The Letter II: More Than Their Principles.

After sending the [+ letter] to my parents, I went back home and spoke to my parents after having separate long discussions with my boyfriend and a few trusted friends.

It was really tough. The first day nobody said anything, and I lost it the following evening when nobody had said anything about the matter for over 24 hours. I hadn't meant to, but the conversation started with my mother; I had asked her directly if she had anything to say about what she had read. I felt so taut- my emotions, my body... everything about me was both in a state of complete forced calm and yet vibrating, shuddering, moving in all directions with anxiety so fast that I felt like I could have spontaneously combusted. I can't describe that feeling of perpetual "fight or flight"- and I hope that I never have to, ever again.

I feel like I have to physically breathe out, compact my chest, deflate it before I can write anything else. The thought of it, the reliving of it makes my body act in strange ways.

Mum began talking to me, and I can't remember specifically what she said, all I know is that as she got closer to telling me what she felt, I felt a valve in my brain just suddenly release and unload pure... anger... fear... angst.

I felt as thought she was condemning me, condemning who I was... WHAT I was. I felt so utterly discriminated, completely... misunderstood and scorned. And I lost it... I clenched my fists so hard, tears ran down my face so hot... I could feel my mobile phone bending from the pressure I was putting on it with my fingers, I wanted to throw it; just destroy something... anything. I've only ever once before that lost my temper so violently. I didn't want to repeat it... but as my emotions errupted, I felt like I barely had any control at all.

An eerie thought ran through my head repeatedly as I cried. "I'm White." Hah... just as I wrote a while back in one of my previous entries. I felt like I was coming out, and I was being hit with disgust.

Mum followed me upstairs and asked me to calm down and talk, so we did. I spoke with anger that seemed to just well up and ooze out of me and I desperately tried to control it. And when I had and I told her calmly- and rather sadly, that I was living with an Englishman, my mother's face changed. Suddenly, I saw this reaction of somewhat surprise- but mostly shock and disgust, wash over her. From that point on I'd lost my mother behind a wall. She put it up. To her, I knew, I wasn't really the same anymore after that revelation.

Unfortunately, as I had written all of this in the letter, it just seemed to me like they hadn't registered it, they hadn't read it all the way through. They asked me if I was pregnant at one point during these days and I'd already written in the letter that I wasn't.

I suppose in this sense the letter's true purpose becomes aparent: I had hoped that the letter would explain what I had to say... and therefore I wouldn't have to say anything once I got there. But there we have it. My Intentions versus the Real World.

That same night when dad came home for supper as he usually does, taking a break from work, mum and dad began shouting downstairs. I could hear them and Dad called me down, sounding rather stern. He's not very good at sounding angry towards his children. It's something he has very rarely ever had to do. You can tell when he does it that he doesn't quite now how to show his anger towards us. Sometimes it can sound rather comical, or fake. But I always knew the real reason why: he loved us so much... perhaps he had always hoped there would never be a reason for him to be angry at his children.

He called me down and asked me, "what is this? What are you doing sending some kind of letter? What do you think you was saying?"

Funny, because I kept thinking to myself exactly the same things. What did they think they were doing? What were they getting from reading the letter? What were they saying to me?

There was a lot of talk, and honestly, if my family are good at one thing it is sitting down and talking- one of the driving forces behind my choice to finally tell them (and face my fears). However, talking begets talking. You have to wonder if anyone ever listens. We eventually reached a forked point in the conversation. Dad made it clear: the only way he'd ever accept a man in my life as my partner would be if he was a Muslim. This is because of principles my father has; rooted deeply in religion are his concepts of cleanliness- both of body as well as spirit. And you know? I thought to myself, fair enough. That was his line. My mother, however, was quite closed. She wouldn't accept anyone who wasn't a Muslim and Bengali. Those were her principles.

And that was the line. The questions now became: am I willing to ask my boyfriend to convert so that my parents would accept him? Am I willing to leave my parents to be with a non-Muslim?

.... Somehow I feel like the real point was missed.

Throughout the next few days that I spent there, there was more brief talk, mostly with my mother about similar things. It just felt impossible... she was so disgusted internally (even if she couldn't really help it and tried hard not to show it) by what I had done that even when we spoke calmly, without malice, when we were just dealing out our cards and putting them on the table, being completely rational about our feelings and why we have our ideals, eventually I'd say something that just went too far for her, and that string would snap. The conversation would fire up, even if briefly, and that was the end of it.

I felt sad- of course I did! But, I knew I had to dampen any of my feelings if there was to be any chance of me coming out of this alive and intact. Even emotionally speaking.

However, when- by the third day of talking, I had hit a certain point of tolerance myself, I searched online for a Muslim single's website. I came across [ +singlemuslim.co.uk ] which provides women with free gold membership. This is due to the stigma in Islamic society attached to women actively searching for a partner. I did it out of complete spite. My parents and especially my mother's coaxing language was getting to me. They- or my mother in particular, kept asking me why I wasn't prepared to even consider a Muslim as my partner. What was it I had against Bengalis and Muslims? My issue really is mostly with the fact I just don't find Asian men attractive and nothing against the faith of a person... so I thought, fine, I'll try to prove a point (rather childish, I know) and joined this site. I made a profile which was pretty atypical of what you'd see of the media's portrayal of Islamic women.

I advertised myself as extremely out-going, as adventurous, as active and individual. I advertised for a man who didn't just share the same interests as me, but a man who was willing to be openly quite affectionate, who would cook because he enjoys it and other things that I suppose in my mind weren't typically considered masculine things.

To my surprise quite a few men left me messages, quite a few older men, too. It was a bit of a laugh, but I began talking to one guy who was roughly my age. A Pakistani Muslim who was very sweet, although he came on far too strongly for my liking as a 'loving-man, willing to be the perfect man of your life'. Something in that recipe made me want to hurl. Not the poor guy's fault at all. In many ways this is exactly what anyone would hope for: a devoted partner in life, who sees you as the centre of their world... but for me.. it was too much, too soon. I'd only known this guy 2 hours, after all.

My brother found me surfing and chatting to this guy, and naturally enquired, "who's that?" I told him; I had nothing to hide at this point (can't really beat "mum, dad, I have a white boyfriend and I live with him"), so I told him. This is _____ and he's a Muslim. Just getting to know him. My brother asks, "Where's he from?" I say Pakistan, and my brother's reaction is absolutely classic. "That's almost worse!" he says, laughing.

The joke is my father doesn't like Pakistanis because of the civil war between Pakistan and East Pakistan during his youth. Many of his relatives and friends were murdered during this time by Pakistanis who were trying to hold on to East Pakistan. However, they failed, and East Pakistan became an independent country on 26th March, 1971. It was renamed Bangladesh.

To me that kind of proved the point. It wasn't that I had deliberately chosen a Pakistani. But this guy and I (even though he was a bit too sugary for me) were actually getting along just fine, and if I'd been at all willing, maybe things would have happened for us. But there would have always been something that my parents wouldn't have liked about whomever I chose.

Unfortunately though (and fortunately for my boyfriend) I still don't find Asian men attractive. In fact I had unconsciously been drawn to chatting to the convert Muslims, non-Asian men there. However, when I received a quite direct wedding proposal via email ("I'm the man for you. Trust in God, pick me and pray that he will let you see I am good for you. We will pray together and get married; I can pay for wedding arrangements, ticket and everything else you need.") I decided it was time to stop.

* * *

It was the final few hours before I was due to come back to the city that things really began to crack and the image of the 'ruptured family' was ever clear in my parents eyes. My mother was almost always scowling at me, her eyebrows would knit together every now and then, her jaw would clench as if she was stopping herself from saying anything out loud. Dad's cheeks seemed to have sagged downwards; he had a soft, solemn and sad expression. Mum had already told me the night before that she didn't want to go back to the city with me. I knew what this meant. She had vowed never to return to Bangladesh after my marriage, almost angrily even then since she had felt the country had now claimed, taken her daughter. After my divorce this feeling was ever strengthened. But now that she said she didn't want to go back to the city with me, I knew she was probably thinking along the same strand of thought: the city had nothing left for her. Now the city had taken her daughter away, too. The dramatic consequences come from a dramatic language spoken on a daily basis.

My mother's stern outlook on reality makes a world a slowly smaller and smaller place for her as she cuts off limb after limb- country, city and town, to keep the core of herself protected and pure.

I had told her from the very first day I came home that she was invited to the city for a day of shopping with me, so I could show her all the great places I had come across. Eventually, however, as the few days progressed, I'd realised the more I said, the more acidic my words became for them. So I'd stopped talking to them about anything by the third or fourth day. It was funny, because during my separation and divorce I had shut down completely, protecting myself from them by not giving them a single thing to hold me by- not even words. I used to eat with them silently, nod or just do whatever they asked for without acknowledging if I'd heard them. I did everything I could just to keep out of their way and to avoid conversation. This time I had gone to them with an open heart, really making the effort to talk, chat, make all the small talk in the world so that I wasn't silent. So that I wasn't closed, like before. But they made me.... because they didn't want to hear it.

Dad made me ask mum to come along. It created great tension between my mother and I- you could see the sparks of anger, sadness, bitterness, sadness; all of it, flying off from us. But dad insisted and eventually mum did go along.

I feel sorry for my parents- of course I do. I feel so sorry for all of them, my family. Because I know they are suffering, and I don't take any joy at all from this- and knowing that I am the source of it for them. I understand my dad needing my mother to go along with him. I can understand if he didn't want to be alone in the car with me- my brother wasn't going to go with us. I can also understand if he wanted mum to go along because he didn't want her to be alone in the house. I can understand if he still wants to hold on to a single strain of hope- that... somehow... somewhere, we're still a family... and if that meant we were all sat in the same car together, then so be it.

... I know. I understand...... but with all their principles behind faith and their chosen religious discriminations.... can they ever understand that I'm not doing this because I like making a hellish child of myself.... I'm not doing this because I wanted to show them something, prove to them something- that they're wrong, or something....

Can they ever understand that I'm actually in love? And... in the world I live in, that my feelings matter to me... more than their principles?

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The Letter.

I wrote a letter about my situation with my boyfriend today and addressed it to my parents. My letter was clear... or as clear as I had hoped to make it without verging on the insulting- although, I fear, in some way, it doesn't matter how I tell them, they will find it insulting anyway.

I told them that I needed the following things:

For them to know the truth...
... That I am involved in a happy relationship with an English man.
For them to respect that I have my own life.
That I no longer require their permission so that I may do things in my life.
For them to accept me as I am.
For them to acknowledge that I am willing to share every aspect of my life with them, if they are willing to be a part of it.

I am absolutely terrified... I don't know what to expect. I called my brother before I sent it off asking him what he thought about the situation. I found it slightly ironic that he said "now isn't a good time", considering that when I initially told him about my relationship, my brother kept dropping in that if I felt guilty I should tell our parents. I asked him, anyway, why it wasn't a good time now. He replied that our parents are having financial problems, that I've only just recently received my divorce, that it'll be my birthday soon, that its our parents anniversary soon....

And I thought to myself..... its always going to be like that. We've always had financial problems- I can't remember a time when we didn't. And as for birthdays and such... every month there is something new.

I don't know what made me do it. It could have been a string of things, but ultimately I hit a wall and I was fed up. I wanted to simplify my life and I wanted to know, once and for all, where I stand in my parents life. For so long I had tried to answer that questions by myself- through what I'd seen and heard them do towards other people, from what I'd figured out or assumed about the culture we live in... but the scariest part was that some of those assumptions and the fear I felt of their reaction being horrible towards me was based on things I had seen in the media... things I had heard from other people, but not from my parents...

Since I've started going to university the course I have been studying looks at how people build their perceptions of the world in all facets involving what one would call daily, Western life. The media playing a large part it in, I've also been forced to consider how people interact with one another, the boundaries and unities people create and uphold, and why...

It breaks my heart. Because whilst sometimes it could be seen as pragmatic, it does question over and over again exactly the things I've felt in the past and how afraid I am to look to the future without my parents...

I'm absolutely petrified at the moment of how my parents will react. But I want to be hopeful, that the things I have learnt have opened up my eyes to realise that my parents aren't just case-studies for the next Asian documentary, but that just as I am a little liberal, they can be, too.

I tried to write my letter to them in as diplomatic yet completely truthful way as possible. I told them I love them, I told them I don't want to lose them, I told them I want to still be a part of their lives... the only thing I am asking of them is to see... just see what I am doing with this man... that I'm living with him, but I am still me.

... I will be devastated, no doubt about it, if they decide to turn their heads the other way. If they decide that rather than trying to negotiate an understanding which allows us-... if not me, to be happy, then I suppose its what I'd asked for in sending the letter; I wanted an answer, and I would have received it.

It surprised me when I told my boyfriend, how he reacted to this. His concern was that I was happy to do this because I thought he could support me. He asked me, "what will you do if they stop sending you money for university?" and for me the answer was "I've thought about that, and that is a risk I am willing to take, and if they do stop sending me money, I will find a way to survive. Help is available out there" But it did strike me that my boyfriend asked me about that at all. Of course I should have expected it. We're both adults. However it made it clearer in my mind that now probably was a good time to raise it because my parents should realise that I'm not simply using them for their money, that my desire to suddenly tell them about my alter-ego wasn't timed just after I'd finished university as I "didn't need them" anymore. This is about my identity, my soul and my future.

I hope my parents will be able to look beyond the ends of their noses...

* * *

At moments I feel completely paralysed. I freeze and I just don't know which way to think- yes or no, good or bad, happy or sad... I so want for this to go well..... even though it will be a shock for my parents. Even if they start talking to me kindly and try to persuade me to leave him, it'll be something more positive than my parents pretending I'm dead... if they somehow come to accept just the facts... I'm not asking them to accept my boyfriend... but if they'll just allow themselves to venture into my world for once and see its not such a bad place I am creating...

Or am I honestly being so blindly optimistic, that I'm going to have my heart completely broken...?

I keep asking myself that if this all creates another living hell for me, who will I have for support? My brother has already said he'll be there for me, and if they don't want to listen to me, they will have to deal with him..... and I should be so grateful to him for that.. but I don't want my family to be fighting between themselves.

So... I gave my mother a call before I went to bed, the same day I had sent the letter, and asked her how she was, and told her that I was worried for her. I couldn't believe it when she kept bringing up that she's happy so long as I remain just like the girl she raised. It was as if it was out of a family melodrama. Here I was, in the foreknowledge that I was going to send my parents a ground-shattering letter... and all my parents kept telling me was how they revered me as the perfect Bengali girl.

It made my throat dry up and close in on itself.. I had to keep sighing to allow myself to breathe. My mother realised that I was upset about something, even though I don't have a habit of crying over the phone, or even in person. So I told her that she should expect a letter, not that I was sounding particularly happy about it, so I suppose she read that as it should have been: to expect me to at least be writing about unhappy things, and that I wanted her to call me as soon as she had read it.

The very last thing I want is for my parents to think I have closed my doors on them; I'd shut myself down completely from my family during my separation and divorce, and I told them I didn't trust them anymore... but I want to give out every signal I can right now to let them know that I don't want them to leave... and I'm willing to let them in if they still want in.

.... God.... I'm petrified... I want to cry, but I don't know how much more crying I can take sitting here by myself. I cried as I wrote the letter; I cried mildly to myself in bed; its so draining....

I can't stop shivering.

* * *

As far as timing goes, however.... honestly, if now isn't the time it could never be the right time. But now is a good time in a sense. The Easter holidays are approaching and I do want to go home to visit my family. I want to see them, and I have a feeling they want to see me, too, even after this (at least, I hope dearly). There are plenty of opportunities over the next few weeks for me to go home- their wedding anniversary, my birthday, Easter... at some point we will have to face one another and talk about this.

Maybe I'm just so fool-hardy, I'll be shocked when my mother decides to slap my face rather than hug me. I'll be astonished when my father talks to me as a stranger rather than his best friend... but if that lets me know that they know how I'm living my life and they don't want a part of it, then at least that lets me know I can get on with my life knowing they're not happy with it, rather than asking myself the whole time, "how will they feel if they knew?" More than anything I just... want for this to be the beginning of what will later turn into my parents accepting me willingly and being there as my parents.. as grandparents to my children...

But I do fear the alternatives.

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