Low tolerance for bullshit, that's something I most definitely feel every day of the week. There's an epidemic of stupidity out here in the Southwestern United States, and I wonder how long it's going to be before I lose it and smack a damn fool. I'm already in anger management over kicking some bitch's ass at Wal-Mart last month, so I don't need any more trouble with the authorities.
My name is Bikem ( pronounced with a Bee sound ) Demirel and I was born in the City of Austin, Texas, to a Turkish Muslim immigrant father, Ismail Demirel, and a Mexican-born American mother, Isabel Gutierrez. My parents split when I was young, mainly because my Roman Catholic mother and my Sunni Muslim Turk of a father argued a lot over religious and cultural differences. Me? I'm a proud atheist. I think religion is a load of complete and utter bullshit.
I am the daughter of two worlds, of the Republic of Turkey, one of the oldest civilizations, and of Mexico, a beautiful land home to a fiercely proud and at times embattled people. I am as American as former U.S. President George W. Bush, the State of Texas worst export, but people keep on asking me where I come from, and it irks the hell out of me. I stand five feet eleven inches tall, curvy, with dark bronze skin, long black hair and light brown eyes.
"Go back to your country," said the plump white chick at the checkout counter at Walgreens, all because I refused to back down when some unruly trucker tried to skip in front of me in line. I stood there, hands on my hips, and took a deep breath, then managed to resist the urge to smack the racist old bitch across the face.
"Bitch, I was born in this country, so watch your mouth!" I replied, as haughtily as I could, and then I grabbed my would-be purchase, a pack of M & M's and tossed them at the old bitch's head, missing it by a few inches. As onlookers gawked on, I walked out of the store, smirking like the she-devil that quite a few people have accused me of being.
I checked my Blackberry, and sighed deeply. It was one o'clock and I had class at one thirty. I'm in the criminal justice program at Austin Community College, and want to be either a cop or a corrections officer someday. My father works for the Texas Rangers, the statewide police force of Texas, and I'm lucky that he's used his contacts to keep me out of prison given my volatile temper and frequent clashes with authority figures.
"Kiz, you need to be more careful out there, one day I won't be around to protect," my father said to me as we sat inside Kebabalicious, a nice Turkish restaurant located on Congress Avenue near downtown Austin. I looked at my Pops, who sat across from me, clad in a red silk shirt, black silk pants and burgundy tie. Oh, and he had on his customary black cowboy bat. The same one I gave Pops a few days before my high school graduation, on his fiftieth birthday.
"Pops, I can handle myself just fine, you taught me how to fight, remember?" I said, and Pops smiled and shook his head. I ate my Pitav bread, and tasty strips of goat meat before washing it all down with a can of Pepsi. Then I burped loudly, and winked my Pops, who rolled his eyes and pretended to be shocked. I am who I am, and don't compromise for anyone.
"I created a monster," Pops said, and I laughed and after a moment, he joined me. We finished our meals, and then I insisted on paying for our food, even though my Pops wasn't happy about it. He's from the old school and doesn't like to let ladies pay for anything. I'm as far from a lady as can be, and still be female, take my word for it. Doesn't matter to my Pops, though.
Ismail Demirel, born in the City of Erzurum, eastern Turkey, and the first Muslim American to rise to the rank of Captain of a police force in the Midwest, that's my father. He's set in his ways, but I love him for it. I love my Pops, and I am more like him than either of us is prepared to admit. I get my doggedness from him, and my fiery temper with my mother.
