My family lived in Dubai in the 1970’s, when employees willing to move there received an additional wage called “hardship pay.”
Sheikh Rashid Bin Said Al Makhtoum was the benevolent ruler who only had one wife, by choice. He was wise in his dealings and generous to our Girl Scout Troop, allowing us to ride horses from his stables.
Jumeirah Beach was a lovely stretch of beach where our company hosted “seafood bawls,” a Louisiana cuisine staple. Shrimp, crabs, potatoes, onions and corn on the cob were boiled in huge pots. Newspaper was spread on makeshift tables made from planks of plywood on sawhorses, and the feast was piled on the newspaper.
We, the “younguns” would venture away from the lights around the tables to explore abandoned buildings, now only foundations. We heard nothing but the wind and waves as they lapped the beach. Oh, and our laughter, filled the night as we played.
New Dubai is a parody, a facade, truly castles and industries built on the sands of an artificial playground. Nothing left of the once beautiful and old world charm. It saddens me, because I see behind the mask.
If you read the news, you know how even wives and daughters of the rulers of Dubai are treated. How those of the servant class are treated, virtually slaves. Glamor on display, but squalor and degradation behind the glitz and glamor.
I mourn the “hardship” of my Dubai. It was home to me and this new Dubai is a transient place with a false face.
Long ago, in our childhood, my younger sister would say this to me as we tried to fall asleep at night. Our life behind closed doors was far from the perfect family facade we were coerced into living for an abusive father.
My sister died on July 17, 1995. She had been in a coma since her car lost control in a curve in the early morning hours of July 15, 1984. Not wearing her seatbelt, she was thrown from her car and her head hit a utility pole.
I saw her there, in ICU, my beautiful golden haired, blue-eyed sister. From birth to graduation, people called her “Doll.” Beautiful inside and out, smart and funny. Now she lies in her bed, fingernails and toenails perfectly polished.
She’s on life support, the front side of her hair shaved and the stitches mark the place where they removed part of her skull as her brain swelled. One cut on her chin that didn’t even require stitches is her only other injury.
“Tell Me A Story.” I hear her say this to me in a whisper all these decades later. My pen now whispers across pages, notebooks filled with pages of all the words. So, though I haven’t been able to do her justice, I will not give up.
Dearest of sisters, my Sidekick through life, I haven’t given up, I’ve only been side-tracked by that man we used to call Daddy. He’s proven his worthlessness and I delete him for his depravity.
I remember how we huddled together, laughing silently as I told you stories making the real monster raging in another room into a comical coward, one we could blow away when we synchronized our breath.
I took this picture of rain droplets caught in a spider web, but Rico Mack was caught in the World Wide Web.
Oh, he likes people to see his facade, the public perfect family persona, he only has a problem with me, his oldest kid, Khaki Mack. I am part of the(fictional) public, so what he chooses to make public includes me. I know too much and he can’t control me with fear, or threats, or lies, or lawsuits.
Finally, I see the finish line and I run across it, beating him with truth. He is a bad liar and a sore loser, and me? I’m ready for a new race, a new story. Tired of the same track and the same loser trying to beat me.
When this is over, my blog might take shape and maybe I’ll sleep. Maybe I’ll finally be free of his life of lies.
Parched, scrubby, desolate land. Deserted Desert.
God said, “Follow Me.”
Me? I’m the second Tumbleweed,
Following the Rainbow
God’s promise to Noah’s
Dysfunction is devilish
A hellish dervish
A scourge upon
WordPress is going to be my only presence on Social Media, sharing my life as I live it.
I have been told to think before I speak. I am a writer, not a speaker, and remember:
“One Picture is Worth One Thousand Words.”
Undercover. Flying Monkey. Dispatched by my brother, I happily help him wreak havoc with the woman I’ve been jealous of since Thibodaux High 1960’s.
Feeling pretty confident. We’ve gotten away with it since 1984. I’m in my 80’s now. Sooo…yeah. I think I’ve been an awesome Flying Monkey!
Taking time to check out my Reader and sharing some articles I liked.
ESSENCE OF TIME
“I bought you easy books to begin your Arabic lesson, but first, you must understand I teach you my language because I am Alexandrian first, then Egyptian, then Arabic. So, you learn my culture, na?” Cool white marble and a breeze from the Med makes all the leaves dance and I smile at the children’s book my Alexandrian stepmother gives me.
“Look, this bicture (p is difficult for “Egybtians”) of mosquito, we say namoosa. This, water buffalo. We call gamoosa. Say it.” I oblige by pointing to the mosquito and saying, “Namoosa.” Then I point to the water buffalo and say, “Gamoosa.”
“Great start, now we get ready for Sunny’s birthday celebration.” Sunny is my half-sister, turning four and the garden is decorated with strings of bright lights above, flowers, balloons. Tables are ready to hold the gifts and party foods. I am 44, but the bond of sisters is felt between us.
Dark now, and we’re dressed and ready for the first guests to arrive. Soon, the music is loud, the lights are twinkling almost as brightly as Sunny’s eyes. Tables of food and three different cakes are being circled, but Sunny is at the gifts table. Soon, it’s time to mingle…
A very beautiful and pleasantly plump Egyptian woman sits beside me. She doesn’t speak much English and of course I’m in kiddy book Arabic. “So, you are having lessons in Arabic?” I reply, “Oh you know, namoosa, gamoosa.”
This beautiful woman looks at me for a moment, then she says, “Yes, I am big like water buffalo and you are small like mosquito.” My face flamed red! This lady thought I called her a water buffalo! “You are very beautiful.” I smile sincerely, feeling as small as the mosquito she thinks I think I am.
Hi! I’m new to the world, just popped out of my writer’s head. I hear others screaming and screaming to get out, but this woman…you others take my advice and ESCAPE WITH YOUR LIFE!
I know who I am and I just barged in on her “real world.” Who is she kidding? WE are her real world!