My Grandmother Washes Her Feet in the Sink of the Bathroom at Sears
Mohja Kahf
My grandmother puts her feet in the sink of the bathroom at Sears
to wash them in the ritual washing for prayer, wudu,
because she has to pray in the store or miss
the mandatory prayer time for Muslims
She does it with great poise, balancing
herself with one plump matronly arm
against the automated hot-air hand dryer,
after having removed her support knee-highs
and laid them aside, folded in thirds,
and given me her purse and her packages to hold
so she can accomplish this august ritual
and get back to the ritual of shopping for housewares
Respectable Sears matrons shake their heads and frown
as they notice what my grandmother is doing,
an affront to American porcelain,
a contamination of American Standards
by something foreign and unhygienic
requiring civic action and possible use of disinfectant spray
They fluster about and flutter their hands and I can see
a clash of civilizations brewing in the Sears bathroom
My grandmother, though she speaks no English,
catches their meaning and her look in the mirror says,
I have washed my feet over Iznik tile in Istanbul
with water from the worlds ancient irrigation systems
I have washed my feet in the bathhouses of Damascus
over painted bowls imported from China
among the best families of Aleppo
And if you Americans knew anything
about civilization and cleanliness,
youd make wider washbins, anyway
My grandmother knows one culturethe right one,
as do these matrons of the Middle West. For them,
my grandmother might as well have been squatting
in the mud over a rusty tin in vaguely tropical squalor,
Mexican or Middle Eastern, it doesnt matter which,
when she lifts her well-groomed foot and puts it over the edge.
You cant do that, one of the women protests,
turning to me, Tell her she cant do that.
We wash our feet five times a day,
my grandmother declares hotly in Arabic.
My feet are cleaner than their sink.
Worried about their sink, are they? I
should worry about my feet!
My grandmother nudges me, Go on, tell them.
Standing between the door and the mirror, I can see
at multiple angles, my grandmother and the other shoppers,
all of them decent and goodhearted women, diligent
in cleanliness, grooming, and decorum
Even now my grandmother, not to be rushed,
is delicately drying her pumps with tissues from her purse
For my grandmother always wears well-turned pumps
that match her purse, I think in case someone
from one of the best families of Aleppo
should run into herhere, in front of the Kenmore display
I smile at the midwestern women
as if my grandmother has just said something lovely about them
and shrug at my grandmother as if they
had just apologized through me
No one is fooled, but I
hold the door open for everyone
and we all emerge on the sales floor
and lose ourselves in the great common ground
of housewares on markdown.
So go back to Aleppo or Damascus or Baghdad and wash your feet! No one forced you to come here and we don’t want you.
“...an affront to American porcelain,”
If only radical Islam was merely THAT! Grrrrr!
****My grandmother knows one culturethe right one,****
BARF
What a pig!
Real question, Uncle Miltie:
Is that the actual poem that was recited instead of our Pledge of Allegiance!!!?
[Not your fault, I understand. It's just a pet peeve.]
Worried about their sink, are they? I
should worry about my feet!
***
Then take your feet back to the filthy country you came from.
Alternative Poem
The Coptics Run From Egypt
My grandmother had her feed chopped off by the Brotherhood, and put in the sink at Sears.
The end.
>about civilization and cleanliness
She must have missed the part in "How to win friends and influence people" about not insulting your host.
Someone should dress up in muslim garb and go knock on the Principals door and ask if he minds if you use his sink to wash your feet. Or, better yet, I bet he has his own private bathroom at the school....
As anyone familiar with Mohja Kahfs (Arabic for "She whose calves are as large as thighs") wonderful poem will attest, it was originally written in the Muslim style of Mazahr-al-Suess.
This style of poetry involves a series of rhyming couplets in a meter sometimes unrecognizable to the unsophisticated western ear. But sadly, by some software malfunction at FR, Uncle Miltie's original posting of this masterful work, had every other rhyming line omitted.
The omission of every other line, rendered this ode to her grandmother's hygienic purification ritual into little more than meaningless twaddle.
With that in mind, I hereby present Mohja Kahfs magnificent opus, restored to its original form:
My grandmother puts her feet in the sink of the bathroom at Sears
The one with the holes in the doors for the queers.
to wash them in the ritual washing for prayer, wudu,
Oh wudu, that voodoo, that you do.
because she has to pray in the store or miss
her one opportunity, to have a good piss.
(for) the mandatory prayer time for Muslims
is also the one time she's away from her husband.
She does it with great poise, balancing herself with one plump matronly arm
With a wish that some Christian, or Jew will be harmed.
against the automated hot-air hand dryer,
She's got less hair on her head than Rocky Bleier.
after having removed her support knee-highs
By Allah! She really SHOULD shave those thighs!
and laid them aside, folded in thirds,
I'm not kidding, those gams are practically FURRED!
and given me her purse and her packages to hold
[no wonder the old crone never seems to get cold.]
so she can accomplish this august ritual
while women around her complete their micturals.
and get back to the ritual of shopping for housewares
She just knows there are pressure cookers on sale somewhere
Respectable Sears matrons shake their heads and frown
'Cause let's face it. She looks like a clown
as they notice what my grandmother is doing,
instead of powdering herd face, nose, or poo-ing.
an affront to American porcelain,
Will someone please herd her goats and her horse in?
a contamination of American Standards
Might as well include all the stock in the barnyard.
by something foreign and unhygienic
by a woman scrubbing her feet so frenetic
requiring civic action and possible use of disinfectant spray
and that's just for the animals there chewing their hay.
They fluster about and flutter their hands and I can see
That meter and rhyme are just not my fortee.
a clash of civilizations brewing in the Sears bathroom
she's wishing they'd all disappear with a Kay-boom.
My grandmother, though she speaks no English,
(and grandpa has three other wives, so she's more or less singlish)
catches their meaning and her look in the mirror says,
"I'd like to stone you all to death, like the gays."
"I have washed my feet over Iznik tile in Istanbul
And they threw me out of that place, too.
"with water from the worlds ancient irrigation systems
and in the men's locker room of the Detroit Pistons.
"I have washed my feet in the bathhouses of Damascus
And I'll chop off your head if my ways you don't ass-kiss.
"over painted bowls imported from China
I've splashed fetid water on my mutilated vagina.
"among the best families of Aleppo
and even with Groucho, Harpo, and Zeppo.
"And if you Americans knew anything about civilization and cleanliness,
you be really aghast at my manners and manliness.
youd make wider washbins, anyway
and you wouldn't allow cretins in your washbins to play."
My grandmother knows one culturethe right one,
[And as far as FReepers are concerned, she can bite One]
as do these matrons of the Middle West. For them,
My grandma can go home, and never come back again.
my grandmother might as well have been squatting
and taking a dump, with bacteria rotting
in the mud over a rusty tin in vaguely tropical squalor,
that's causing the regular patrons' faces to pallor.
Mexican or Middle Eastern, it doesnt matter which,
[All of 'em pretty much are a b!tch.]
when she lifts her well-groomed foot and puts it over the edge.
That senile old dame is still wearing her keds.
You cant do that, one of the women protests,
"Just watch me," she says, "I've got a suicide vest."
turning to me, Tell her she cant do that.
"Better do what she says," say I, "or it's splat!"
We wash our feet five times a day,
She declares. (But what she won't say,
is that day only comes once a year
-- and in May)"
my grandmother declares hotly in Arabic:
It's haram for a woman like me to use Schick.
My feet are cleaner than their sink.
she says, only kidding, and gives me a wink.
Worried about their sink, are they? I
Lived for twenty-five years in a hut like a sty.
(and it) should have been sweet
(but not once did hubby) worry about my feet!
My grandmother nudges me, Go on, tell them.
To thank thank Allah they don't have to smell them!
Standing between the door and the mirror, I can see
a half dozen infidels taking a pee.
at multiple angles, my grandmother and the other shoppers,
and a couple of little white teeny-boopers
all of them decent and goodhearted women, diligent
Hey! There's my old bridge partner, Millicent!
in cleanliness, grooming, and decorum
though reading this poem in school surely will bore 'em.
Even now my grandmother, not to be rushed,
Has plunked herself down all the way to her tush.
is delicately drying her pumps with tissues from her purse
she's drawing it out: "in your face Christians!" so she'll never be terse.
For my grandmother always wears well-turned pumps
That sadly, accentate her camel-back humps
that match her purse, I think in case someone
thinks this poem is going somewhere -- he's a dumb-one.
Now she pulls herself out of the sink like a hippo
(stolen) from one of the best families of Aleppo.
(The security guard) Should run into herhere, in front of the Kenmore display
and grab her, and throw her, in the dryer all day.
I smile at the midwestern women
Will these stupid dhimmis give her what she's got comin?
as if my grandmother has just said something lovely about them
instead of playing Typhoid Mary, as she's raving and shout'en'.
and shrug at my grandmother as if they, had just apologized through me
they're just glad that her vest didn't go all "kabloom-ee."
No one is fooled, but I,
[who think poetry don't have to rhyme.]
hold the door open for everyone
Even old grammy, who weighs, like, a ton.
and we all emerge on the sales floor
as the genteel ladies stampede for the door.
and lose ourselves in the great common ground
of housewares on markdown.