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My favorite memory of my Baba
When I was about 8 or 9, I went to school with a little boy named Kareem. Kareem was kind of a bully … he wasn’t the meanest bully I encountered in my childhood but he did seem to get pleasure out of tormenting other kids. Like all other bullies, Kareem had a sidekick — another little boy whose image and likeness have faded from my memory. My memories of Kareem are fuzzy except for how strongly I recall his laugh — a toothy chuckle of sorts.
My problems with Kareem started when after a reshuffling of assigned seats he ended up sitting behind me. Kareem thought it was fun to pull strands of my hair out.
He’d pull a strand of hair.
I’d feel the prick in my scalp.
I’d turn around and frustratingly tell him to “STOP!”
He and the sidekick would laugh uncontrollably.
He’d then proceed to pull another strand out.
On and on we went like this for what felt like weeks. One night at dinner I complained to my parents about the little boy in school who won’t stop pulling my hair. My dad, a stern Middle Eastern man, was outraged! No one was going to torment his little girl. He was going to get the matter sorted at school the next day after he dropped me off.
