Peeping Tom

As a child, there were three phenomenally important women in my life. My mother, Sailor Moon and the Pocahontas Barbie doll.

Sailor Moon was my idol. I yearned to be her. I wanted long, flowing blonde hair. I wanted a posse of crime fighting divas who had names of planets in the Solar System. I wanted to fight for justice all while looking totally fabulous. But I was not discreet about my desire to be Sailor Moon. Every Sunday morning after watching an episode of the show, I would beg my sister to let me wear some of her clothes and borrow her star staff. (It was a plastic a plastic stick with a star at the end that lit up.) Then, when I was fully equipped, I would stand in my front yard and spin around singing:

“MOON. UNIT. POWER!”

I was not a closet cross dresser. If anything, I was a loud and proud cross dresser. I would get dolled up to go pretty much anywhere. If my parents were having a dinner party, I would come downstairs wearing a skirt and Chanel lipstick. (Or as I called it, the red lipstick with an x on it.) If we were on vacation, I would go to the beach in drag. I went to the park as a girl. I even sometimes slept as a girl. The only places I didn’t go in drag were downtown and to school. I was out to my family, but not at work.

Eventually I grew out of my I-want-to-be-a-woman phase. But there are still remnants of it. I never started peeing standing up. One time, I walked in on my mom peeing and saw that she was sitting and never after that did I stand. Occasionally I do, but when I’m at home and I know no one is looking, I sit and it just feels right. Or sometimes I’ll go shopping with my sister and I’ll feel a strange desire to try on a piece of woman’s clothing, or to apply makeup to my blemishes. But there’s no longer that ever-burning desire to dress up like a tart and dance around my lawn chanting the mantra of the crime-fighting vixen.

The Pocahontas Barbie doll was my project. I loved her dearly, but she was my project. I would spend hours brushing her hair, trying to get every single black strand perfectly straight. Most of the time, she was naked. I don’t know what it was about her nudity that made me love her even more, but it did. So I rarely clothed her. Sometimes I did, when I was making her try on all of her outfits. Or making her put on a fashion show. But when it was just a deep, emotional moment between the two of us, she was naked as a jay bird. When I first saw her, it was like I was struck by lightening. I loved her instantly. My dad had gone off to the Middle East to cover a story and brought us back presents from the toy warehouse, where merchandise was dirt cheap. I was offered a toy train set. It was a lavish gift. The wagons were all painted and lacquered, the tracks looked real, with levers to shift the tracks and arms that went up and down to stop, or let through a train My sister’s gift was much less decadent. She had gotten the Barbie Pocahontas doll. I looked over and caught sight of the Indian Angel. She was everything I had ever wanted. She had thick, jet hair. She was tall and poised and clad in exceptionally glamorous Native-American wear. She was sultry yet elegant.

I needed to have her. I needed to brush that hair and run my fingers over that cold, hard, plastic body, dress her and unclothe her, give her the love she needed.

I looked over at my sister. She was smiling and taking the doll out of her container. She was untwisting the shingles around the doll’s limbs. She was brushing her hair with the tiny brush.

Later on that day, when we were alone, I expressed my need for her doll. She laughed in my face, but I kept on. I plead and whimpered and cried and sniveled, but there was no breaking her. She wanted that doll because she had a collection. Pocahontas was just a material possession. I wanted her to treat her like a person so I continued egging her with my demands. After a few hours of begging, we started arguing. I tried mask my desperation, but it just started bubbling out. Our arguments grew louder and as much as I tried to make my dad think that I liked the train set, my actions said differently. He could sense that I was ready to jump in front of a train for that doll so he took my sister aside and whispered something in her ear. She rolled her eyes and said “No.” Then he whispered something more and she thought for a while and then walked over to me.

“Here. You can have her. I know you love her.” She thrust the Pocahontas doll at me and smiled. I snatched her and hugged her. I was speechless.

“You’re welcome..?” She said, trying to provoke some thanks.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” I said in awe.

I had the doll. She was mine and I was going to treat her like royalty.

The first time I got the idea of “Jerusalem” in my head was when I was four. My parent’s work was threatening to send them there, but my they didn’t fold. They weren’t ready to move. But a year later, when I was five, we had no choice. It was either go to Jerusalem of get fired. So we went

Jerusalem was a completely different place. It wasn’t as if we’d moved to another city, or another house. It was as if we’d moved to another planet. Everything was different. We knew no one. We were stranded on an island.

We started spending all of our afternoons at a Hotel called The American Colony. It wasn’t so much a hotel as it was hotspot for all the foreign correspondents. You knew that when you went to American Colony, there was going to be a friend from school (most of whom were the sons and daughters of other reporters.) There was kidney shaped pool, where we learned to swim. A restaurant, where we ate countless meals. There was a lawn, covered in chaises longs. And there were the changing rooms.

Changing rooms have always exhilarated me. They excite me, but they also frighten me. I don’t know what it is about them. Maybe it’s the naked men. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m naked. Maybe it’s that you never know who you’ll run into. I’ve never been comfortable with being naked in front of people I know. I never change in front of my family, or friends, or neighbors. If I ever change in public, I do it in a changing room that I know is far, far away from anyone I know. Even that took me long time to start doing. When I’m in a changing room at a store, even if there’s a door with a lock, I still feel like I’m being watched. Like I’m gonna step out and someone is going to be there with a camera screaming: “GOTCHA! You’re on candid camera! You’re gonna be naked on MTV!”

One afternoon we got to the American Colony and there was an Arab woman sitting in our usual spot. This didn’t bother us, we weren’t possessive, we just moved over a row of chairs and lay down our things. The woman repositioned herself in the sun. She had a head of cropped, reddish brown hair that was covered by a straw hat. She wore a black one-piece with a funky design on it and she had eight pounds of jewelry on her fingers. But not tasteful, appropriate jewelry, it was bulky and tacky. It was turquoise and burn red and clunky. I wondered if this woman had wonder woman arms from carrying around all this weight at the end of them. She also had on a thick, fake-gold necklace with a clock-sized pendant at the end of it. It looked like something that the Inca’s wore.

Obviously this woman was no shrinking violet.

All day she roasted in the sun. Never stopping to take a dip, or get something to eat. She might’ve taken a short break to hydrate herself, or apply cream, but she had sunbathing stamina. When evening started settling in, she packed up her stuff and left.

We saw her again the next time she was at the Colony. Again we sat one row away from her and again we let her roast the day away without talking to her. I saw that my dad had taken an interest in her. Not a sexual interest, but just an unflinching desire to speak to her. But we had nothing in common. We had no young children, we had no adorable puppy, we had nothing to attract her attention. The only thing that we had in common was that we were both at the Colony and we both liked the seat in which she was sitting. Finally, after two days of not speaking to each other, my dad made his move.

“That’s a good spot, eh?” Said my dad, hoping to ignite a conversation.

The woman’s eyes sputtered to life. Her pupil’s needed time to readjust before she answered.

“Yes. Yes it is, yanni. It stays in the sun all day.” She answered.

I was watching this develop from the pool, where I was stunned that my father had spoken to a stranger.

“That’s what I like about it. I want all the sun I get during the summer.” Said my dad.

She nodded.

”Oh, pardon me. I’m Neil Macdonald. I work for the C.B.C. We’re Canadian.” He then pointed to me and my sister and told her that we were his kids, and then to my mom, telling her that she was his wife. The woman smiled.

“Hello. I’m Nuhah. I collect antique jewelry. I’m here with my kids.” She pointed at her kids. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Nuhah had a deep, scratchy voice. It seemed like she spoke in cough, or that her vocal chords were worn out. Or she was wearing one of her big necklaces and her neck just gave out and all they could retrieve was a used, dry voice.

We started seeing Nuhah more and more often. She became a family friend. We met her kids and played with them. (Reluctantly. They were such fucking brats.) If for some reason our parents needed to be at work on the weekend, she was glad to watch us for the day. She was generous and caring. She was the Southern Belle of the east.

My parents had been looking into learning Arabic since we’d gotten to Jerusalem. Arabic isn’t like any other language (besides Hebrew.) It’s complicated, it’s backwards, it’s throaty and difficult to enunciate. It’s all about nuances and accentuation. It can’t be taught through Rosetta Stone. You nearly need to have someone grab your neck and let you feel what it’s supposed to feel like when the word comes out. It’s so precise and demanding that if you make one mistake on one word, your sentence can go from meaning: “Thanks for the hummus” to “Please lick my anus you dirty shit faced whore.”

They needed a tutor, so they asked Nuhah, who accepted with a smile and a: “Yes, habibti, I am happy to do it.”

I started seeing Nuhah more and more at the house. She’d come every weekend for three hour tutoring sessions with my parents. Or she’d come over to show my mom her jewelry. Or she and my dad would go to a market she’d discovered in the Old City. She was a great connection to have because of all the connections she had.

Then she invited us for dinner.

I couldn’t back out of it because it was a family affair. Her son considered me a friend and was expecting to see me so he could throw things at me and then scream like an asshole. So we drove the hour to her house, passing three or four checkpoints and we got there tired and sore from all the sitting in the same position. We knocked on her door and she opened with a smile. She swept her arm through the air and welcomed us. We walked in and looked around. It was very oriental. There were rugs hanging on the walls. There was a water pipe in the corner. Every thing smelled tacky and sweet. Nuhah had spread her Nuhah-ness all over the room. The house couldn’t be anyone’s but hers. We went to the living room and sat on the couch.

I had two choices. I could either go up to her sons room and pretend that I cared about his action figures and his miniature cars. I could exhaust myself smiling and going: “OH! That’s so cool!” or I could sit on the couch and watch time until the night was done.

Arabs are extremely hospitable. When you’re at their house, you’re always the guest of honor. You always have something to drink and something to eat. There’s always entertainment and there’s no such thing as casual drop-in. “Dinner” means an hour of conversation, a huge meal, dessert, another hour of conversation, some entertainment and then some bonbons. Time drew on. I wasn’t so much bored as I was twitchy, desperate to move and explore. I was going out of mind from sitting in the same spot, looking at the same four walls. Waiting for my dad to say: “Well, thank you for a great night, Nuhah, I think it’s time that we get home, the kids are tired and I have to get to work tomorrow.”

Nuhah sensed my uneasiness so she looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. Then she looked at my sister and smiled. She paused my father who was going off about the war and the bureaucrats and the political parties and turned to us.

“Kids?” We sat up, smelling an escape. I hadn’t been saying much to my sister, but I knew that we were feeling the same way: trapped, cooped up, restless.

“Yes?” We said in unison.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” She asked.

”No, I’m good here.” My sister said.

I shot her a scornful look. Damn politeness. It wasn’t polite of her to torture us by making us sit on her stiff, pillow-less couch and listen to political rants. It was not impolite to ask for a break as not to break, myself.

Nuhah looked at me.

“Do you want to go upstairs?” She asked.

“What is there to do upstairs?” I said.

“Well. I can show you my jewelry. If you want.” She said.

I had always been fascinated with Nuhah’s jewelry. It was always so bold and out-there. I just wanted to touch it and try it on. I want to dress myself up like a Christmas in it and prance around introducing myself to inanimate objects as Lucy, the queen of all that sparkles.

“Okay.” I said, my eyes widening with excitement. I thought that maybe she had a room full of jewelry hanging from the walls and spilling out of chests. She seemed to always have a different piece on. She had so much selection that a room, maybe two, seemed likely.

“Maxine? You sure you don’t to come?” Nuhah asked once again.

“I guess if Lukie is going than I’ll go too…” Said my sister jumping up from the couch to join me.

What a hypocrite. She’s supposed to be the older sibling. I’m the one who’s supposed to be shy and meek and she’s supposed to be bold and outgoing. These are stereotypes and they are there for a reason.

If excitement were a power-source I could’ve powered the city of New York. I was afraid that she would break out her jewels and I would wet my pants and then lose control of my anus and soil myself. It was like winning the lottery.

My dad and mom got up from the couch to come with us. I think that our whole family secretly wanted to see all of Nuhah’s jewelry. It was such a mystery. When she came to our house to show my mom, she only brought a fraction of it. Who knew how much jewelry she actually had? Maybe when she came to show it to my mom she only brought five or six piece out of a thousand, or two thousand, or three.

She opened the door to her room and led us in. I was smiling so hard that I could’ve been the model for a Halloween mask. I was ready to step out from behind my father and see her collection.

She had pulled out a large case from under her bed. It was dark brown and secured with two gold clasps. She released the clasps and the box popped open. She drew it closer and lifted the top completely. There was a grid of spaces for the earrings, every space was filled with a jewel so large and weighty that it would stretch your ears until you could tie them in a bow. Then there was a level for rings and each pocket was filled by a ring so hefty that could double as a weapon. Then there was a third level for necklaces and bracelets, all of them resembling industrial chains and boulders. The box was like a goldmine of jewelry. I wanted to shove my hand in it, take every I could and then run like a madman hoping to death not to drop anything before I found a hiding spot where I could try it all on.

I did my best to stand back while my mom and sister dove for the jewelry box. I wanted to catch them by their belts, toss them aside and let myself at it first, but I exercised total self-control. Keeping myself from the jewelry was like holding in my pee after three days of dryness. I was afraid that I was going to break at any moment. I stood and waited, rolling my eyes when my sister or mother tried on something particularly tawdry and smiling when they tried on something beautiful. Of course, my facial expressions were all disguises of my real feelings. Then, just like that, the box was shut. The family was on its way back down to the stiff couch and the intermission of my night was over. I was back to being the audience of a play I didn’t understand.

I couldn’t get my mind off of those jewels. For the rest of the night, all I could think about were the necklaces, the bracelets, the rings, the earrings. I needed to try them on. It was a deep, internal itch.

We had once again migrated to the couch after a long meal of several courses. Everyone was remarking on how “it was so delicious” or how “full I am.” I was elsewhere. I hadn’t eaten much. At this point food was just a distraction. After a long night of being teased by the jewels, my itch became an obsession. I tapped my mother on the back.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

I ran up the stairs and into Nuhah’s room. If I’d calculated correctly, it would take me maximum a minute to pee, then two minutes to wash up. Thirty seconds to dry my hands. Thirty more seconds to glance around the top floor and to get back downstairs. That was a total of four minutes. I had to open the jewelry box, put on as much as I could handle, jump up on her bed, tease my hair and blow kisses while looking at myself in the mirror, get it all off and get back downstairs all in four minutes.

I could do it.
And I did.
As I came down the stairs, there was a knock at the door. Since I had paid no attention to anything other than getting on the jewelry, I hadn’t thought of closing the blinds or any of the doors. It was a hurried expedition and I had been foolishly careless. I was struck with fear. I imagined the neighbor who sat in a rocking chair, polishing a shotgun, seeing me and thinking that the devil had come to play. If he had seen me, I would deny that any of it had ever happened. I would shrug and say: “I saw nothing.” I was ready to accuse the man of hallucinatory mental disease rather than getting exposed. Beads of sweat were sliding down my face by the time I got to the living room.

“Are you alright?” My mom asked.

“Yes, yes. I’m fine. I’m just a bit hot, is all.” I answered, wiping my forehead clear of sweat.

“Okay.” She said, jumping back into the political debate roaring overhead.

Nuhah walked back into the living room with a tall, tan and handsome man in tow. She introduced him as her oldest son. He was a postured man with smooth, dark skin. He had very feminine features. Soft cheekbones, long eyelashes, little stubble. He had messy, black hair and sculpted eyebrows. I was infatuated. Or, not infatuated but transfixed. All I wanted to do was stare at him, examine him, touch him. He was like a gorgeous piece of art that I couldn’t rip my eyes from. His smile, his hair, his complexion. I wanted to reach out and run my hand over his face, like he was a gleaming emerald lodged in a ring of polished silver. It wasn’t sexual so much as obsessive.

And there you have it.
One itch to replace another.