I wish people would stop staring at my husband Kareem Touré and I, seriously. Folks in the City of Detroit, Michigan, and its environs, have a nasty habit of staring at interracial couples, especially when half of the pair is a man of African descent. I tell myself that someday I'll get used to it but I don't see it happening anytime soon. My name is Afaf Ibrahim-Touré and I've got one helluva story to share with you.
"Where are you from, young lady?" asked the short little white lady sitting behind the counter at the bookstore. I looked her up and down, and sighed deeply. The Eastland Center, one of the finest shopping centers within a half hour's drive of the Detroit Metropolitan Area, looks quaint at first but it didn't take me long to realize that I didn't belong.
As a Hijab-wearing Arab-American Muslim woman, I don't do well in small towns and Harper Woods, Michigan, is definitely a small town. Sorry if you're from there, but anyplace with a population of less than a million people is a small town as far as I'm concerned. Dearborn, Michigan, may be home to a large population of Arab immigrants, but the rest of the State is pretty homogenous.
"Whatever do you mean?" I asked her innocently, looking into those cold blue eyes, even though I knew exactly what the old crone meant. I was born in the City of Al Mukalla, Republic of Yemen, and moved to Michigan with my parents, Ali and Yasmin Ibrahim a few months after I was born. I was raised in the U.S. and have never even left the country, but because of my skin color and Islamic faith, I will forever be a foreigner in some people's eyes.
"You know, people who wear stuff like that thing on your head, are you from Arabia?" the old crone said, and she smiled wickedly, prejudice dripping out of her every pore. I took a deep breath and resisted the urge to smack the old bitch hard across her wrinkled face. Calm down, I silently told myself. I licked my lips, and paused before I replied.
"Yes, I am a proud Arab woman, and you know what? At least I came to this country legally, unlike your kind, who stole it from the Indians," I said hotly, hands on my hips. As the old bat glared at me, anger and shock registering on her pale face, I smiled with smug satisfaction. I turned to leave, but not before slamming the book I intended to buy on the store counter. I then let myself out, as people gawked.
I walked over to the Eastland Center food court, and found my husband, Kareem Touré, sitting at a table and sipping on his coffee. I smiled and greeted him happily. Kareem is looking pretty good in a blue silk shirt, black silk pants and black Timberland shoes. I love a sharp-dressed brother, and Kareem is oh so fine. I think I fell in lust with him from the first time I laid eyes on him at Wayne County Community College.
"Hello Afaf, looking good since I saw you half an hour ago," Kareem said, grinning and flashing those pearly white teeth of his. Kareem smelled really good, for he was wearing the I Am King cologne by P. Diddy which I bought him last week. I smiled and kissed him on the lips. Kareem chivalrously pulled a chair for me, and I smiled and nodded graciously, and sat across from him.
"Babe, you wouldn't believe the nerve on that old bat at the book store," I told Kareem, and he sighed then listened to me with rapt attention. Upon meeting us, people often remark on how different Kareem and I are. Kareem is six-foot-three, burly and dark-skinned, with a smooth shaved head and a goatee. People say he kind of looks like Hollywood actor Thomas Mikal Ford, who played Tommy on that old sitcom Martin.
Kareem Touré is a gentle giant if there ever was one. Calm, cool and collected in most situations, that's my Kareem, or "Mister K," as he likes to be called. Kareem embraced Islam a few years prior to our first meeting, and he's far more lax about the faith than I am. Me? I'm essentially his polar opposite. I'm five-foot-eight, somewhat chubby but sexy, with dark bronze skin, curly black hair and light brown eyes.
On more than one occasion, I've been told that I resemble Hollywood starlet Salma Hayek, only younger and curvier. Honestly, folks, I take offense at that. If anything, that bitch looks like me. Besides, I'm neither Mexican nor Lebanese. Everyone knows that some of the world's most beautiful women come from Yemen. I'm Yemeni-American, proudly Muslim, an avowed feminist and a staunch supporter of human rights and humanitarian causes around the world. The common thread of humanity is what binds us all together, at the end of the day.
