Middle of Everywhere - Mary Bray Pipher [16]
DRIVING LESSONS
I went by the family's rental, a small house on a street of grocery stores, fast-food places, and pawnshops. The house was decorated Goodwill-style with Kurdish touches. The sisters came and went in various stages of dress, all with skin creams on their faces. A big can of cashews and a pot of strong black tea sat on the table. The rooms smelled of garlic, onions, and cooking oil. Later I learned that someone was always cooking something delicious.
I met all the sisters and their mother. Zeenat was short, with reddish hair and deep worry lines around her eyes. She couldn't speak English, but she smiled broadly. It was amazing how much we could communicate to each other with no language in common. Zeenat could convey a great deal with her dramatic body language. At first she mainly conveyed humor and joy at seeing me. Later, I would sense her deep sorrow.
At fifty-five, Zeenat was lost in America. She'd been left by her husband and she couldn't learn the language or find a job. She had many health problems and a deep persistent depression. Nevertheless, she remained earthy, affectionate, and expressive. She reminded me of strong women, like Thelma Ritter or Bea Arthur, with heart and spunk.
The sisters were all beautiful, smart, and assertive, with straight black hair and flashing black eyes. Their assertiveness and their sticking together was what had kept them alive. All of them loved to laugh, sing, and dance. But all of them were coping with nightmares, anxiety, intrusive thoughts, heart palpitations, and other physical symptoms of stress. Quickly, I learned how different they were from one another.
Nasreen, the oldest sister, was small and slender with a large beauty mark on her cheek. She had been educated in a private school before the family fled Baghdad. She had read feminist and political writers, poetry, and philosophy. There was an aura of sadness about Nasreen that never left, even when she smiled her slow smile. She was a poet in a factory.
Leila, the second oldest, was the tough workhorse, the leader of the family, and the moral authority. She was kindhearted and sensible. She had shopped for the family's first car and she made all the tough calls. Leila kept the family focused and calm.
Tanya had a shiny curtain of hair, a curvaceous body, and languid moves. Men were crazy about her. She often had a bouquet of roses on the table from some Back Door Johnny or other. But she seemed indifferent to these admirers, resigned to their attentions rather than pleased by them. Tanya was about as un-Nebraskan as a woman could be. She was intuitive and dramatic and spoke with her eyes and her body. Later I learned she was the family comedian and mimic. She was beautiful and sensual and could have been a great actress. But she was a lonely person, too, set apart by her strengths, too sensitive for the hard life she'd led, and isolated from American peers by her terrible history.
Shehla seemed healthy, both mentally and physically. She was pretty in a girl-next-door way, if the girl next door can be from Kurdistan. She had an eager smile and an easy laugh. She favored jeans and crisp cotton shirts. Shehla had an endearing habit of letting her sisters talk when they could, but jumping in when their English faltered. As time passed, it seemed as if Shehla allowed herself to have more problems. She had generously waited her turn and let her sisters have their