You're Not Proper (2 page)

The knot tightened and I felt the pain coming back in my forehead. I knew now, I never did belong to the WTM, my gang. They never saw me as I saw them. I never saw me as they saw me. I thought I was just me. And who was I? Mixed-race? Oreo? Christian? Muslim?

The image of Donna and the gang scampering at the sight of Shamshad and the hijab-wearing girls flashed through my mind. I felt a pang of jealousy. They knew who they were. They belonged. They believed. They didn't need to pretend to be anything, they just were. And me, what was I? I certainly wasn't what I thought I was. What was I anyway? What a messed up family I had. A Muslim Dad who loved beer and bacon and a Christian Mum who didn't believe in God, but went to church.

I lay in bed thinking back to how Mum used to take me to church on Sundays. How beautiful she looked in her flowery red dresses, with her blonde hair falling on her shoulders and her thin nose. She wore a silver nose stud, which she only put on when going to church, one Dad had bought her when they had first met and the story of which she always mentioned on these days with a sly remark, ‘If Man U had not won, I am sure he would never have bought this for me.'

Sometimes, getting ready for church, I would stare at my own nose in the mirror. It was thin, but no matter if I looked at it a thousand times and told myself it looked like hers, it just didn't. And whenever I asked her about this, she would go silent for a moment, as though I had asked her the most difficult question in the world and then squeeze my nose saying, ‘It doesn't matter dear. You have the loveliest nose in the whole wide world.'

Mum's chin is beautiful and perfectly round and I hate mine. It's pointy and too long. Mum's eyebrows are so perfect, she never needs to have them plucked and mine grow so fast, one day I'll need a hedge trimmer.

At church she would smile at this person and laugh with that one, her green eyes lighting up each time, like she had not seen them for ages. She once told me she got her eyes from her Dad and blonde hair from her Mum. But I never did see these grandparents of mine. They died before I was born, Mum said. They were upset with my Mum ‘cause they didn't want her to marry my Dad. They didn't think much of Pakistanis. But Mum loved my Dad. Even though he's a slob my Dad, Mum still loves him.

The last time I went to church with Mum, Dad was fidgeting about in the living room. As we were about to leave he sniggered, ‘And say hello to
Him
and his son.'

Mum cleared her throat, letting out a disapproving, ‘Ahm.'

‘Stop filling me daughter's head with all this rubbish,' Dad said, as we were about leave the house.

Mum looked at me, grinned, flicked her eyes, shook her head, and then shouted back to Dad, ‘Make sure you keep an eye on the chicken, its simmering.'

‘Not going to lay an egg now is it?' Dad replied.

In church we stood in our usual place, in the last aisle near the door, holding our hymn books, but as soon as we started singing the first hymn, ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers', Mum grabbed my hand and whispered into my ear, ‘I hate this one,' and led me out of church. I was glad.

When we got home Dad was stomping about in the kitchen.

‘I bet he burnt the chicken,' Mum said to me.

‘I turned it off, before you ask,' Dad said coming out of kitchen, rubbing his head in both his hands.

He had curry stains on his white vest, which he had clearly tried to wipe, smudging it all the more.

Mum folded her arms in front of her, smiling one of her
herehegoesagain
sort of smiles and nudged me in the ribs.

As Dad was about to turn into the living room, Mum said, ‘Well, Lucky, aren't you going to ask how it was?'

‘How was it?' Dad asked, opening the door to the living room. The television was on. And what else would he be watching but football?

‘Aren't you a bundle of laughs to come back to,' Mum smirked, following him.

I loved moments like this, Mum and Dad. They were such kids.

‘Aren't you going to ask your daughter how it was for her?'

‘How was it, Karen?' Dad asked, placing his elbows on the coffee table, his chin in his hands and his eyes fixed on the television screen.

‘Alright, we left just when the first hymn started,' I said.

‘Go on sweetheart, sing it for your Dad, you know it by heart.'

‘No.'

‘Go on dear, you know how much I love seeing him like this,' Mum whispered into my ear and then gave me one of those great big smiles, which meant that if I did what she asked, then there were a lot of brownie points for me.

I started singing: ‘Onward, Christian soldiers, marching as to war, With the cross of Jesus going on before.'

‘Oh God, why this,' Dad snapped and stood up. He turned around. He was white with rage. His fist clenched.

Mum pushed me behind her saying, ‘Lucky, don't you bloody well dare.'

I thought Dad was going to hit Mum. I had never seen him like this. He stood there shaking. After a moment, he pointed at the television screen and said, ‘City are at the top of the league.'

I slid out of bed, went into the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I was a flat-chested, brown girl with a thin nose. I screamed, thinking, ‘Who are you?'

The girl looking back at me had shoulder-length, curly, black hair. She had black pupils and thick eyebrows. Her arms were like her face, brown with black hair on them. This wasn't me. I must be dreaming, I thought, and slapped myself on the face. I felt numb.

I screamed again, and this time I couldn't stop.

Mum came rushing upstairs, soapsuds dripping off her yellow rubber gloves, ‘What's up, dear?' she asked.

I heard Dad jumping out of bed.

I placed my arm next to Mum's white-skinned arm and cried, ‘I didn't turn out like
you
!' I cried, ‘I'm not white, Mum!'

Mum gave me a hug, kissed me on the head, saying, ‘It doesn't matter Karen, dear. I love you all the same.'

‘My name's not Karen, is it Mum?'

‘Did someone hurt you, Karey?' Mum asked.

‘No,' I said. ‘It's not Karey, is it Mum?'

Touching my forehead Mum asked, ‘What happened here?' ‘It's not Karey, is it?' I asked again.

Mum didn't say anything back.

‘What happened, Karen?' Dad asked, rubbing his eyes.

I saw Dad's reflection in the mirror. He was wearing a white vest and tartan boxer shorts. The vest was crumpled up over his big belly. His greying chest hair stuck out of the vest towards his chin and stomach. He had really hairy arms and hands. His eyes were bloodshot.

‘My name is Kiran, Dad. It's Kiran and not Karen, isn't it?'

Dad looked at my Mum. They exchanged a
whatssheonabout
look. ‘Your daughter says she's not white,' Mum said to Dad. I could tell they were having a hard time keeping a straight face.

‘Neither am I, sweety,' Dad said. ‘You look just like me.' ‘Oh god Dad, I don't want to look like
you
,' I said.

Mum ran her hand across my face, wiping my tears. Dad went back to his bedroom holding his forehead.

Mum gave me a
don'tyouworry
type of a hug. Dad snored. Mum and I looked at each other and laughed. She kissed me on the head and went downstairs. I went to my bedroom and tore the poster of Lady Gaga off the wall; tore it into pieces and shoved it into the bin next to my wardrobe.

Dad snored even louder.

Yep, they're right, I thought. I've got a sort of Muslim Dad.

‘Well Dad, you can drink and snore your way out of your religion, but I can't get you out of me.' I said aloud. ‘Help me find
me
Dad, I need you…' Just then, Dad let out the loudest snore I had ever heard from him.

I looked at the back of my hand. It was brown. I turned it over and my palm was a lighter brown, with little splotches and three lines curving down the middle. I saw the faces of my gang flash in front of me: Jake looking at me with his blue eyes, Donna glaring at me, her double chin wobbling, the airhead Megan nodding and Chloe shaking her hair out of her face. They didn't see me. I was buried somewhere in a mosque behind my brown skin. Well gang, I thought, I am Kiran Malik and I am what I am. That is what I am and there is no getting away from it for me. ‘And what are you?' I asked aloud and I answered myself, ‘I am going to find out where I belong.' And I thought of Shamshad. I felt pride thinking about her gang, even though they hated me. They were right to hate me. I hated myself.

I grabbed my CDs and flung them towards the bin, one by one. Some hit their target; others hit the wall. ‘What's music got to do with it?' I said to myself. ‘And besides,
Karen
spent a lot of her pocket money there.'

I picked up the CDs. Some of the cases had cracked. Putting the CDs back made me feel better. When they were all back in their positions, I pointed at them and said, ‘When I'm ready, I'll get rid of some of you, so make sure you behave!'

I touched my forehead. It still hurt, a strange sort of hurt that went deep down, somewhere, somewhere, where I was hiding from myself. Well, Kiran, I thought, whoever is hiding behind this skin is not a Christian.

I don't know how long I faffed about in my bedroom, when I went down, Mum was wiping invisible dust off our immaculately clean kitchen worktop.

My Mum is not like normal Mums who tell you to tidy up after yourself. Mine has a place for everything and everything has its place, especially on one of those days when the East Boarhead Curry Club come round. That's Mum's new hobby. She teaches our neighbours how to make authentic curry. In the curry club, there's old George from next door, and snooty Elizabeth from number 31, and one or two other dinosaurs.

‘Are you feeling better dear?' Mum asked, wiping the inside of the sink.

‘Mum, can I talk to you? There's a lot I want to say.'

Mum rinsed the cloth and replied, wiping the worktop, ‘Course you can love.'

Mum stopped, let out a sigh, rinsed the cloth and said, hanging it on a tap to dry, ‘Why did you take me to church, Mum?' I cried wiping tears with the back of my hand.

‘I didn't want you to turn out like me or your Dad, dear,' Mum said letting out a deep sigh. ‘If I had faith, this pain inside me, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much, maybe it wouldn't hurt. Sometimes it hurts so bad, I just don't want to live, just can't take it anymore. Oh my love, I should have held you tighter. How could I have let you go?'

‘What pain, Mum?' I wanted to ask. ‘Held who Mum? Please Mum, tell me what is this secret that you and Dad are keeping from me, this thing that comes like a terrifying shadow of silence over our house?' She would never tell me and I was always too scared to ask. Whatever it was I had to find out, without this I couldn't find me. I didn't know then that my search to find me would destroy my family and my world.

She looked at me with eyes that hid behind a coldness that came on when
it
took hold of her, but today, her eyes were rolling, as if she was fighting to stave
it
off, now winning, now losing. Her face went pale, ghost-like and then her colour returned.

‘I never want to go to church again, Mum. I don't feel Christian, I just don't. I don't know what I want but I don't want to be what I am. I hate my gang now, Mum. I don't want to be like them. I'm something else. I want to have faith like you used to say. And I've decided I want to be a Muslim. That's how I feel, Mum.'

Mum untied her stripy blue apron, took it off her and said, ‘That's nice dear.' I suddenly felt a rush of hatred for Mum and said choking on my words, ‘Don't you care what happens to me, Mum?' ‘Of course I do, I love you.'

‘Is that it? That's all you have to say?'

Hanging the apron on a hook on the back door, Mum turned around and gave me a look, which said,
you'rejustastupidkid
. ‘If you want to try Islam for a while, that's OK, sweetheart.'

‘Oh Mum, it's not a game. I'm really, really serious,' I cried.

Mum snapped out of her look, kissed me on the cheeks, held my face in her hands and said, ‘I love you because I love you for being you.' Hugging Mum I thought of me walking into school wearing a hijab. I knew they were going to laugh at me when they first saw me at school wearing a headscarf. But I didn't care. I was going to wear it. That was how it was going to be.

Pulling away from me, Mum said, ‘I think you should talk to your Dad.'

‘I know, Mum.' I said, ‘Love you.'

Dad was in his usual place in the living room.

‘How do I become a Muslim?' I asked Dad walking into the living room. ‘Yes pet, you can. Take a fiver from me wallet,' Dad was glued to a football match he was watching on television. ‘You don't know what I need Dad,' I said. ‘Alright, pet…'

‘I'm not your pet, Dad,' I said, gritting my teeth.

‘Alright, you can have a tenner,' he said, waving his hand in the air.

Mum stood behind me. I stomped over and stood in between the telly and Dad, and said, ‘How do I become a Muslim?'

He looked at me in bewilderment, like I had just asked him the most difficult question on earth. He looked at my Mum and they exchanged a
whatnow
type of look.

‘You don't know, do you Dad?' I said.

Dad shuffled his bum on the settee. ‘You don't do you?' I repeated.

‘He doesn't,' Mum said. ‘His real God's football, really. And if Mohammed the Prophet played for Manchester United, then you'd have known everything, wouldn't you, Lucky?' Mum jibed.

‘Less of the tongue, Sharon. And since when did you start believing in all that Holy Mother stuff?' Dad said. ‘Apart from Guinness, the only decent thing you Catholics have come up with is Man U.'

‘You really don't know a thing, do you Dad?'

He turned the television off, rubbed his hand through his thick curly hair, and said, ‘Course I do.'