Sister Natasha and Me

I feel as if I have a sign on my forehead that reads, “Kick me, Sister Natasha.” I’m not special; she dislikes everyone equally, a lesson I learned on my first day when she drove me down the road to retrieve my luggage from a friend’s house. The entire ride, I regretted accepting her offer. We flew over speed bumps while she expressed her displeasure at the neighborhood and its inhabitants, explaining in stilted English that, “Arabs not interesting. Not at all.” Then, as we drove for a mile along Israel’s massive wall (officially built for security, unofficially expanding territory) she turned her ire toward the Jews: “What this? In God’s land! This thing ugly. Hurt my eyes. “

Finally, it was my turn. “You Americans tear down wall in Germany and make wall here. Why? Why you do this? I no understand America.” Her rant would likely have continued if it weren’t for a vegetable delivery truck that was stopped in the road so its driver could unload tomatoes. Rather than stop momentarily, she swerved around the truck and climbed onto the sidewalk where we came perilously close to hitting two Palestinian pedestrians. Sister Natasha was not apologetic about the near fatality nor was she ashamed to use her horn to let the delivery man know how illogical it was to be working in the middle of the day. According to her, the incident was due to a genetic deficiency: “They stupid, the Arabs. Don’t make sense.”

I’ve been living here for a week and apparently it’s still my turn. I am confounded by this woman. One minute she’s rolling around on the ground playing with the children, the next she’s yelling and slapping bottoms. My bottom has yet to be slapped, but my pride sure has taken a beating. The first scolding came shortly after my arrival. Sister Martha told me that I was free to do my own laundry, but Sister Natasha stormed into my room wanting to know why I didn’t ask her before I began washing clothes. And who did I think I was using the dryer? We never, ever use the dryer. My clothes can hang on the line just like hers. And Sister Maria does the laundry anyway, so why was I trying to mess up the system?

I was wounded. A lifelong teacher’s pet and favorite grandchild, I usually do a good job of pleasing my elders. I decided to counter the laundry incident by being Super Girl. I washed everyone’s dishes—she complained that I used too much hot water. I tried to clean up the table—she told me I put things in the wrong place. I spent hours helping one girl study for an English exam—she yelled at me for having the light on and said the little girl and I were costing the church money. I made her tea—she flatly declined, “I no want.”

Exasperated, but still determined, I decided to win her over via the children. The next day, I rushed home from my internship and spent the afternoon helping the girls with their homework. Then I kept them all busy with puzzles and coloring books. When dinner time came, the girls saved me a seat at the head of their table, a clear sign of acceptance. Sister Natasha’s deadly look forced me to decline their invitation and my place of honor in order to join her in the kitchen. It was then that she informed that I was not to speak to the children. Ever. They have a ‘regime’ and are easily distracted. And, because of me, they were late to dinner. The whole night was ruined and it was my fault. Then, in a conciliatory whisper, she let me in on a little secret, “They Arab children. Not normal.”

I think this unwarranted snipe at the girls was meant to be an olive branch to me, but I wasn’t about to encourage her racism. I also wasn’t about to incur her wrath by telling her what I thought (she probably wouldn't have understood anyway). So I just avoid her. I peek out my window to see if she’s downstairs before I leave my room to go to the kitchen. If she is, I just wait it out. This sometimes means going to bed hungry, but that's better than going to bed defeated.