Toilet Bitch

I went for a calm evening at the movies with a group of friends after a too long new year’s night and too much sleep. Having spent four and a half hours in the theatre -because the sound went off and it took the staff over half an hour to realize there was a problem, to fix it, and play the film again, I went to the toilet with my friend Sabine. We waited in line until a girl wearing a tight leopard print top & surprisingly long heels -I have to add, just strolled passed everyone waiting and headed for the first empty toilet. Sabine, who recently moved to London and to whom standing in line became second nature, politely pointed to her that there was a line to which she got a “that’s what we do in Lebanon” answer. Disregarding her assumption of us being foreigners, we told her again that this is what only she does and that there were people waiting before her. She dismissed our answer and just went for the toilet. A woman at the end of the line asked me what was going on. “There’s just a girl without manners (bala zo2) who just walked passed everyone and went into the toilet”, I said. After which it was my turn. While minding my business in the cubicle, I hear the leopard top princess sarcastically tell Sabine that she could go on now. Sabine told her that it was fine but that she was without manners to think she could overpass everyone else. “I’m without manners?” the girl haughtily said, “I’m gonna show you some manners”. And then she disappeared.

As I went out, I looked at Sabine with surprised mockery only to find the girl reappear at the door pointing at both of us. I couldn’t yet see the face of her savior bodyguard, but I debated between expectation and laughter at the ridiculous situation. Only when I thought the situation couldn’t get any more absurd, I find the girl pushing me and her boyfriend shouting at us in the middle of the women’s toilet. Seriously? I couldn’t believe we got ourselves in this, with a crowd now watching and a security guard running to the rescue.

A spoilt brat thinking she is entitled to privileges, not new. Not recognizing her flawed attitude and arguing about it, not new. Not standing for her victimized self & getting the help of a vain boyfriend who believes that his penis and the loudness of his voice are interdependent variables, maybe still expected. To which he had the nerve to add, still working those variables, in the middle of the mall that we should go get some education from our parents. In all fairness, I do look quite young.

A student of mine once complained about our dear patriarchal society. I allowed some discussion time, obviously with no justifiable conclusion before moving on to the chapter of the day, editing if I remember well.  I shared with her my common belief that to live happily in Lebanon one should not really pay too much attention to what other people think, or say, it is again important to mention. Considering I have been back for less than 2 years, I apparently still have a lot to go through. Purposely, that incident triggered me to reconsider that we are regardless sometimes confronted to certain behaviors that push us outside that bubble we’ve worked so hard to build. Despite the reputation some of my friends have given me, I had decided not to consider myself a feminist because that in it self acknowledges women’s inferior position. On a larger scale, I now ask myself what is to be done when some women make use of patriarchy against other women. Even though they clearly declare their inferiority, it is certainly worse than being a feminist. My biggest concern however was that my anger made me feel like doing what a friend of mine once did: bite that idiot’s finger off. 

Heart matters.

It all started after a rather disappointing trip to London. You were supposed to excitedly spend a few days with that man you then thought would be the father of your children and have a few meetings with some producers about some films you so longed to get made and that ironically echo scenes from your life.

 

As you walked alone in the crowded Heathrow airport that morning, memories of moments you wished to live didn’t however allow your tears to stream. It didn’t matter.

 

Time passed emptily, as it often does, and you occupied yourself by dancing your way through the days. Your dance teacher’s mom was at the hospital awaiting an open-heart surgery; and as if life wanted to remind you of its sarcastic synchronicity, your friend’s father too.

 

After vainly trying to evade the regular Friday traffic that afternoon, you got home to find your mother silently contemplating a tray of untouched food. One look from her was enough to assess the extent of the situation. A puny explanation: a friend died; a heart attack. She went to bed for her daily nap –as if she’d actually sleep- as you found yourself staring at the huge pile of DVDs against your bedroom wall. You’d probably have stared at an empty wall if there were one. 

 

Your father arrived the next day, gave you a kiss on the forehead and headed to the south for the funeral with the gone friend’s wife and two kids. Trying senselessly to make sense of what life throws at you-as in anyone since you wouldn’t pretend to be the main protagonist here-, you remembered the time when your dentist gave you a too strong anesthetic and you couldn’t feel the whole right side of your face for an entire day. Oddly enough it felt the same. The lack of feeling did. But it extended way beyond. And it hit you suddenly what he once said, that man you left in London, about your incapacity to feel. It wasn’t true then. You tried to tell him that a momentary though unintentional lack of expression did not imply a lack of feelings. Considering the following sequence of events, he obviously dismissed your flawed logic. But still, since London, not a tear.

 

Now that you look back with hardly enough distance, you’ve come to realize the common denominator in that frozen lapse of time. Frozen because two hearts were, in different ways. And two were trapped in transition. 

Et elle s'est remise a danser

Et elle s’est remise à danser. Je ne sais si c’est l’effet du vin ou le mien… Les détails de ces moments parfaits sont inexprimables parfois. Je me sens soudain colle a la chaise inconfortable que j’ai choisie par manque de choix, par le simple fait que la chaise n’a en fait pas d’importance. La musique muette de son corps me met en sourdine. J’entends les mots crier plus fort que mes pensées qui se bousculent, que ses souffles qu’elle ne souffle pas. Elle me regarde. Je crois. Elle avance aussi lentement que mon cœur bat fort. Pourtant je ne bouge pas. Ses cheveux couvrent son visage mais elle sourit. Quand elle ferme les yeux et pose sa main sur sa nuque nue je me rends compte de l’opposition qui la caractérise. Sa main plus mature que son corps et bien plus vieille que son visage témoigne qu’elle a vécu. Qu’elle a senti. Au moins autant que je sens maintenant.

C’est presque un crime de résister cette passion. C’est comme si je refusais de vivre. D’exploiter les infimes possibilités de son corps, de ma vie. De la sienne. Elle dansera toujours. Plus pour moi. Pour l’autre que je ne connais pas et que j’envie déjà. Je continuerais le chemin de mes amours au singulier avec un sentiment continu de désir inassouvi. D’un semblant de passion qui ferait mieux de n’avoir jamais existe.

 

                                                                                                            WCH, 12-10-07