DIRT: the grunge diaries (𝒱𝒾𝒸𝓉𝑜𝓇𝒾𝒶'𝓈 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃)

entry #115- 19 and life

'Arab? But you're white...'. The bouncer speaks, and I roll my eyes back at his fucking stupid comment. Not only he's preaching and professing his ignorance, but he's also still trying to figure out how the hell to open my fucking passport, and his lack of QI and common sense are pissing me off. I'm fuming, the guy is procrastinating and trying too hard be funny, only coming across as an idiot, and Sean is laughing his ass off. He finds this whole skit funny, and I understand his reasons, but I'm just finding the bouncer's fried brain cell behaviour fume inducing. I mean, I just want to know if I'll be let in this club no matter my age, or if I will have to spend the rest of the night rotting in bed with my boyfriend... but the guy is still toying with my passport, and he's making ridiculous comments about me being too 'white' to be 'Arab', instead of doing his one job. I am fair skinned, because there's plenty of fair skinned, fair eyed and fair haired Arabs, and might you wanna believe it or not, some of us have freckles too. Like me ! I'd like to break facts down for this guy, but he's so fucking dumb I feel like I won't be wasting any of my time on him. I'll just grab my passport from his hand, open it the right way, and tuck it between his middle and pointer fingers. So that we can hopefully get this illiteracy show over with, whether he's gonna allow me in the club or not.

'And my dad is brown ! Can you let me in now, please?' I speak, tapping my right foot on the floor like I'm Sean... I mean, like I'm eager to find out if I've been given a pass to party tonight, despite my age, and despite my terrorist status. I'm trying to stay classy and polite here, even if the temptation to smack the bouncer's head against the first available flat surface is strong as fuck. If I'm staying calm, it's just because I have this very vivid image of my brown skinned papa playing in my mind, in which he sits me down and tells me that belligerence is never the right way to end conflict with a dumb ass. And he also tells me to eat more, because I'm too pale and too lean to be his and Fatima's daughter. I need hugs with Yasser more than I need anything else in the world, but I also lowkey need to get admitted into this club. I'm here waiting for an answer, might that be a positive or negative one, and I'm getting more pissed off as every second goes by, because the bouncer is looking at my passport like he has no idea how to even read it. I know, the Abjad puts you off at first, especially if you're white, your only spoken language is English, and you only do Latin alphabet. It's kinda difficult to pick up the information you need, in a sea of Arabic typewritten words and messy scribbles made by the Jordanian embassy in Jerusalem. But the last time I looked at my passport, aka twenty seconds ago, it had translations in English for each field. I swear to god it did. Then, why ain't this guy just seeing ... the information he needs in order to forbid my entrance into this fucking club ? My date of birth is written in Arabic numbers, which are the same figures used by the yanks. Is it really that hard to just see these fucking incriminating numbers and go like 'no no, you need to do some growing up before entering night clubs, ma'am'?

A long crowd is forming behind us, people are demanding a much needed speeding up of the checkpoint procedures ... but the guy is still too busy looking at my passport like it's the Rosetta Stone, and he can't quite read Egyptian hieroglyphics. That, while I'm trying too hard not to tell him that I'm neither Egyptian, and a descendant of the pharaohs, nor Jordanian, and a descendant of the Hashemites like my passport would suggest. The only progress so far is that the bouncer is now shaking his head no like it's the only thing he can do. The thing naturally makes me assume he's found the 'date of birth' field on my travel document, and he's silently forbidding my entrance into this club on the basis of that. I understand the message loud and clear, I simply grab my passport back, and store it into my bag like it's a piece of trash paper. Well, it is, getting on flights with this one is pure hell, but now, it's my age being the problem, not my terrorist nationality, and I totally understand it. Silly me for believing that my boyfriend would've helped me through, instead of just laughing like he's possessed and like he doesn't have a thought, in that cryptic mind of his. Starr did much more than Sean is doing now, when I got the same kinda hassling at the after hours club of last night... and I don't know how to feel about this. Starr was all smiles and cheerfulness, and got me allowed into the club with a simple 'Hey, I'm the bass player of Alice in Chains. She's young, man, but we're raising her well'. Puke inducing, and such a creepy thing to say... but knowing Mike, it's the classiest he can get, and I appreciated his effort to smuggle me into the club regardless of my age a lot. Sean is my fucking boyfriend, for as far as I know, and he's the drummer of Mike's same fucking band. They have a name, on top of a fame for being confirmed STD patients, and it goes beyond the boundaries of the Washington state. So why doesn't he just cock a rocker dude with the chick to... fuck the system, like his bandmate did last night ? Is it really that hard for him to do the god damn thing ? I mean... if he doesn't feel like it, and if it humbles him for some reason unknown, he doesn't have to say I'm his girlfriend, in order to get me in. I promise.