All That Glitters

Is Gold. Even the Ugly.

It was a beautiful era of three families with a close friendship that morphed into extended family, where the fathers embarked together on a business venture, the mothers led like-minded in their grace, education, and independence, and the kids bloomed gorgeous, flying high in their teen years.

Each family would experience the piercing shards of tragic loss. Life leaves no stone (human) unturned.

But for this golden period in the mid-1990’s, love flowed abound and belonging was effortless.

I remember cigars.

Almost a full teen, I was the third youngest of the combined clan of nine. The only ones younger than me were my sister, still a proper kid, and Nazar - the youngest of Uncle M’s three sons - was somewhere between kid and tween. The five older boys of the bunch made up the cool crew, consisting of Nazar’s two older brothers, my two older brothers, and Reem’s brother, Khalil. They drove their fast cars and shared adventures I’ll never be privy to.

And Reem - god, I loved her. The eldest of all in college at UofH, she had a petite frame and a head of tight curls that was as full as her bursting heart. The radiance of her smile matched the sparkle in her eyes.

Mini pecan tarts were Reem’s baking specialty, but anything she made tasted of her sweet essence. She gifted me books that were slightly too mature, trusting I was capable. One such novel was a romance about a young Bengali couple written against the backdrop of South Asian history and politics. I remember vividly Like Water for Chocolate, which we later watched together when the movie came out. Sprawled across the carpet, I played it calm, keeping my eyes on the TV for the scene with the fully nude woman bouncing up and down as she rode a horse on the beach.

Reem thoughtfully inscribed these gifts in large, swirling handwriting like her gorgeous hair - To one of my favorite people. Oh, how that made a young girl feel, as if I was chosen. As if I was seen by this magical, open-hearted, almost-woman.

We made plans on Saturday nights where she’d scoop me up in her forest green Mitsubishi 3000GT and take me to Houston’s for dinner - in Houston, the proper area of the city bustling with life and clanking glasses. Reem with her grown-up experience and ease introduced me to a glimpse of what lay ahead. She drove, she paid, and I couldn’t help but wonder - why me?

I’d quietly remember her years later when out with friends, us now the adult-ish ones bustling with laughter and life, clanking glasses.

The families shared Thanksgivings, we swam in Reem’s family’s backyard pool, we attended concerts, the parents had many ghazals, and although the homes did not possess an obvious opulence - warmth, love, and togetherness was the real wealth.

Unlike the pastimes of my early twenties, Reem created dedicated time for me and even my little sister amongst her college life of friends, classes, and strict fitness routine.

She was the best older sister. And I never told her.

At her graduation party, I met some of her peers gaining a peek to another side of her full life. Being viewed by Reem as worthy, I unknowingly (or knowingly) carried my head held high, tapping into the maturity that finally had a chance to shine.

I sat at the round table with her crew next to her friend, Frank. He later pulled Reem aside to ask her about me, sharing that he was interested after we spent a good amount of the party chatting. She laughed, telling him I was a freshman in high school. He was dark-haired and cute. He was older! And he liked me! I was definitely flattered, but even more so, I felt a sort of validation in front of Reem that I couldn’t completely pinpoint.

As I reflect now, I imagine this feeling is prominent between males - at this age and throughout life. It has never shown this clearly for me again with a female.

When Reem started dating the guy she was going to marry, her and I spent less time together as a natural evolution. I was happy for her, but I couldn’t even relate nor was I in a hurry to. I felt a formality with him versus it being someone in the Frank crew. We were of course part of the planning and excitement leading up to a big, fat, Indian wedding. Clothes to be bought, dances to be practiced. During the week-long escapade, I became inseparable with her cousins that visited from California and Toronto. It was a gorgeous wedding with a feeling of pride being included in the family circle; if I didn’t love her so much, this sentiment would exist more on the surface.

One summer, I can’t remember if it was pre-wedding, my sister and I - still young enough to have to go where our parents went - accompanied my mom and dad on a trip to Belize. We visited a man we called Uncle John. My dad referenced him that way too. He was older, a large gringo who reclined in his patio chair while his younger Honduran wife chased around their small toddler.

I remember cigars.

After a few days in Belize City, we took a death-defying propeller plane to San Pedro Islands and stayed at the yacht club resort. It was beautiful, rumored to be the La Isla Bonita Madonna sings about; it should’ve been a lovely vacation of dangling feet in the clear blue water from palm trees that leaned low on the shore, but my parents had volatile, blowout fights in that villa. I could never tell if there was actual violence, the threat of violence, or if verbal shouting matches and slamming doors and throwing things was actual violence. The line blurred, and it would be a long time before I could observe where that line got crossed in my own relationship.

La Isla Bonita

The scene of the fight

I was 15 and utterly depressed when I was around my family. Vacations forced close quarters and together-moments that were not natural to people that lived separated in their own house.

It was an odd trip related to the business my dad was involved in with the golden families. To know details of the business or his role required normal communication and engagement between a husband and wife, and parents with children - none of which existed. So we visited the beach, had dinners with people of varying status in their castle-like Central American houses, witnessed crazy fights, and then we returned home.

More internalized scarring, less interest in everything else.

Slowly, a strain appeared. I thought it was my parents’ personal issues and the exhaustion of being around each other in a social setting. My mom didn’t ‘perform’ being happy with my dad, but socially being a couple or family in itself was a performance. And the mask wears a person thin.

Eventually, all the women seemed exhausted, and I was certain they didn’t have the same stressful relationships my parents shared. Something was going on; there were more dinners, more drop-ins but less joy, laughter, and the hopeful spark of building something new.

Noise and questions from the broader community bubbled up as the strain became noticeable. Then, a rupture.

It seemed as if my dad fucked things up and went behind their backs. They were angry with him, and all of a sudden we were on the outside.

Reem’s dad still talked to mine, but it seemed heavy. Did they have an agreement? Or was he just forgiving when no one else would? I’ll never fully know. The dynamics were impossible to translate from my lowly position, and we all felt that each held some information close to the vest.

My mom struggled with this latest stupidity, as she already didn’t want to be associated with him. Now people assumed she knew the role my dad played in the mess. She never knew what went on with him, his finances, or any other critical aspect of his life management. Her entire marriage she said the man was a mystery. Theirs was not a partnership of confidants, and when they officially got divorced about ten years later - some community members finally believed my mom must not have supported whatever fucked up thing occured. Many, believers of initial guilt, never changed course.

The boys navigated their friendships independent of the parents. Although they experienced the natural distance of college across different states, they found their way back in time.

Reem and I separated without any fanfare. I soon left for college, she was married, and when I visited home we’d see each other at big gatherings for a hug, but there was not much to say especially with the wall that had been built. A few years later, her father faced legal trouble and ‘went away.’ I understood it to be Martha Stewart-like, set up comfortably, but I have no idea. A muddle of assumptions based on very little information.

It was over. There was no going to each other’s houses. There were no holidays and baking treats, there were no dinners in the city and rides in sports cars.

Uncle M’s family and ours remained friends, although the rupture’s aftermath had wobbly moments. Someone always had insight that eventually smoothed things over or forgiveness is real. But Reem, Khalil, and their mom maintained their distance from all.

Anything my dad got involved in went wrong, and I was ready to be away from all of them. I lost a valued connection and belonging to a big, loving family.

It was back to my closed off, resentful tribe with fighting parents and children that internalized the same trauma uniquely, which branched into new traumas over the years.

Many years later I heard Reem’s dad passed away. I think I wrote her a message of condolence on Facebook, wanting to show respect but cautious not to offend by just existing and therefore, reminding.

All that glitters was gold for me. Was it for the rest though? I don’t think about it much. A blip against the barrage of life’s joys and challenges. Only ever so often - a few years - is there even an instance or occasion for it to cross my mind.

Almost twenty five years later, my oldest brother would be diagnosed with ALS and opt for medical-aid in dying, which a few of his long-time friends casually referred to as medical suicide, sending me into a defensive rage. The only childhood friends my brother requested by his side when he transitioned were Uncle M’s two eldest sons.

They stood steady for my sister and I as we helped orchestrate my brother’s wishes, and they joined my second brother to perform the cleansing ritual of my brother’s corpse, carry his body, and lower it in the dirt to lay him to rest.

These were my brothers.

Sun Mountain (Pikes Peak) visible from his resting spot

Almost two years to the date after he passed, Uncle M’s second son would tragically lose his life while alone on a trip. Another dead body to view, to carry, to bury.

These were my brothers.

I wonder if my dad or any of the dads would choose differently in business and relationship if they knew what lay ahead. Unlikely. It is impossible to grasp knowledge of something so unimaginable. Two fathers, bound by the loss of beloved sons before their time. And for Reem, the loss of the head of the family.

People truly do touch our lives for a reason, season, or lifetime. And even then, how we are tied is fluid - loosely and sometimes, it is no one else but them.

Our parents, friends since the early 1970’s; then, the golden era of young and late teens where it glittered and burned bright; the rapid rupture as the boys were in college while I and my sister stayed back for the hell of marital disintegration into overdue divorce; and after all our own marriages and becoming parents - we found a path to each other again through illness, death, and a unique grief that binds.

If I didn’t feel the peace from the other side, I would almost wonder if it was a curse.

All I really know is golden eras don’t last. But to stare into the barrel of darkness holding hands with any member of that extended family is extraordinary.