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 Internationnal

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Armani
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Posts : 132
Join date : 2010-03-09
Location : With a monkey!

PostSubject: Internationnal   Sun May 16, 2010 7:53 pm

1. Allah

Hi. My name is Anna Haddad. And my story begins on the day we moved.

It was 1:26 pm, March 19, and me, my mom and my sister were leaving Santa-Fe, New Mexico, to move to London England. We were moving to London, because my mom found two better paying jobs.

Her original job was… well, I better not say. The two better jobs were being a tour guide for Kensington Palace, and working at a market called Sainsbury’s on weekends. She would work as a tour guide from 10:00am-5:30pm, Monday through Friday. She would work at the market from 6:00am-9:00am, then 6:00pm-9:00pm. She would get two weeks off, every two weeks.

My sister was named Tyra, and she was four days older than me. Her skin was the color of coffee, and she was about 5’2. Like a good Muslim girl, Tyra almost always wore a scarf around her head.

My mom was given the name Zaliki. Her skin was almost the color of a mocha. Yea, I know I keep comparing the skin colors of my family to coffee. My dad was named Muhir, his job was SO lame. He just worked for the King of Saudi Arabia, and was head of oil charges and helping prepare the Hajj. Big deal, his older brother, our Uncle Mazin, had a way more awesome job. He sold cotton candy in the streets of Cairo, Egypt! Oh, and by the way, Zaliki and Muhir, [Tyra and I call them by their first names when they’re not around,] they divorced when Tyra and I were babies. But Muhir still visits us from time to time. The good thing is when ever Muhir comes, he brings uncle Mazin and uncle Mazin brings us free cotton candy, and a cotton candy horn. What is a cotton candy horn? When Mustafa enters the streets of Cairo, he blows a small tin horn to signal he is there.

So anyways, wait! While I’m off subject, I’ll talk about the history of me and Tyra. Also, sorry for the constant delays of the real story. So let me make this as quickly as I can. Tyra and I were both born in Roswell, New Mexico. A week later, Zaliki took us back to Santa-Fe, New Mexico. Also when we were six years old, we spent Christmas in Afghanistan, where my grandparents were from. Even though her background was Egyptian, and in Afghanistan, Tyra and I fell in love with Afghan food.

So now I will get back to the story. We were headed to Albuquerque International Airport. Tyra and I were arguing…as usual. We were arguing about what type of Swedish candy was better. I was arguing for ‘Blair’ candy cars, Tyra was supporting a small chocolate called ‘Daim.’

“You’re so stupid, fat and wrong, Tyra. Blair is like, so much better than that hideous Daim toffee.” I argued. “You’re so stupid, fat and wrong! Daim beats Blair by a long shot! And how can a candy be hideous?” she retorted. “If you eat it,” I started. “It has to be hideous.”

We argued for a while longer, and then we began talking to Mom about our ‘soon to be’ home in London. “Wait, Mom, here’s an important question: where is our stuff?” Tyra asked. “I went through a lot of talking with the shipping guy, and he said our stuff is waiting in our house, in Kensington.” she answered. Tyra and I looked at each other in displeasure, but after a few seconds of staring, we nodded in satisfaction.

Awhile before we arrived at the airport, Tyra began listening to The Beatles on her iphone. And then, we arrived at Albuquerque International Airport. The floors were a clear sleek marble, with people of all countries hauling a suitcase with them.

After pushing past a multitude of people we reached the security area. BAD NEWS. It was always common a Muslim would get held up in security. EVEN WORSE NEWS. The worse bad news was Mom was wearing a purdah. To be exact, she was wearing her pretty pink purdah. That means, security would think she was smuggling some weapon under her purdah. That is exactly what happened. They kept scanning up and down her tall, 6’4 body. Tyra and I then ran up to the burly guards. “Excuse me sir,” Tyra announced. She lightly poked the security guard on one of his bright patches. The guard, who was obviously from Aborigine decent, he clicked his attention to my slightly older sister.

“What little girl?” he asked. His voice had a rather deep tone to it. “W-well, sir,” she began. “We have noticed you are scanning our mom, and your beeper keeps going off.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you see, my sister and I know what is under her cloak.”

“Ah, yes but you see, you to are Islamic as well as her, and…”

“Sir,” Tyra interrupted. “Please, if we could just pull her aside, she will pull out whatever is making the beeping sound.” she insisted. “Why can Islamic woman not take beep material out here?” When he said that I thought, ‘How very prejudiced.’ “Please sir.” Tyra begged. The guard nodded in agreement. Tyra and I pulled her aside.

“Mom, the guards won’t let you through, unless you remove your purdah.” I warned. She looked puzzled for a few seconds, and then unzipped her purdah to reveal jeans and a shirt that read Little Rock, Arkansas. She was from Little Rock. Then she casually handed me the keys to our new house, walked through the screener, and there was no problem.

We picked up our stuff from the scanning belt, and went to the main terminal. It was filled with gift shops, eateries and restrooms. Truthfully, we were soon lost in the airport, which made us fearful that we would miss our plane for some odd reason. But the fear in Tyra and I was resolved when we found Baskin Robins 31. Then of course, yes, Tyra and I began arguing over which kind of ice cream was better. “Chocolate is way better than vanilla, Anna. Oh, and by the way you’re fat.” Tyra said.

“Oh yeah, well, vanilla is better than chocolate. Chocolate is colored like poo. Oh, and by the way you’re hideous.” I insisted.
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