The Taste of Pomegranates - 1. Introduction to Omar

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When I was a kid my mother always told me that I was special. Dressed in her blue peplum skirts and with her black hair tied tightly up in a French bun. She was the most beautiful woman that I ever saw in my life. My father left us when I was born; he told mom that she was not enough for him that he needed to "discover himself". With that said, he left and we never saw him again. Mom always told me that it was his loss, that he will never experience the things that we went through. My parents emigrated from Palestine to the United States before I was born. Mom and dad didn't speak a word of English. They didn't need to, living in the San Fernando Valley people often mistaken them for Mexicans and Spanish became my mom's third language. Mom never talks about her life back home in Palestine; she tiptoes around the subject repeating that it was all in her past. I was her future now. Her beautiful green-eyed American born son. When I was born my father took the liberty to name me after his father, Omar. Having an ambiguously foreign name was the hardest thing about growing up as a teenager in the United States. As a kid, people often noted that I didn't look Arab. My skin was olive and my eyes green. It was my eyebrows and hair that often gave me away. It was so dark and thick, curly yet straight. Once people heard my name the confusion began to ensue. It was hard for a kid going to school in California watching other kids eat their peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while I was stuck with my labnah and fita bread. They thought that I was a strange kid; thought that I was different. After my father left, my mother tried her best being both parents but her spirits would always be put down and her Arab-breed melancholy began to sink in. She had a job at the local department store as the cashier. Her little-to-none knowledge of the English language was always the barrier between her getting a decent paying job. Mom could barely pay the bills, and we lived off whatever we could afford at any given moment. Some days, mom and I wouldn't eat anything but items from the dollar meal from our nearest fast food joint. I always asked my mom why she wouldn't just ask for a welfare plan, but she was too proud to admit that she couldn't take care of me herself

Mom had a hard time adjusting to America. Overwhelmed by the excessive materialism, and Western detachment. Raising me under the backdrop of liberal California was a challenge as well. Growing up, mom had always been rebellious. She met my dad at a party when she was only seventeen and they hit it off immediately. Back in Palestine, she was quickly shunned not only for her behavior but especially for the fact that she got pregnant out of wedlock. When their parents found out, mom and dad were kicked out. With little money, a baby on the way, and no place to stay my father spent all his savings on a trip to California. They planned to raise me and live long and happy. That didn't happen.

Last month I turned seventeen. I was seventeen with no car, no girlfriend, and no father. My mom would always tell me that I grew up to be handsome. Sometimes I wonder if that's true. I mean, I have gone out with a couple of girls over the years but no one that has sparked my interest. There was nothing there. My last girlfriend was Columbian-born Maria who insisted that we have sex to prove to her girlfriends that she was not a virgin. I didn't want to have sex with her. It wasn't that she was ugly, as she was one of the most attractive girls that I have ever seen in school. It was the fact that I could barely kiss her without gagging and touching her was even worse. I didn't understand what that meant. What was going on with me? As all the other boys began talking about sex I began to drift off. My attention span shortening and my comfortable level being pushed. When I broke up with Maria, my friends told me that I would have no trouble finding any other girl.

"Man, I don't want to sound like a fag but you are hot" my friend Markus admitted while at lunch one day. i was sitting with my usual people. Markus, the blonde-blue eyed jock. Daniel, the Afro Caribbean lacrosse player. Joo Un, the Korean hip hop expert. Lanni, our school's only out and proud lesbian cheerleader.

Markus has been my best friend since I was a little kid. I don't remember when we met, but I remember the moment that we knew that we were going to be life-long friends. We were in the second grade and I had still not gotten over my bowel issues. One day, our music teacher was yelling at me to sing louder and I got nervous. I got so nervous that I accidently wet my pants. I was so scared that everyone was going to notice and laugh. Kids can be especially cruel sometimes. Markus was standing right next to me and when he saw my face and looked down at my now soaked pants he understood what happened. The next thing I know, Markus pretends to spill water all over me and the music teacher. He was sent to the principal's office but he never told anyone the truth about that day. Only that he was in the mood to get people "soaked". Markus's parents were neo-liberals who opposed the occupation and that was enough to get my mother to love them. Mom has gotten so used to over almost-daily sleepovers that she recently bought another bed for Markus so that he didn't have to lay on the floor. Markus made sure to take advantage of this and came over every day. I met Daniel a couple of years ago when we had an all-star athlete's dinner. It was hard not to spot him in a crowd; he was six foot something tall. His laugh was loud and rambunctious often regarded as his signature. He rest were Markus's friends which eventually became mine.

"I'm not hot, you guys are delusional."

That was met with a collective eye roll as they all reassured me that I was attractive. Honestly, I think that I am pretty average. Since I have been a swimmer since I was a kid, my body was in best shape and form. Slender yet fit. I had inherited an Arab nose which is slightly larger than most of my Anglo-Saxon friends. My friends were all better looking than I was. My skin colour was always something that bothered me growing up. I wasn't white yet I wasn't brown, I was just stuck in between. My mother always joked that I looked like a caramel latte and that girls would eat me all up. I cringed at her jokes knowing that half the time she didn't even realized how filthy she sounded to other people. Mom was very proud of me, her "beautiful, star" son. Years of straight-A grades and involvement in school activities had made me a very popular guy in school. Everyone knew me, whether they liked me or not. I don't know why they wouldn't, I went out of my way to be especially nice to everyone. I didn't want to be remembered as a jerk or jock, I wanted to be remember as Omar the guy who helps people out. Omar who volunteers at the local hospital on the weekends while his friends are in bed.

I got up from my the tables and that's when i was stopped by the local school bully, Jason Preston

"Hey, camel jockey when are you going to go home to your desert?"

"I was born here you racist asshole!"

His eyes got wider as he heard me stand up for myself.

"What did you just call me sand nigger!?" he yelled.

Daniel prompted stood up and punched him square in the face. At this point we had made a scene as everybody formed a circle to see the fight that was going to ensue. Jason's friends began to jump in as I felt something smacking me in the head roughly. It was someone's tray. As soon as I felt that hit my face, I got mad. I punched him again and again and again. My hands were getting numb and I felt my head throbbing. I didn't even notice the people that were yelling out my name, urging me to stop. All I heard were Jason's words playing in my head, and boiling my blood. I began to feel my knuckles crack as blood rushed out of my hands and into the guy that I was hitting. My mind was so fixated on the act that I didn't even hear him when he yelled.

"Mr. Attala, in the office now!" I heard my English teacher say.

It took me a good thirty seconds to register the words that had just come out of my teacher's mouth. It also took three of my friends to yank me off one of Jason's friends. As I took a moment to regain my composure I could eye Maria staring on mouth agape and eyes wide open. Straightening out my hoodie I made a dash out of the now crowded lunch room and into the bathroom. I shut the door and prayed to myself for the world to stop. My prayers were soon interrupted by a particularly loud flushing noise as I heard one of the stalls swing open. It was Joseph Moss. Joseph Moss was the school's resident gay guy. He had come out a couple of years ago much to no one's surprise. You see, Joseph was not as feminine as people thought he was but he was much more expressive. Everyone knew Joseph Moss. It's hard to miss him in a school so small. He was beautiful and feathery, his lips always pinks against his pale skin. His jet black hair always sticking out in the best angles, and that one streak of blue that was subtle yet said so much about his personality. You could tell he worked out; he had developed a body over the years. My friends and I were always curious about him. Who did he hang out with? Was he dating anyone? It turns out that Joseph was not only the resident gay guy but also a known bad boy. Being kicked out of three of his last schools had forced him to move to our high school as he reluctantly attempted to fit in.

"Umm….You okay, dude?"

"Yeah, yeah I'm good."

He gave me a curious look, and then looking down at my now banged up and bruised hands.

"Shit, you're bleeding," he whispered.

I pretended that I hadn't noticed, "Oh, haha, I didn't even notice."

Then, something unexpected happened. He grabbed my hands and started analyzing them. Analyzing every cut and scrap. Every wrinkle and every line. I was in shock, seeing him like this. His lips were slightly opened, giving me a clear view of his pearly whites. His eyes were fixated on my hands as he started wrapping them up in toilet paper. Never leaving my eyes, he looked dead serious He went on for ages until he tied the ends and ever so gently closed my hands, allowing them to form a fist. I hadn't looked away in from my hands but when I looked up finally, I saw those huge expressive brown eyes looking into mine. Joseph had this distinct way of looking at people. He wasn't just looking at me, he was analyzing. He was thinking to deeply, staring to hardly. I felt my face flush from the unwanted attention and backed away. Practically jerking myself away from his lingering eyes

"I..I..got to go. Principal Jenkins is probably super pissed at me," I laughed.

"Cool" he said indifferently walking out of the bathroom. Eyes still piercing through me, still looking at me.

I felt something, it was something that was lost when I was Maria. Something which made my heart tremble and butterflies spring in the pits of my stomach. There is no way that I was gay, no way, it was probably the adrenaline rush that I got from the fight.

I looked into the mirror and found myself to be different. Not strange but altered. I placed a hand over where he touched me and smiled softly to myself. It is going to be hell explaining what happened to my mom.