Desert Flower (19 page)

I had no idea there was another Marilyn Monroe. To me, she was simply my friend, the lifeguard at the Y. Luckily, I didn’t even know about the added concern that I was walking around with a passport bearing my photo and the name of a famous movie star. At that moment, my biggest worry was that my passport said I was Marilyn Monroe, born in London, yet I barely spoke a word of English. I’m dead… It’s over… I’m dead… It’s over..” were the words ringing

through my brain as my whole body poured a river of sweat.

All the James Bond people joined in the game: “Hey, so what’s your real name? Now, really where are you from? Did you know that people born in the middle of London don’t speak English?” They were just ribbing the piss out of me. This Geoffrey jerk finally handed back my passport. I went back to the end of the line, letting all of them go through ahead of me, hoping they’d be gone by the time it was my turn.

“NEXT!”

As the rest of the film crew went through customs, no one went on about their business, running off to hop in the car as they normally would have after a long trip. No. They waited, huddled around in a group just beyond the customs booth, to see how I was going to get out of this one.

Pull yourself together, Waris, girl. You can do it. I walked up and handed the customs clerk my passport with a dazzling smile. “Hello!” I called out, then held my breath. I knew better than to say one more word, because then he’d find out my English was a joke.

“Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Umm.” I nodded and smiled. He handed me

my passport and I sailed by. The James Bond crew stood there looking at me in astonishment. I wanted to collapse, exhale, and fall down on the floor, but I flew past them too, knowing I wasn’t safe until I got out of the airport. Just keep moving, Waris. Get out of Heathrow alive.

While I was still living at the YMCA, I spent an afternoon in the pool downstairs, swimming laps. After I finished, I dressed in the locker room, and was heading back upstairs when I heard someone calling my name from the Y’s little card. It was a guy I knew who also lived in the building. His name was William and he motioned for me to come in. “Waris, have a seat. Would you like something to eat?”

William was eating a cheese sandwich, and I said, ‘geah, I’ll have one of those, please.” My English was still pretty weak, but I could make out the gist of what he was saying. While we ate, he asked

me if I’d like to go to the movies. This was not the first time he’d asked me out. William was young, handsome, white, and always very sweet. But as he talked, I stopped hearing what he was saying. Instead I sat staring at him, watching his lips move, and my mind began running like a computer:

Go to the movies with him

If only he knew about me

Oh, imagine what it would be like to have a boyfriend

It might be nice Someone to talk to Someone to love me

But if I go to the movies

He’ll want to kiss me

Then he’ll want to have sex

And if I agree

He’ll find out I’m not like other girls I’m damaged Or if I disagree

He’ll be angry and we’ll have a fight

Don’t go

It’s not worth the heartache

Say no

If only he knew about me, he’d realize it has nothing to do with him.

I smiled and shook my head. “No, thanks. I have too much work.” The hurt look that I knew would come, came, and I shrugged, saying to both of us: There’s nothing I can do.

This problem began when I moved to the Y. When I lived with my family, I was normally never around strange men unchaperoned. A man who came to my parents, or Auntie Sahru’s, or Uncle Mohammed’s, would either know our culture and not attempt to ask me on a date, or would be dealt with by the family. But since I left my uncle’s house, I had been alone. And for the first time I was forced to cope with these situations by myself. The Y was a building chock-full of young, single men. Going to clubs with Halwu I met more men. Modeling I met more men still.

But I was interested in none of them. The thought of having sex with a man never crossed my mind, but unfortunately, after some of my awful experiences, I knew it crossed theirs. Although I’ve always wondered, I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I hadn’t been circumcised. I like men and I’m a very emotional, loving person. At that time, it had been six years since I ran away from my father, and the loneliness had been hard for me; I missed my family. And

someday I hoped to have a husband and family of my own. But as long as I was sewn up, I was very much closed to the idea of a relationship, shut away into myself. It was as if the stitches prevented any man from entering me physically or emotionally.

The other problem that prevented me from having a relationship with a man came up when I realized I was different from other women, particularly Englishwomen. After I arrived in London, it gradually dawned on me that not all girls had -had done to them what had been done to me. When I lived with my cousins at Uncle Mohammed’s house, sometimes I would be in the bathroom with the other girls. I was amazed when they peed quickly in a heavy stream, whereas it took me about ten minutes to urinate. The tiny hole the circumciser had left me only permitted the urine to escape one drop at a time. “Waris, why do you pee like that what’s wrong with you?” I didn’t want to tell them because I assumed when they got back to Somalia they would be circumcised, too, so I just laughed it off.

my periods were no laughing matter. From the very beginning, when I was around

eleven Or twelve years old, they were a nightmare. They began one day when I was alone out tending my sheep and goats. The day was unbearably hot, and I sat weakly under a tree, feeling even more uncomfortable because my stomach hurt. I wondered, What is this pain? Maybe I’m pregnant? Maybe I’m going to have a baby? But I haven’t been with a man, so how can I be pregnant? The pressure grew and grew, and so did my fear. About an hour later I went to pee and saw blood. I thought I was dying.

Leaving the animals grazing in the bush, I flew home, and ran to my mother crying and screaming, “I’m dying! Oh, Mama, I’m dying!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m bleeding, Mama I’m going to die!”

She stared at me hard. “No, you’re not going to die. It’s all right. It’s your period.” I had never heard of periods knew nothing about any of it.

“Can you please explain this to me tell me what you’re talking about?” My mother explained the process as I writhed around in misery, holding my abdomen. “But how do I stop this pain? Because, you know, it feels like I’m dying!”

“Waris, you can’t stop it. You just have to let it go. Wait until it’s ready to leave.”

However, I wasn’t prepared to accept that

solution. Looking for something that would bring me relief, I went back into the desert and started digging a hole under a tree. The motion felt good and gave me something to take my mind off my pain. I dug and dug with a stick until I had a spot deep enough to bury the bottom half of my body. Then I climbed in, packing the dirt in around me; the underground hole was cooler, sort of like an ice pack, and I would rest there during the heat of the day.

Digging a hole in the ground became the method I would use for coping with my period each month. Oddly enough, later I found out that my sister Aman had done the same thing. But this treatment had its drawbacks. One day my father came walking by and saw his daughter half buried under a tree. Viewed from a distance, I looked like I’d been cut off at the waist and had been sat on the sand. “What the hell are you doing?” On hearing his voice, I automatically tried to jump out of the hole, but since the dirt was packed tightly around me, I didn’t get very far. Struggling out, I clawed with my hands to get my legs free. Papa started laughing hysterically. I was too shy to explain why I did it, and afterward he kept making jokes about it. “If you want to bury yourself alive, do it properly. I mean, come on, what was

that halfway business?” Later, he asked my mother about my strange behavior. He worried his daughter was turning into some kind of burrowing animal a mole obsessed with tunneling underground but Mama explained the situation.

However, as my mother had predicted, there was nothing I could do to stop the pain. Although I didn’t understand it at the time, the menstrual blood backed up in my body the same way the urine did. But since it was continuously flowing or trying to for several days, the pressure of the blockage was excruciating. The blood came out one drop at a time; as a result, my periods usually lasted for at least ten days.

This problem reached a crisis while I was living with my uncle Mohammed. Early one morning, I prepared his breakfast as usual. Then carrying the tray from the kitchen to the dining room table where he waited, I suddenly blacked out, and the dishes crashed to the floor around me. Uncle ran to me and started slapping my face, trying to bring me around. I began to regain consciousness and, as if he were far away, I heard him crying, “Maruim! Maruim! She’s fainted!”

When I came to, Aunt Maruim asked me what was wrong, and I told her I’d gotten my period that morning. “Well, this is not right, we have to

take you to the doctor. I’ll make an appointment with my doctor this afternoon.”

I told Auntie’s doctor that my periods were very bad, and whenever I got them, I started passing out. The pain paralyzed me, and I didn’t know what to do about it. “Can you help me? Please is there something you can do? Because I can’t stand it anymore.” However, I didn’t mention to him that I’d been circumcised. I didn’t even know how to begin a discussion of that topic. Back then I was still a girl, and all the issues associated with my physical condition were mixed with ignorance, confusion, and shame. And I wasn’t sure my Circumcision was the source of the problem, since I still thought what happened to me happened to all girls. My mother hadn’t thought my pain unusual, because all the women she had ever known had been circumcised, and they all went through this agony. It’s considered part of the burden of being a woman.

Since the doctor didn’t examine me, he didn’t find out my secret. “The only thing I can give you for pain is birth control pills. That will stop the pain because it will stop your periods.”

Hallelujah! I began taking the pills, even though I didn’t really like the idea. I’d heard from my cousin Basma that they were bad for you. But

within the month, the pain stopped and so did much of my bleeding. Because the drug tricked my body into thinking it was pregnant, other unexpected things happened also. My breasts grew; my ass grew; my face filled out, and my weight exploded. These drastic changes in my body seemed extremely weird and unnatural. Deciding I’d rather deal with the pain, I stopped taking the pills. And deal with the pain I did, because it all came right back again, fiercer than ever.

Later, I visited a second doctor to see if he could help. But that experience was a repeat of the first; he wanted to give me birth control pills as well. I explained that I had tried that option, but I didn’t like the side effects. However, without the pills I couldn’t function for several days each month; I simply went to bed and wanted to die so the suffering would stop. Did he know of another solution? The doctor said, “Well, what do you expect? When women take birth control pills, for the most part their periods stop. When women have periods, they have pain. Take your pick.” When the third doctor repeated this same advice, I realized I needed to do something besides visit new doctors.

I said to Auntie, “Maybe I need to see a special kind of doctor?”

She looked at me sharply. “No,” she said emphatically. “And by the way what are you telling these men?”

“Nothing. That I just want to stop the pain, that’s all.” I knew the unspoken message of her comment: circumcision is our African custom and not something you discuss with these white men.

I began to understand, however, that this was exactly what I was going to have to do. Or suffer and live like an invalid for one third of each month. I also understood that this action would never be accepted by my family. My next step became clear: I would have to secretly go back to the doctor, and tell him I’d been circumcised. Perhaps then one of them could help me.

I chose the first doctor, Dr. Macrae, because he was located in a big hospital and, I reasoned, would have the facilities if I needed surgery. When I called for an appointment, I had to wait a whole agonizing month before I could get in. When the day came, I made some excuse to Auntie for my absence, and went to Dr. Macrae’s office. I said to him, “There’s something I haven’t told you. I’m from Somalia and I - I -‘ It was terrible for me to try to explain this horrible secret in my broken English. “I been circumcised.”

He didn’t even let me finish the sentence. “Go get changed. I want to examine you.” He saw the look of terror on my face. “It’s okay.” He called in his nurse, and she showed me where to change, how to put the gown on.

When we went back into the examining room, I really questioned what I’d gotten myself into this time. The thought that a girl from my country would sit in this strange place, spread her legs, and let a white man look in there..” well, it was the most shameful thing I could imagine. The doctor kept trying to get my knees apart. “Relax. It’s all right I’m a doctor. The nurse is right here she’s standing right there.” I craned my neck around to look in the direction his finger was pointing. She smiled reassuringly at me and I finally gave in. I forced myself to think about something else, pretend I wasn’t here, but was back walking in the desert with my goats on a beautiful day.

When he finished, he asked the nurse if there was someone in the hospital who could speak Somali; she said yes, there was a Somali woman working downstairs. But when she came back, she brought a Somali man instead, because she couldn’t find the woman. I thought, Oh, beautiful Here’s the rotten luck, to discuss this horrible business