"Talking with Qatari 'Girls'"
Mar. 31, 2007
Looking out at the stadium-style seats of the lecture hall, I saw a sea of black -- young women draped in the traditional Arab abiya, a floor-length black dress with long sleeves. Scarves covered their hair and necks. Several faces were also covered; only eyes shone through slits in the black fabric. Exposed, manicured hands lay folded demurely on the hinged desktops in front of them.
These young women (called "girls" in their all-female Qatar University; "boys" study at another campus) were here for a talk I was giving, an "Introduction to Writing." I hadn't picked the subject, but it was on my schedule.
Before going to Qatar, I chatted with a professor, who specialized in Middle Eastern women's studies, about what to expect and what to offer these young women. Would they be interested in hearing about my twisty path to becoming a writer? I rarely talk about this; I refer folks to my Web site for biographical information. Should I refer them?
"No. Definitely tell them in person about your experience," she insisted. "They have so few opportunities to hear from Western women directly."
Most of the girls sat at the very back of the hall and on the far sides of the room. Was I that intimidating, strange?
I wanted to say, "I promise I won't bite," but for once I refrained, (As they say about me in my family, "She opens her mouth and her brains fly out.")
Would it help to explain to them that after college I started writing by doing all the press materials for the modern dance company I was a member of -- that we drove an old school bus all over America performing in cities along the way? That writing good press materials and lining up interviews brought good audiences; slacker materials didn't? (To keep them awake I had planned to add that when we had no place to stay overnight, we just kept driving. I took the graveyard bus shift, from 1 to 4 a.m., because I was an insomniac.) What would they think?
Should I tell them I got my start in New York City working as a ghostwriter for my husband who had too much work, writing corporate communications scripts? That to make extra money I walked other people's dogs early in the morning? (I didn't know yet that dogs, like pigs, were forbidden in their culture.) That scribbling in my journal had saved my sanity, when I was following my critically ill infant son from hospital to hospital?
I had no idea. But it was too late to polish up my life now.
So, I told them the truth -- well, except for dancing on downtown city streets in leotards and tights, and the late nights scotch drinking with other writers.
They smiled, laughed, made eye contact with me.
Afterwards I asked if there were any questions.
Silence.
I had been warned. They will listen, they will write in workshops, but they probably won't share.
"I have books to give away," I said, holding up some paperbacks. "Ask a question. Get a book."
A hand crept up. Then another and another. They asked thoughtful, revelatory questions. "I feel unsure and afraid to keep writing sometimes. Can I still be a writer?" They told stories about themselves. "My ideas are so confused but I don't like outlines." "I hope to publish a book someday."
We talked and talked.
Later, I realized that what I had shared with these "girls" isn't written anywhere on my Web site.
