My last good lay, Maher Osman is a strong man in every sense of the term. Six-foot-three, lean and athletic, with dark brown skin, curly Black hair and light brown eyes, this Djibouti-born stud attracts the female gaze everywhere he goes. The first time I actually laid eyes on him, I was walking through the world-famous Nicollet Mall in downtown Minneapolis, Minnesota. I decided right then and there that I'd like to sample this delicious-looking piece of chocolate....and what I want, I tend to get.
Like a lot of Arab sisters, I find men of African descent supremely beautiful and definitely appealing. Most of us, no matter how otherwise open-minded, don't explore that fascination with the chocolate studs, though, because there's few things in life more lethal than Arab male jealousy. Trust me, I was married to an Arab guy for three years. Djohar "Joe" Suleiman, a guy I knew during my school days at the University of Michigan. Biggest mistake of my life. Now I'm divorced, happy and free.
Clad in a red silk shirt, Black silk pants and Black Timberland boots, Maher Osman was a vision of manly beauty. The brother walked through this crowded mall in downtown Minneapolis like he owned the place. I could see his work ID hanging on a lanyard around his neck, and could tell that he was some kind of professional. Cool, I love professional brothers.
My name is Samia Al-Jubeir, and I was born in the City of Dhurma, Saudi Arabia, and raised in the town of Dearborn, Michigan. My parents, Bandar and Mariam Al-Jubeir fled the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in the early 1990s due to the persecution of Shiite clerics by the predominantly Sunni monarchical government. I barely remember Saudi Arabia, a place I can never go back to since my parents all but signed away all connection to the Kingdom.
"As Salam Alaikum, sister, do I know you from somewhere?" Those words left Maher's sweet-looking lips, and I smiled as I detected the faintest traces of an accent in his voice. I looked at him for a moment, pretending to be thoughtful and barely concealing the excitement I felt in his presence. I'd been eyeballing Maher for a long time, and he finally spotted me, and came to me, just like I knew he would.
"I doubt it, I'm new in town," I replied in a soft tone, and Maher seemed puzzled, then extended his hand, flashed a warm smile and welcomed me to the great City of Minneapolis. As if he owned the place. Minnesota is for the Somali and Djibouti people what Michigan is for us Arab Americans. A home away from home, of sorts.
"Thank you brother I'm Samia," I said, shaking Maher's hand, and nodding gently. I play the part of the pious, self-effacing, Hijab-wearing and conservatively attired Muslim sister all too well. I know what the world thinks of women like me. Just because I wear the Hijab and the traditional long skirt doesn't mean that I don't think about certain things or feel certain things. I am a woman, with all that implies. I have dreams, goals, fantasies, and if you must know, a decidedly healthy sexual appetite.
"Please grab coffee with me," Maher said, and I pretended to hesitate, then followed him to the food court, where we sat down, and got to know each other a bit. I could tell that Maher was surprised that I accepted his offer, and knew what he must be thinking. Hijabis don't typically accept coffee invites from male strangers, that's for sure.
I was raised Muslim, true, but I lead a pretty secular lifestyle. My parents got divorced shortly after moving to the United States, and I was thoroughly Americanized, wearing jeans and T-shirts, sans Hijab, and also going about doing all the normal things that a gal my age does, including dating, and on occasion, having sex. I seldom gave a thought to my Arabian identity...until the events of 9/11.
It's after that tragic day that my Arabian identity and Muslim faith became things which I could no longer deny or escape from. As Arab Americans, and Muslims in general became associated with terrorism in the eyes and minds of countless Americans, I began to wonder what it means to be a Muslim woman. I began reading about the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, the land my parents and I left behind. I began associating with other Muslims, a group I'd subconsciously shunned before.
When I attended Fordson High School in Michigan, I mainly hung out with White students and Asian students, for I found the Arab students too conservative for my liking. Most people who met me thought I was a Latina and for a long time, I never bothered to correct them. While the City of Dearborn, Michigan, is full of Arabs, North Africans and Persians, the Detroit metropolitan area, which is a heartbeat away, has a huge African-American population and a sizeable number of Asians, Hispanics and Latinos.
I'm five-foot-nine, with dark bronze skin, long Black hair and dark brown eyes. Depending on who's looking at me, I look Persian, Brazilian, Mexican or even Indian, I guess. I get mistaken for lots of different ethnicities, and I love it. Or used to. Now, whenever people ask me, I tell them that I'm Arab-American. I am proud of it now, and don't shirk from defending it when I encounter bigots. I remember who I am.
"You don't look like the banker type," I said to Maher after he told me that he's a business student at North Central University and works at Sunrise Banks. The handsome Mr. Maher Osman smiled bashfully, and shrugged, and then told me that he was nothing more than a glorified nerd, pointing to his X-Men wristwatch as proof.
"Takes one to know one," I said, and as Maher stared, I pulled a copy of the Marvel Comic book Ms. Marvel # 1, which I just bought at Big Brain Comics an hour ago. I bought it because it's the only comic book in the world to feature a young Muslim woman as its main character. A Muslim chick with super powers, how cool is that?
