In My Small House, a Holiday eCard

West Bay, Doha, Qatar, 2012

 

She is young, beautiful (ma sha allah), Qatari; an administrator.  She wears black abaya, sheyla and bright red lipstick around a white toothed, face lighting smile.  She sits in the corner of a windowless office tucked deep inside the women's area.

 

She stands, wraps me in a tight, two arm, belly hug, kisses my cheeks.  "I want to know what your house is like in America."

 

I am told that Qataris prefer large, tile floored, compound style homes over apartment living.  Construction is sand and wind resistant steel and concrete.  High walls shield flowering outdoor gardens where there might be chicken coops and children's play areas.  Inside there are marble countertops, crystal chandeliers, winding staircases, flat screen tvs.  Upstairs windows are covered to assure privacy.  There are independent quarters for maids, nannies and drivers; separate meeting spaces for men and women.  At mealtime some families sit in chairs around a table, while others prefer to gather cross-legged around a common platter placed on the floor.

 

random street, random home, Doha, 2013

 

"My house is small," I say.  "Wood frame, floors, siding, eaves.  A low wooden fence outlines the back garden.  Windows overlook the street and the front door opens to the living room and kitchen.  There are flowers and trees and in the Spring, beds full of purple phlox, daisies and daylilies.  We didn't have television when the children were small because we wanted them to read and play outside.  Now there's a single tv in a cozy basement family space."

 

She nods, smiles - and I know the description is not enough.

 

In My Small House

a Holiday eCard

 

 

In my small house, elbows bump.  The tv and radio are too loud.  There is clutter and a line for the bathroom.  There is straightening hair in the hallway, a crowd at the mirror and chairs wrapped like ribbon around the dinner table.  There is teasing over passed gas, stinky bathrooms, everyone-sick-at-the-same-time.

 

Like a small town – there are no secrets in my small house.  No sneaking out when you're grounded or cheating-on-your-diet-no-one-will-know.  No hiding Reese's Cups, saving the last bit of cheesecake for a solitary midnight snack.

 

There is noise and chatter and laughter in my small house.  There is talking after lights out in shared bedrooms.  There is arguing and there is making up.

 

November, 2013

 

Tinkling piano keys stream music into every corner of my small house.  Flour footprints trail into the hallway and the sweet aroma of warm sugar cookies tickles my nose.

 

In the spacious back garden my tow-headed 4-year old learned to swing.  Her legs caught the wind as she sailed into the sky.  For two exhilarating hours.  Without stopping.

 

On the street in front of my small house, my competitive 7-year old met his 6-year old sister's challenge to ride his bike "no hands!"  He did her one better, propping his feet on the handlebars: "No feet either!"  He hits a curb, tumbles, snaps his collar bone.  Three cozy days at home later, he returns to school with half his math book completed.

 

my kidz

 

Early attempts to teach homeschool PE involve giggling circles around a fat, white bark tree.  (Later, we play actual sports.)  We watch a mother butterfly lay eggs on a milkweed plant at the kitchen table.  We chart the progress of her babies from pupa to wet-winged Monarch.

 

In the living room of my small house I braid wire into my 10 year old's long hair for her lead role in the homeschool musical.  Her endearing, high cee voice sings light into the shadows.

 

We "do school" all over my small house until one by one my babies leave for high school, college and life.

 

my babies, 2008

 

Now, this very minute, wheels rattle across the hardwood floor in my small house.  A pony tailed cherub pushes Big Bird into my kitchen office in a little red stroller.  Her soft pillow cheeks puff into a smile.  "Nonnie!" she sings.

 

I lift my grandbaby into the air and kiss her perfect little face.

 

I love this snuggy little boy, 2013

 

Concrete or wood, tile or carpet; barrier walls or open gardens; a house is just a shell for living.  It's what's inside that matters.

We've enjoyed our cozy time together in America this holiday season. 

 

From my small house to wherever you are in the world today:

 

Our Family, 2013

 

In My Small House, copyright 2013, edited and reprinted from my blog, Tales from a Life.

Ya Filus! Rich American

shopping at The Pearl

 

She sits at a desk deep inside the secured ladies' area.  She wears abaya and sheyla and when she leaves the protected space she covers her face and hands too.  Her job is to answer the phone, maintain lists, help visitors.  She's from France.

 

She greets me this way:  "Ya, filus!"

 

Hello, Money.

 

"She's crazy," say the other ladies.  "Ignore her."

 

But I'm puzzled.  The greeting is negative, assumptive and mean; a slur:  fatty, ugly, rich.

 

"Why do you say this?" I ask.  "It's very rude."

 

"But it is true, yes?"  eet eez troo.  "You are American.  You are rich."

 

I shake my head.  Not that it's not a bad thing like stealing bread from babies but No I'm Not Rich.  I tell her about layoffs, old cars, raising three children in a small house.  Joint bank accounts, family budgets.  Hard earned achievement realized through years of education, planning, sacrifice.

 

I don't own excessive "stuff."  I shop at Walmart, not Hermes.  I cook, clean and do laundry.  I work.  I'm in Doha because my husband is good at what he does - and win or lose, we operate as a team.

 

She purses her lips, waves the back of one hand in my direction.

 

She's not impressed by my college degree, professional experience, stories sold to Highlights for Children.  She's not interested in my job in Doha and efforts to volunteer in local schools.  She's more curious about why I don't have a maid to wash my husband's socks than understanding how everyday American women balance work and family obligations without the aid of a full time, live in nanny.

 

…it is the man's duty to take full responsibility for the care and maintenance of his wife and family. He must provide a safe home, food, clothing and all material needs. Indeed, Muslim men are responsible for all financial matters.  A Muslim woman may contribute financially if she wishes, but she is under no obligation to do so…

(Link)

 

In America, "rich" makes more money than she spends.  She drives a truck, Toyota, BMW, lives in a tract house or mansion.  She's every nationality, color, shape, size, orientation, gender, religion.  She has savings to care for herself and her family and maintain her lifestyle without working, if necessary.  And according to sociologist Leonard Beeghley, she has a net worth of at least $1 million.

 

Hermes at The Pearl

 

Qataris enjoy one of the highest living standards in the world.

(Link)

 

In Qatar, the country's oil and gas revenues are shared with minority population Qatari citizens.  Here, "rich" drives a Lamborghini, Rolls or SUV, lives in a sprawling family compound/beautifully appointed villa/The Pearl.  "Rich" summers in a cool climate, sends his children to university abroad, spends holidays in Las Vegas.  Most households engage a nanny and maid but "rich" boasts one helper per child and two, three or more maids.  "Rich" is employed, but doesn't necessarily work; is conservative and religious - and generally unavailable to outsiders.

 

"Rich" is relative, political, desirable, shameful - and achievable in some places more than others.

 

She raises her chin, lifts an eyebrow.  "I want to go to America."

 

Oh.