Short stories: Zorobaba

Zorobaba

I was born the first and last child, for an immigrant couple in the State of Vermont, both Mom and Dad ended up their long Kentucky expedition here, to simply meet, get married, for the sole purpose of winning a Green card, and having me in the process, the minute I showed up, their whole world changed, suddenly they abandoned everything else they migrate dreaming of, hell they endured eased up, causes they were fighting for disillusioned, and I became the core of their focal point of attention, the inner most meaning of their mere existence, they orbited around me, like two lost planets, their whole being shriveled and disappeared into child car seat brands, diaper’s rash powders and protection methods, ear infection symptoms, immunization scheduled shots, head start, head stop, and most of all head spin. They had to unlearn everything they learned about raising kids, and start all over from scratch, under the supervision of Big Brother, A.K.A Mr. System, in brief, their future laid forever right the palm of my little hand. My dad was a Muslim, she was a Buddhist, totally out of the box venture their marriage was, an only in America mess turned miracle, by the help of the freedom magic wand, they fought over my naming, somehow he won, though I am not sure if I love my name, but it definitely sets me a part from the mainstream, it seems like everybody in my Dad’s community has it, some with a little twist to it.
In the heart of this mixing bowl, I pledged my allegiance to the flag of the greater nation of ours, with two other flags staring at me whenever I get home from school, my dad can be Allah himself at a time, preaching about good and bad, but boy can he drink? That sucker can sip in one sitting an ocean of liquor, drop by drop, and in a blink of an eye, and when he gets fully saturated, he gets emotional, and that’s the time when he starts the lamenting that he calls singing, so depressive man, an audile torture that will prompt you to commit suicide, right there and then, and when he lie down, he never forget to murmur with greater passion (istagfrollah stagfarollah), which I never bothered to ask him what the hell that really means, the best part of all his religious commitment, is that he does not eat ham, yes sir, that’s Haram, not even that juicy Pepperoni on Domino’s pizza, to me, that was a real tough struggle, the kind that I wont be able to handle, all I can do is to pretend that I don’t eat pepperoni neither, at least when I am at home in his presence.
My Mom on the other hand, never set a foot in a temple, from the minute her plane touched down on the holly runway of JFK, she immediately transferred her religious account to Lady Liberty statue institution, but she managed in a short period, to mix her own custom made religious salad, that consists of, Harry rama Harry rama, our father thy in heaven thy kingdom come, with mashallah mashallah flavor added to her spiritual recipe.
Everything to me was a zoorobaba, and don’t ask me what does zorobaba means, I too can make my own salad of my own Swahili, my old man gave up already on teaching me his language, and so my mom, but I can tell you, I know the (cuss) words in both languages, learned it, and perfected it on my own, from under my bed sheet, I take notes when they decide to practice vulgarity for hours and hours, fighting over trivial thing, I know deenaki, sharmota, and she may call him nigga, and that’s what gets him pissed, he would start screaming, demanding, insisting, emphasizing that he is Arab. The next day you can tell that his feelings were hurt, I would sit by his side, and assure him that he is an Arab, though I never knew how comforting that is, and what’s so special about being so, but I really don’t care if you ask me.
I grew up a free man spiritually, free from all sorts of funkfied filth and ailments, all I know and all I believe in, is that, cops run this universe, I don’t care who, but when they stop you, they mean business, and when they show up at our door steps, mom and dad turn instantly into two brilliantly hand carved Madam Tussues figures, motionless, obedient and soft to the touch, fragile and totally helpless, they never displayed such a respect in front of none of their gods.
That night, they came a little late, both mom and dad were lying on the wood floor, in a pool of blood, all what I did when they appeared, I handed them the gun, turned around, and remained silent like a true American villain, with guts and balls of steel, but that f… song still linger in my head, looping relentlessly over and over
( zoorobaba, zooroobaba, all the time, zoorobaba)
Never wanting to leave me alone, never let up, never seem to come to an ending.

(Edited by Tagelsir Elmelik on 01-14-2013, 08:59 PM)
(Edited by Tagelsir Elmelik on 01-14-2013, 09:01 PM)

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