Walking to The Hotel

We all arrived late to the gas station. It was okay because the bus was late, too. Ammi and Baba lingered around until I had everything ready, until all that was left was for the bus to arrive. I felt suffocated. I wanted to get on the bus. I knew my parents were long gone, but I was too nervous to believe it. When I was certain they weren’t watching me from any corners, I took off my hijab and wore my leather jacket on top of a tucked in shirt. 

 

“I’m no longer Muslim,” I announced jokingly. We laughed at my transformation. 

 

I looked around and felt the unfamiliarity of this place and the people around me. I knew them; we were going to the AWP Conference as members of the creative writing club of my college, so I had been around them a lot. Three of them―Adrian, Michael, Joel―were friends I would hang out with every day. Amanda and I had obsessed over kheer and worried over assignment deadlines the semester before; I was always glad to hang out with her. This was the second semester we were sharing a class together, and Professor Smith, our instructor for our creative writing class, was also on the trip with us. And there was Louis, who always had a positive aura around him.  

 

I knew them well enough to be happy we would have breakfasts and dinners together for the next four days. I’d never been far from my family. I wasn’t allowed to be many things; in fact, I could be anything but myself. This trip would give me permission to breathe. The sense of unfamiliarity made me feel stuck, but the excitement was far more powerful. 

 

*** 

 

A year ago, when my depression creeped in and landed me in the counselor’s office in my senior year of high school, my parents had been called in. I wanted to believe honesty would help me love us again. I wanted them to know it was okay for me to be who I wanted to be and also be Muslim. Baba had taken me out for coffee that weekend. We never talked to each other enough; he had always been a strange man living in our house, financially providing for us when needed. He seemed worried. I told him how I felt was not in anybody’s control.  

 

“Is it because we moved to the States? I’ve heard people are more depressed here. Should we go back?” he asked.  

 

“No, Baba, I am happier here. I just need time and support.” 

 

In the next few weeks, I would hear them discuss returning to our home in Jeddah. I felt anxious every minute I was home; I would find excuses to stay at school longer. I hated not knowing when we would leave, if we would leave, at all. 

 

Thinking about the moments I had with Baba, I stepped into the bus after Joel. Adrian and Michael followed. We all sat separately since there weren’t many empty seats. I held my bag close to me. I wanted to feel every moment. I wanted this beginning to stay in one place, to not move. For the first time in a long time, I was okay with not knowing what would happen next.  

 

*** 

 

After checking into our rooms at La Quinta, we ate at Denny’s, a two-minute walk. Adrian stayed behind. He was sick. We ordered food and discussed Star Wars and our generation’s sensitivity levels. I felt odd ordering my food; it had always been Baba or my brothers ordering for me. I ate the slowest. This became a pattern at every meal: we would wait for me to finish eating. We would joke about it, but nobody got angry. Nobody yelled.  

 

The convention center was across the street from our hotel. For the next four days, we would walk to the conference every day, stopping by panels that discussed writing plot and characters and many other writerly things. The bookfair gave me a chance to spend money I didn’t need to spend. I had saved up for the trip for three months prior, skimming whatever I could from the forty dollars my parents gave me every month since I’m not allowed to have a job. 

 

We would have breakfast at the hotel every morning. The first day, Michael, Joel, and Louis were already seated in the lounge. I came wearing my t-shirt and leggings. I had never gone out like that before. In the back of my mind, I could hear Ammi’s faint voice of disgust. I fought it but continued to feel self-conscious. 

 

I walked towards the waffle-makers and stared at them blankly. I looked around, hoping somebody would show up to make their waffles. I couldn’t figure out how it worked. I felt Baba’s voice at a corner telling me, You can’t do this yourself, obviously. I stood another moment, the voices in my head clouding my vision. Then I walked back to our table.  

 

“I promise I’m an adult, but can one of you help me with the waffle-maker?” I said.  

 

“Sure,” Michael responded, and I felt a sense of relief. Nobody was annoyed.  

 

We laughed throughout the tutorial, making jokes as we waited for the batter to be cooked. When we sat back down to continue eating, I waited for myself to feel this moment. I usually never had breakfast. I also never had any meals with people that I cared to have conversations with. I felt tingly having this meal with people whose company I wanted, whose presence didn’t fill me with unease or anxiousness. I felt loved. I knew my presence was not insignificant. I held the moment quietly, then snapped a picture of my Texas - shaped waffle. I ate and joked around with my friends until I was full.  

 

But my clumsiness didn’t end at the task of making waffles. I could feel myself creeping into the unfamiliarity throughout the day. It wasn’t the unfamiliarity of these people: it was me. I knew them, but I did not know myself with them. Who I wanted to be was tightly tied with whatever my parents wanted from me. I’d never been far enough from them to know what I wanted from myself.  

 

We waited outside the grocery store for the Uber I ordered. When it approached, I realized I had ordered an X Uber instead of an XL.We knew we wouldn’t fit. I began to apologize. I heard my brothers’ voices: You should’ve let one of the others do it.  

 

Adrian and Louis ordered another one, and the rest of us went in. Nobody was angry.  

 

I felt dumber each time I did something messily. None of us fit into this space of publishers and writers and editors, but I couldn’t fit in because of my inexperience with freedom. I felt more isolated about my identity than I had ever felt before. And then I felt myself fall to the couches in a wide hall after a terribly long walk to a panel. It cancelled, and I knew I had to walk back to rest in my comfy bed. But I heard my family’s voices again, loud, thundering: You won’t be able to walk back alone. You need someone with you. 

 

It was a five-minute walk. Exit the building. Turn left. Cross the street. Keep straight for just two blocks. Take a right. I knew it. I remembered it, but I believed I couldn’t do it. I stayed there, panicking and arguing with the voices blocking me from the simplest of things. I needed to breathe. I needed to find comfort in myself.  

 

Twenty minutes later, I walked back. I would take a nap to get rid of the emptiness, I told myself. It wasn’t productive, but I didn’t want to be productive. I wanted to let go of this chaos. I wanted the false comfort of my oppression.  

 

I had become so used to being around people that would get angry over everything I did that I couldn’t handle having people love me despite my mistakes. Ordering the wrong Uber or struggling with a waffle-maker didn’t harm anybody. It cost a little time and a few extra bucks, but we spend those things on people we love. I was surprised each time I watched my friends lovingly joke around with me when I was clumsy, but I should’ve known that this never needed to be a surprise. This should’ve been my normal.  

 

I didn’t take a nap. Instead, I walked to the movie theatre with Adrian. I told myself, convinced myself, that I could’ve done that without him, too. We got tickets for a movie and in the next three hours, I’d been completely distracted. I looked through the next day’s panels and planned what places I needed to stop by. I had dinner at Denny’s and spent more time joking with friends.  

 

When I moved to the States four years ago, I felt uncomfortable wearing jeans and talking to boys. I didn’t see the point of my education, because my future was not meant to be my own. It was meant to be my future husband’s. I didn’t value my mental health to the extent that I should have, and I accepted the misogynistic responsibilities that I’d been raised with. Walking in with these issues, I was scared of the opportunities thrown at me the first few weeks of high school. It took me three years to accept that I was allowed to use those opportunities. It took me another year to act upon it. 

 

The next two days of the trip, I felt like I had a breakthrough. I knew I felt uncomfortable with the freedom I was getting to experience, and I knew I would only need time to love it. I didn’t need to panic and argue with the voices in my head. I needed to hear them and beat them by dancing around my friends. I still didn’t know myself with them, but I knew that with the chains that were holding me back broken, I could embrace any time I had to throw love at them.