already privy to one-sided phone calls asking "how dilated is she?" and "call me when the contractions are closer together." But this book was a little more basic...two photographs stand out in my memory: one was of a toad mounting its mate and the other was of the statue of David. My older sister and I enjoyed taunting my grandmother with these pictures especially the one of David (made even grosser because my mom was reminded of my dad when she saw the real thing). This game didn't last long though because my grandmother ripped the picture of David out of the book and flung the book across the room...all the while muttering in arabic about what my mother was thinking.

My mom suffered more than Jesus

A major theme in my childhood is how my mother has suffered at the hands of my father. In fact, my mother has always maintained that we had to erect a huge cross on her grave to represent said suffering.

Recently, while my mom was in one of her rants, I tried to appeal to her faith and told her to think about Jesus and his passion, try to take comfort, etc.

Her response: "Jesus was only on the cross for three hours, I suffered for 38 years."

Are you in a cult?

I fancied myself "alternative" in high school. This was the early 90's, so think grunge mixed with punk. My usual outfit consisted of my Catholic school skirt cut at the hem and then restapled to an alarming length, over the knee socks and doc martens sharpied with a variety of anti-establishment slogans, and a leather biker jacket that was stocked with Marlboro reds and a zippo lighter. I wanted more piercings so I found a mall store that was unconcerned with things such as parental consent. I was able to fit four piercings on each ear. I proudly adorned my ears with such earrings as crosses, dragons, and silver hoops. My father focused on the earrings and asked me with all seriousness..."Are you in a cult?" Yes, Dad. I'm in a cult that demands multiple ear piercings by its members.

What kind of swimsuit would the Virgin Mary wear?

One day, when I was about ten years old with no body to speak of, I decided to work on my tan in the backyard. My swimsuit was a hot pink one piece with bows on the side. My father was working in the garden as always. He looked pained and asked me if I thought the Virgin Mary would wear a swimsuit like that. I was ordered to change. I went inside and told my Bibi what my dad said. She swore in Arabic, crossed herself, and was horrified at the suggestion that the Virgin Mary would even wear a swimsuit.