The Church Street market is infamous in West London. A stones throw away from school, we often visited there for lunch, sweets, knick-knacks and the LOLs. So during one of these forays, I accompanied Osama, one of the guys who sat on my science table, Sudanese, very clever and articulate, an all-round lovely guy with conscience and compassion. As we walked into a tuck-shop, he bumped into this other boy he knew, of similar demographics. They greeted each other with peace and a handshake. Osama didn’t introduce me per se, so I stood there politely observing their conversation like some third wheel. There was a phrase the guy then said to Osama, sort of under his breath but sort of not. “Mun luti?” to which Osama replied “Nah, naah” with a little frown to his otherwise pleasant face. I feigned ignorance of the meaning at the time. I didn’t know very much Arabic back then, so I asked Osama, but he wouldn’t say, and dismissed it as just random conversation. My Spidey-senses were signalling and I didn’t trust it was so innocent, so I searched it online (Google was only alive for about 5 years and we most certainly did not ‘Google it’). Mun = where from, luti = of Lots people (as in the Biblical Lot). That boy asked him if I was of the People of Lot, which in the parlance of Biblical legends and conservative narratives of Islam would translate as a way to ask if I was gay. Again, I didn’t even speak. It was simply my demeanour (but what, I didn’t flounce or mince) and dress sense that suggested an ‘otherness’ about me. If you were unconventional then you were gay basically. It hurt, icl, the fact that I was being judged like that. A lot of gay men like myself would tell you that we try to dampen down anything about our behaviour that would bring our apparent heterosexuality into question.

Not directly related to being pragaymatic, the next few accounts I wish to relate to you so that you can appreciate the development of my sense of self. Because more than anything, to know yourself and how others perceive you is probably the most important underlying factor in coming out, and being happy with the aftermath. These recollections are from my Alevel years aged 17 and 18. I was on the campaign to get into medical school. King’s College London was unique in that they were widening access to medicine for students from poorer backgrounds and in this regard held weekly lectures there on all things medicine. This sounds like me lol, and so my sister M who found it, signed me up to it. After school, we met up and made our journey. It felt special in some kind of way, as she had a passion to pursue medicine too, but her life took on other interesting turns. Anyway, inducted and seated in the auditorium, I look to my right as she was chatting to me and my eyes focussed behind her onto this girl  on the same row as us but quite a few seats away. Apparently she was also keen to study medicine, because well, she was here too! Hi how are ya? Yeah I’m fine. How’s the family? Aww, that’s great we mouthed to one another through the din. Did you know about this, cos I didn’t I mouthed again. You did? Oh…You bloody selfish cow, how come you never said anything, when you knew I am applying for medicine and therefore needed all the extra credit, like how could you keep this nugget to yourself….was what I really wanted to say but alas, all I mouthed back was OK well enjoooy. This particular girl, was Maha, my future bestie. A little history: you recall we became close during D&T, IT and science lessons? Well after securing the number 2 position on the GCSE podium at our school, she went onto greener pastures to the St Marylebone School for girls. How exclusive. A right little miss posh. She still attended NWCS for German lessons however and every so often she would come into the library and regale me with tales from the first world. I don’t say this to be rude; NWCS really was that bad. OFSTED were campaigning to shut it down for years, and two years after I left, the school was eventually sold off to the businesses around the area for 3 million pounds to be converted into an academy. ‘I need help with child labour’, she said one afternoon, waltzing into the library in her nice clothes. Huh? ‘You know the hormone feedback mechanism for uterine contraction? Have to learn it for Biol’. Other times it was ‘My personal statement, please. For medicine application’. I would never refuse a friend in need, obvs. ‘You know, jazz it up a bit, cos I read your one and it just shines. Obviously you’re like the worlds authority on all things prose’. Aww, that’s so sweet. She could have told me about the lecture series though. KMT.

As for the girth…well I surmise that was the result of a very healthy puberty!

“Tragic, but there are a lot of lessons to be learnt from the tragedy that befell superman”, the anatomy Professor said in her ethereal voice on one of the lectures. Indulge me please, on a brief foray down memory lane to explain why am I like this. Me and my sister M were walking through the Gordon Museum of Anatomy at the King’s College medical school. The walls were chockablock full from ceiling to floor of a million and one preserved human body parts, their waterlogged appearance calling to spectators. The hall had metal gangways and staircases built into it and the walls were lit from behind; think CSI. Animated in our conversation, fast in tempo and loud in volume, we walked past two specimens; each gloriously revealing the male and female human reproductive systems. The male specimen was genuinely huge and long (I mean it could have possibly been the magnifying effect of glass and water). Biologically the penis is actually very long as the organ begins deeper within the abdominal cavity; what appears on the outside is probably less than half of the total length. As for the girth…well I surmise that was the result of a very healthy puberty! As we not-so-successfully navigated the narrow gangways the floor of which was tempered glass, we couldn’t help but voice these reflections out aloud. Quite loud. To compound the situation, M’s heels were creating a cacophony of their own on the glass floor (why would you even make the floor out of glass). All we needed to happen was one of the glass jars randomly dropping from the shelves, smashing all over the place and us slipping and flipping all the way down. Finally reaching the other end, dry and still alive, we had to descend this narrow spiral metal staircase into an antechamber, where we were told the lecture was taking place. Clanging, clattering, shrieking and talking without censure, we stumbled into the chamber full of people headed by the anatomy professor. “Yes, please do come and join us, we could hear your arrival…every step of the way”, she beckoned with a glint in her eyes and an upturned corner to her mouth. “Christopher Reeve, who played Superman, has been instrumental in nerve regeneration research…”, she continued.

Debbie was the headmistress at school when I was in the final year of my Alevels. She taught business, and so she knew all the South Asians. It was THE subject guaranteed that they would study, except me of course. I mostly interacted with her through Habib et al as proxy; sharing banter at the end of their lessons as I waited for them , or on the playground when she was on duty. She came to know of my reputation through staff room chats no doubt. Me being me, I never waited outside the staff room like other students; no, I just barged right in. Many a time, I have walked in mid-convo between teachers discussing my latest antics, because often they’d spot me and say ‘Oh, speak of the devil…’ Anyway one morning, I arrived late to Biology so I’m clambering up the stairs and run past Debbie, who commented on my outfit choice which I finished off with a bandana in khaki camouflage design. The woman starts running after me, grabs me by the hand back to the first floor; Biology was on the 6th. ‘Er. What’s. Going. On. Deb? Why. Are. You. Harassing, Me. I. Promise. I. Have. A Legitimate. Excuse’, I ask with the remaining air left in my lungs as we bound down the stairs. Damn, that woman still had it in her. ‘Shut it, Jubeyr. You have Biology with Mr Ellis, right? He won’t mind. I have some visitors from the education council this morning and I want them to meet you’. Having noticed my utter confusion, she continued ‘Because we all love you and it would be good for the school if we showed them that there is at least one student here that benefitted from the teaching we offer’. This time she said it with a warm smile. So I met with them, charmed them and left them on a precipice wanting more. As I was leaving, Debbie beamed at me, and I heard her say ‘and he is one of our model students, wants to study medicine at Uni. We do have a few like Jubeyr in his cohort who display ambition and…’ I felt warm as I climbed the stairs back to Biology, and it had nothing to do with exercise.

Why was Maths timetabled for first period, when they knew I had punctuality issues. Remember Ms Murphy? Well as part of her campaign to encourage attendance, she put these laminated signs up all over the school. Signs like ‘better late than never’ and ‘If you don’t sign in, you don’t dine in’ (the latter was tied into obtaining school-meal vouchers that were only handed out on Monday mornings at Ms Murphy attendance office). Now my Maths teacher, Miss Rojas, may have been a genuinely nice person, but this pocket rocket of a woman gave me hell for (always) being late. She always made me walk to the front of class and explain myself to the entire classroom. I had exhausted my repertoire of excuses and needed to get more inventive. The thing with creatively far-fetched excuses is that because they’re so outrageous, they’re one-time stunners. What I mean by that is they slightly confuse the teacher as they’re being told but plausible enough if said with the right level of conviction and the perfect ratio of face expression to body language. The combo would then effectively stun the teacher to accept the excuse because surely no one would be so audacious as to concoct such a tale. The standard migraine and grandparents funeral just didn’t cut it anymore. So one morning I was 45 minutes late. Basically 10 mins left of the lesson. After I received the customary verbal lashes from Miss, I explained that ‘Oh gosh, it wasn’t my fault this time I swear. I walked past the Police station when these two officers stopped me. They started questioning me on suspicion of my dress sense. I know! Imagine how I felt, Miss’. I’m not completely lying; Paddington Police station was actually just down the road from school and that year a new law passed allowing Police to stop and search. It was entirely plausible. Another time I felt bold and tried ‘you have no idea Miss, I was walking past the Hilton and this man stopped me saying that he was my long-lost cousin. He recognised me due to my almond eyes apparently it is a family trait and so I ended up talking to him for like 20 minutes’. Miss was really confused, and to be honest, she didn’t have time for this shit, so often just waved me away with an exasperated sigh. But really, how often can these things happen to a person, and so Ms Murphy’s laminated signs couldn’t have come sooner. Late in the morning again, I was seriously considering ripping my jumper and limping into class to make it look like I got into a fight. Hanging there at the front of the registration office was the perfect sign! A sudden rush of inspiration came to me and I tore away with it up the stairs to the Maths corridor and into class. I stood there with my back against the door catching my breath and the class fell silent. Miss was just about to open her mouth and I flashed the card at her. I held it over my face with just my eyes visible and I walked slowly toward her so the students had time to read it. They gasped, some chuckled, and others swore audibly at my audacity. Now in front of her, I saw her eyes rove over the words, her brow creased and furrowed deeply. Then suddenly Miss burst out laughing. I never ever saw that woman crack a smile. With lightening speed she snatched the sign away and pointed to my seat. Triumph! What did the sign say?

‘Never fear, so long as you get here’.

The Pragaymatic Muslim

• High School Chronicles (8)
• His-story (14)
• Pluralism (1)
• Prelude (2)
• Revelation (2)
• Turning point (1)

1. 

   Ahahha. Thank you dear reader. Please do forward this on to those whom you think may benefit. High school is…

2. 

   Oh can’t wait for the next part. Very captivating.

3. 

   Merci beaucoup. If it pleases you then I will strive to compose more. Please spread the word and invite others…

4. 

   I like reading these!

5. 

   […] about how to suppress and repress the dark thoughts and suicidal ideations that plagued me at the turning point…