Chocolate Muffins and A Womanly Pursuit

Work.  Otherwise known as school.  

“What?  You’re still at school?” the auntie-types ask when they meet me.  

“I’m a teacher.” 

Nodding their heads in approval they murmur, “Nice, nice; great profession for a woman,” they applaud, patting me absent-mindedly on the arm as they silently muse over who would be a suitable spouse for me; would Jamila’s son prefer a wife who stays at home and cooks and cleans?  Who knows, maybe he wouldn’t mind; after all, being a primary school teacher is a good “feminine” job, a womanly pursuit, and she can be home at 3.30 in the afternoon to cook her husband’s dinner and make herself look pretty before he arrives.   

“I teach in a secondary school.” 

“Oh.” 

An uncomfortable stillness descends over the group as the “Aunties” stare at this curiosity who works amongst teenagers, pseudo-adults, violent and abusive; the domain where only the men are strong enough to tread.  No place for a woman.  

“So, secondary; that must be very hard,” one comments as the others murmur in agreement.  They stare at me expectantly, wanting agreement, needing it, craving it.  

“Well, no, it’s a good laugh actually; I could never teach primary kids,” grimacing on the word primary as though I had caught a scent of their cheap perfume.  

“Really?  But all those teenage boys; aren’t they hard to handle?  Don’t they talk back to you?  Don’t they make your life hard because you wear, you know, a scarf?”  Questions unravel one by one, as though untying the knots of Islamic kinship between us. They watch me with detached interest as I prepare the organised and pre-planned reply, so often needed, so rarely understood. 

“It’s really good; older kids are great, they’re not hard to handle if you know what you’re doing.  Of course they talk back to you, we expect it; teaching is all about how you deal with that kind of thing – besides I love my subject.  As for covering myself, the school have never made it an issue and I know they never will; of course kids ask questions, I expect it and invite it.  I’d rather they asked me what this dishcloth was doing on my head than they assumed I was a suicide bomber or something.  You do get the usual racism you always get.”  

I pause for effect, looking around, feeling their eyes boring into me, trying to look into my soul through my face, feeding on my curious ways.  “You know, only the other day these Year 11 boys in the corridor were talking as I walked up to them about how they would like to eat chocolate muffins.  That’s not something I can really report to management, but it’s enough to get me thinking.”   

I stop.  Realising that I may have crossed that unspeakable line; my heart skipped a beat as I looked towards the door, scanning for an escape route but upon reflection I didn’t think that the Asian Aunties would understand sexual innuendos for female sexual organs that are rife amongst the adolescents of England.  They look back interested, waiting impatiently for the punch line, the cathartic release to the racially motivated attack by these “ASBO” teens on the English corridor.  

Silence invades the room, sticking in my throat like a gluey chocolate muffin, rich and sickly.  An hourly minute passes.  

“Did he really call you a chocolate muffin?”  Wide-eyed and staring, they click their tongues in disapproval, shaking their heads, murmuring about “kids today”, how we are never “accepted in this country.”   

I breathe a sigh of relief, a smile creasing the corners of my mouth as I ponder how they would react if I explained the subtle nuances of innuendo.  I dare not.  I cannot.  Imagine telling Auntie Arifah that female loins can quite affectionately be referred to as items of confectionary found in their local bakers, their cake tins and on the shelves of the supermarket.  I could just imagine the shock and disgust as I explained it to them; I decide against it and try to retreat into a corner, a corner which I hope is closer to the door.   

But their thoughts are too loud; why would she teach in secondary school when primary school children are easier to handle?  It’s such a good profession for a woman, it helps her with her own children; besides everyone loves a cute youngster don’t they?  The disbelief is masked with a cloud thick with extortionate amounts of Chanel No. 5, the rejection of a womanly pursuit in favour of the world of rude and abusive teenagers, unwilling to learn, testosterone-charged and roaring, alien to their ears, ears so neatly concealed under clouds of perfumed gas and luxurious scarves.      

I sigh.  Alone once more, despite sitting amongst six others.  I watch them curiously, as they watch back, intrigued.   And in our silent surveillance we find understanding.