Hookah Bars Aren’t Doing My People Any Favors
I’m an Arabic gal and I recently went on a date with an Arabic dude.
It was a setup; a friend of a friend of my mother’s hairdresser or something loosely connective like that. I went because I was tired of explaining to my mother’s friends and friends of friends, why I didn’t date their Arab sons ~ Reason: They’re always either in the Mosque or the bar. No in-between.
Now before you guys (and your Arab mothers) get pissed at me for this comment, let me stress that this has been MY experience — specifically from my brief stint in that dating pool in my teens and early twenties until I grew tired of it and broadened my horizons, ending up in a long-term relationship with a Filipino from Louisiana…
…But I digress. The point is, back then I didn’t find what I was looking for in that dating pool so I just stopped looking in that dating pool.
And yes, I realize times have changed and these young men have probably evolved just as I have. If I wanted people to be open-minded about who I was as an Arab woman, and change some of the negative stereotypes Western society historically has of my gender, then I too had to be open-minded. I had to give Arab men another chance. So I decided I would meet Ali for coffee (though I confess, I did go in preparing to be unimpressed.)
From seeing his Facebook posts, I knew the following:
A) Ali was cute with a good sense of humor — the latter being key for me.
B) He worked as a software engineer, designing apps and programs, which gave teachers better tools in their classrooms. BIG PLUS.
C) He had this Siberian husky puppy named Priscilla who was featured in most of his photos. Check. Check. TRIPLE CHECK.
Our coffee date began promisingly. Ali lived up to all of his on-paper qualities, and had a laid-back simplicity about him, which made him easy to talk to. He shared my disdain of stereotypical Arab things — Such as hookah lounges in the United States. It turns out, it wasn’t just me who believed there is NO POINT to hookah lounges, other than to perpetuate some romanticized notion of Bedouin Arabs sitting in the desert smoking ‘Shisha.’
It’s unsanitary, unhealthy and frankly racist.
Ali and I chattered happily about how Arabs would be better served by more local spots which served an authentic dolmah or good falafel. And when he said “Hookah lounges aren’t doing our people any favors,” I almost fell out of my chair because I had just said the same thing to my sister two days ago!
Ali and I then moved onto the subjects of our respective mothers, rolling our eyes in shared commiseration about how they insisted on taking ‘souvenirs’ from hotel rooms. Not only that, they would leave something behind out of fairness. Mom called it ‘Exchanging goods.’ She might take a small bowl from the Hilton but she would also leave behind a spoon she had previously gotten during a stay at the Radisson. I’m not sure what rule book she had gotten hold of, but that’s how she rolled.
And why do Arab moms insist on bargaining for everything? Is it so terrible to pay retail for something? Ali showed me the scar on his elbow he sustained after being bitten by his mother while attempting to gently steer her away after she spent twenty minutes bargaining down the salespeople at Macy’s on an item which was already marked down three times on clearance. She didn’t mean to bite him. She was just in a trance. But she drew blood. The upshot was, he has a cool scar, and his Mom got the Tahari Jumpsuit for five dollars — which she claimed was an overcharge because there was one button missing…
At this point in our coffee date, not only did I silently berate myself for my Anti Arab Male sentiment, I began to think that maybe my life journey had led me here:
Maybe I just needed to meet all the guys (Arab and Non) who were NOs in order to find one who was a YES.
Maybe this was THE UNIVERSE at work — holding me back for decades and now giving me a green light.
Maybe it was finally ON!
I took a better look at Ali. His eyes were this gorgeous indescribable shade of green. You could get lost in them. And his hands… Oh, his strong craggy hands. I have a thing for hands, especially when the thumb kinda bends out. Gets me every time.
And of course the way he spoke about his dog, Priscilla. An animal lover? COME ON! I was hooked. So when he got up to get us both some water, I practiced writing my first name and his last name on a napkin…
…Okay I didn’t actually do that. For the record I’ve never done that. Not even in junior high school. The point is, I was feeling a connection.
But then the conversation took a different turn.
And then the shoe did drop…
Here’s how it went:
HIM: You know, you’re not what I expected.
ME: (leaning in coquettishly) What do you mean?
HIM: Well, my mother told me you were Iraqi.
ME: (with a smile on my face) Guilty as charged.
HIM: Iraqis are very proud.
ME: I suppose I am proud, I mean I’m sure of it.
HIM: Yes, but you’re easy going and funny.
ME: (still flirting) Thank you for noticing.
HIM: … which is more of an Egyptian sensibility.
ME: …What please?
HIM: Egyptians are happier. That’s why there are so many of them on TV comedy shows and movies.
ME: Isn’t that a stereotype?
HIM: Stereotypes exist for a reason.
Okay, he was NOT WRONG about that. And hadn’t I kinda done the same thing with Arab Men up until now, by assuming they were all awful? So I let that one go.
ME: So are we talking about the whole fleeing Saddam’s regime thing? We left Iraq when I was a baby… I wasn’t really a SERIOUS baby… I mean I always had this furrowed brow. Botox has helped…
HIM: Don’t get me wrong. Serious is a good thing, especially for a woman.
ME: How so?
HIM: It means you’re not frivolous and into shallow things.
ME: Such as…?
HIM: Clothes and makeup.
ME: I love both those things.
HIM: Yeah, but it’s clear you’re not ruled by them. Judging from… (waves his hand indicating my attire.)
A backhanded compliment if I ever heard one. I look down at my snazzy white New Balance sneakers, which I deliberately paired with a fancy silk top and slouchy jeans. It’s called fashion deconstruction buddy! Look it up!
HIM: Honestly I was just happy you weren’t Lebanese.
At this point I wanted to flip the table over and walk away from this guy. But for some reason I stuck with it. I had to know…
HIM: Lebanese women — you can’t tell if they have their real noses.
ME: (What the fu — ?) …oh?
HIM: I dated a girl once from Lebanon. She and her sisters all had nose jobs.
ME: So you’re generalizing a whole race based on one family??
HIM: Not just her. Several others from Lebanon. They like to get plastic surgery.
At this point I wanted to flip the table ONTO the guy and walk away. But I didn’t want to live up to some other stereotype he had of Iraqi women being aggressive. So I took a deep breath, downed my water and managed to make small talk with him for another 30 minutes until I excused myself by feigning a heart attack… I mean, meeting.
As soon as I got into my car, I checked my phone. There were SIX MISSED CALLS from Mom. I knew I couldn’t avoid it so I called her back to get it over with.
MOM: So????????!!!
ME: He’s racist.
MOM: What? You mean he hates black people?
ME: No he’s racist against Arabs.
MOM: How is that possible? He IS an Arab.
ME: Exactly. But he had all these stereotypes and prejudices.
MOM: Like what?
ME: That Lebanese women can’t live without plastic surgery.
MOM: Oh… What an idiot! But that’s not terrible.
ME: That Egyptians are happy all the time
MOM: …That IS actually true. It’s because of the fava beans.
ME: What?
MOM: Egyptians eat a lot of fava beans, which is a natural serotonin booster. Ask your father.
As if on cue, Dad jumps on the line.
DAD: Hi Ayser!
MOM: Baba, talk to your daughter about why Egyptians are so happy.
DAD: The fava beans. They contain high amounts of levodopa which helps regulate your mood. Let me find this article and read it to you.
ME: Dad, can you just send me the link? I can’t talk long. I have to go to pilates.
DAD: I can’t talk long either. We too have plans.
ME: Oh yeah? Where you going?
Mom gets back on the line.
MOM: Ayser, by the way… if you ever want a nose job we would support you (adding quickly) I’m not saying you need one. Just that you have our blessing.
She hangs up, leaving me momentarily speechless, which is a common side effect of a phone call with my mother.
DAD: Your mother is very supportive. Is there anyone like her?
ME: …yes, supportive. So Dad, where are you going?
DAD: Cafe Darband.
I practically dropped the phone.
ME: That’s a hookah bar!
DAD: Yes but they also serve a fantastic Turkish coffee and great falafel. Your mother loves their Turkish coffee. We are going to meet Abdul Qasim and his family.
And right then and there, Dad OUTED my prejudice and SHUT IT DOWN. Instead of looking at the surface, I TOO needed to look beyond that. Sure Hookah bars at first glance are ridiculous, but if they bring together families to socialize; thus fostering a sense of community, then that’s fantastic.
I realized I had been exclusionary. A total snob. And that’s a form of racism: Focusing on the small surface detail, and blowing it up to the detriment of the bigger picture.
And I vowed then to do better.
To be better.
To work towards fostering a community.
..So yeah, maybe Ali isn’t MY GUY, but meeting him certainly opened me up to meeting a future Ali, or Juan, or Nigel…or who cares? As long as he shares my values, I’m open.
…I just won’t be meeting him at a Hookah bar. My openness only goes so far.
I still think those places are disgusting.
