From Galveston With Love

Looking at the tall, chubby old white guy in line at Wal-Mart's checkout counter, I told him that I wasn't Mexican, and he could take his bigoted ass elsewhere. With that being said, I flat out refused to serve him. Angrily he demanded to speak to a manager. We waited in silence, while I checked out the customers behind him as he stood aside, sulking. The call went over the intercom, and the minutes ticked by. Around two in the afternoon, the store gets crazy busy, something I know better than anyone. I've worked here since high school.

Finally, my manager showed up, and the old white dude's eyes went wide. Our store manager and my long-time friend, Omar Watson, is friendly and ruggedly handsome but most of all, he's big, tall and black. He looked from me to the old buzzard, then asked what was going on. After a sequence of events too bugging to get into now, Omar told the bigoted imbecile to get out of the store, lest he call security. The old white man muttered something under his breath, his shoulders sagged, then he walked away. Omar looked at me with concern and asked me if I was okay. I'll be just fine, I said with a smile. He patted my shoulder then went back to the office.

My name is Ramallah Nazzal and I'm a young woman of Palestinian descent living in the City of Galveston, Texas. I was born in the southeast of Ramallah, Palestine, the town whose name I bear. My parents, Zaher and Nafisah Nazzal moved to the States in the summer of 1992, a year after I was born. I've lived in the U.S. my whole life, but I've often felt like the cultural other. Why is that, you may ask? Well, the reasons are many.

My father is pure Palestinian, but my mother's lineage includes Palestinian, Moroccan and Ethiopian. People often ask my mom if she's mixed, due to her burnished bronze skin tone, frizzy black hair and dark eyes. Her features reflect the various ethnicities embodied within her, from the Arabian to the Sub-Saharan and the North African. Considering my mother's direct Afro-Arabian ancestry, that's perfectly understandable.

Me? I inherited the best of all possible worlds, I think. I stand five-foot-ten, curvy and sexy, with dark bronze skin, curly black hair and light brown eyes. Depending on who's looking, and what they're looking for, people often mistake me for Colombian, Brazilian and a host of other ethnicities I know next to nothing about. I don't speak Spanish, beyond a few basic sentences and swear words. I am not Hispanic, I'm Arab.

Given the fact that Texas shares a border with Mexico, and lots of Mexican-descended people have been living in the Lone Star State for generations, I can understand why someone might mistake me for a Hispanic woman. I do have 'the look', whatever that means. Lots of women who look like me live around here, most of them Hispanic. That doesn't mean I like hearing it, though. People are surprised when I tell them that there is a growing Arab immigrant community in Texas. We don't all live in Dearborn, Michigan, or New York City.

My people live everywhere in this world. You'll find Arabs in African nations like the Republic of South Africa and Uganda, along with Latin American nations like Brazil and Argentine, and Caribbean nations like the island of Haiti, the Dominican Republic and Trinidad. We're supremely adaptable, lively, and generally speaking, we are prolific. I was raised in Texas, and I've endured all kinds of racism throughout my life. There's a strong anti-Mexican sentiment in this part of Texas, partly because the Lone Star State's demographics are changing.

The influx of Mexicans, Chinese, and recent African immigrants ( they are very different from African-Americans ) is causing a lot of rednecks to feel uneasy. We 'immigrants' tend to have more brats than the white families do, and that bothers some of them. When worlds collide, there's bound to be trouble. I'm not at all surprised that this old redneck tried to insult my perceived ethnicity when he felt I didn't show him enough deference. I'm a minority woman and he's the almighty white American male. I guess I forgot to bow and kneel? Sorry, redneck freak, I am a Muslim woman from Palestine. I bow only before the might of Allah. Tell that to your hillbilly friends, filthy pig!

After standing on my feet for four hours straight, I go on break. There's a MacDonald's restaurant inside the Wal-Mart, but I avoid eating there. Instead, I stood at the back of the building, smoking and lost in thought. I'm tall so when I gain a few pounds, it's not the end of the world but I am watching myself. I used to be so active in high school. I was the only chick on the wrestling team at Galveston Academy. Not the easiest thing in the world, trust me. When you're a female facing guys on the wrestling mat, they'll do anything to beat you. It's where I met one of my all-time favorite peoples, Omar Watson.

The son of an African-American Muslim father, Suleiman Watson, and Mexican-American mother, Irene Sanchez, Omar and I were destined to be pals. For starters, we were the only Muslim students at Galveston Academy, and we were both student-athletes. Omar played football and did wrestling for a couple of years. I've loved the sport of wrestling ever since I tried out for the team in the ninth grade and made it. As you can imagine, my conservative Palestinian immigrant parents took issue with it. Wanna know the reason they relented and let me sign up? Omar's dad, Mr. Suleiman Watson.

Omar's dad is originally from the City of Chicago, Illinois, and he moved to Texas around the time he met Omar's mom, Ms. Irene. Armed with a University of Chicago law degree, and with five years in the United States Marine Corps under his belt, Suleiman Watson sought to join the Texas Rangers, the elite of all law enforcement agencies in the Lone Star State. Had he been a regular black guy, getting in would have been tough enough but Suleiman Watson was a recent convert to Islam. He joined the Nation of Islam in Chicago, an organization that the U.S. government is notably not fond of. You can imagine the way the redneck cops reacted to an applicant such as him.

Perseverance pays, Mr. Suleiman was fond of saying to Omar and I, when picking us up from wrestling practice at Galveston Academy. These days, Omar's dad is a sergeant with the Texas Rangers Border Patrol Unit. How about that? I've got much respect and admiration for this man. Omar hopes to follow in his footsteps. That's why he's studying criminal justice at Texas A & M University. Me? I'm studying Nursing at Galveston College. My grades are so-so and I couldn't get into that school if I tried. I'm a hands-on learner and community college is better for someone like me. Besides, community college prepares people for the working world while fancy universities give them a nice piece of paper and leaves them clueless about reality outside the campus grounds. Just my two cents.

Jummah Mubarak, came a deep masculine voice, startling me out of my train of thought. I turned around and saw Omar standing there, a bemused look on his face. I smiled and playfully punched his shoulder. You startled me Mr. O, I laughed. Omar pretended to wince, then leaned against the wall beside me. You okay? he asked, licking his lips. I noticed him looking at my cigarette and frowned. Omar is a health nut, he's on the Sailing team at Texas A & M University's Galveston campus, and the fact that he's one black guy in a sea of white faces doesn't seem to bother him. Like his father, he's fearless.

I'm cool, I said, flashing Omar a brave grin. He saw right through me. We've known each other too long. His parents live only three blocks from me, and although my parents are typically weary of their American neighbors ( they're quick to imagine any Arab as a potential terrorist, so forgive us for being cautious around them ) they respect Omar and his parents. Our families have barbecued together in the summer during our high school years. We don't do much of that anymore because my parents are divorced. My father is dating a white woman, a tall, leggy blonde redneck named Stacy. I told him not to bring her around when he comes visit me. Seriously, what is it with Arab men and blonde-haired white women?

I glared at Omar and asked him that, teasing him a bit, for last year, he went out with a plump blonde named Deirdre. Things didn't work out because, well, rednecks don't approve of white women dating black men, and they hate Muslims with a passion. I warned Omar about Deirdre. This chick was only using him for sex. I saw right through her but Omar apparently had feelings for her. Men, the weaker sex. Of course, I shouldn't talk. A few months ago I was dating this guy named Abu, from Syria. I caught him in bed with Ernesto, his Latino roommate. My taste in men is not the greatest. Aside from Omar here, my relations with the opposite sex aren't the greatest. Omar looked at me, a wounded look on his face. Sorry, I said sheepishly, gently rubbing his shoulder.

Omar nodded as if he understood and forgave me, and next thing I knew, he grabbed me in a bear hug. Try as I might, I couldn't fight my way out of those strong arms. I'm a tall, strong and bodacious woman and an ex-wrestler, but Omar is a six-foot-three, 260-pound black man. He's beyond strong. I was hopelessly outmatched. Dammit, I roared in frustration. To add insult to injury, Omar began tickling me. Got you now Ram, he laughed. I am very ticklish, and Omar knows my sweet spot. I surrendered almost immediately. I was like putty in his arms, and the bastard knew it.

As soon as Omar relaxed his hold on me, I whirled around and entwined my left around his right foot, then brought my forearms to his neck, stunning the hell out of him. Down he went like a sack of potatoes. I leapt on top of Omar as he landed on the asphalt with a thud. Argh, he winced in pain. I glared at him, victorious at last. We've wrestled many times before, and he usually wins. Finally, I had him. Damn it you're crazy, Omar said, wincing and rubbing his elbow. I laughed and gently touched his face. It takes one to know one, I said, then I kissed him.

I honestly don't know what came over me, I said, seconds after kissing a very surprised Omar. He looked at me and smiled, then he grabbed me and kissed me. I kissed him back, and next thing I know, we started caressing and feeling each other up, right on there on the asphalt. I've always wanted to do this, Omar said, and he gently kissed my hand. I smiled sheepishly. I'm a die-hard tomboy until the day I die, and guys typically don't do things like that to me, or for me. I looked at Omar, my long-time friend, and the person I trusted the most in the world aside from my own family. I didn't know what to say. I just giggled and nodded, blushing like a schoolgirl.

I don't know what Omar and I would have done if a rustling noise from a carriage being pushed hadn't snapped us out of...each other. Surely we wouldn't have started fucking on the pavement, would we? All I know we got up hastily, shared a smoldering yet guilty look, and dashed back inside. We need to talk, Omar said, his face filled with hesitation. I stared at him, my heart thundering in my chest. Look I like you and I just wanted you to finally know, I said, laying all my damn cards on the ( metaphorical ) table. Definitely not what I typically do, but I'm feeling spontaneous today. Omar looked at me and smiled. I like you too Ram, he said, and gave me a hug.

I hugged Omar back fiercely, and was about to say something else, but someone came walking by. Erin, the new cashier. A snot-nosed high school dropout. The bitch saw Omar and I hugging, smirked and walked back to the main area. Let's do dinner this weekend, Omar said. I nodded at that, for I had to go to Masjid tonight, since it's Friday and all, but my Saturday was wide open. I winked at Omar, then went back to my post at the checkout line while Omar went back to the office. I admired his tight ass in the jeans he wore, and smiled. I can't wait for our date!