The gatekeepers notebook, p.8
The Gatekeeper’s Notebook, page 8
Strangely, even couples avoiding the polygamy incursion had started to show signs of strain—Walaa and Talib included. She remembered clearly how she had begun to second guess her own husband’s motives, their marriage. More than once suspecting him of plotting polygamy with the rest of the boy’s club. Starting baseless arguments with Talib, stemming from nothing he did or said, and then throwing groundless accusations at him. Thankfully, Talib had been nobody’s fool.
“You need to stop,” he had told her emphatically. “I am not down with that mess, and I’m not in the market for anyone else. I love you, Walaa. Only you. I know you’ve been seeing some serious dysfunction go down with people you care about, but that’s them—not us. I need you to trust me.”
“But that’s what Fatima’s husband told her before he—”
“I don’t care one iota what those other guys are doing or telling their wives. That’s not me. You never have to worry.”
Although Walaa had believed in Talib’s sincerity, she also wasn’t naïve enough to think in absolutes. She’d seen firsthand the fallout of those who became complacent. “Ah-huh. That’s what they all say, but then look what happens.”
Talib drew Walaa in closer, holding her tight. “Wallahi, I’m not going to hurt you.”
But no matter how many which ways or times Talib tried to convince her, Walaa stayed on high alert. Keeping close tabs on her man. On the lookout for any eyelash fluttering, high heeled shoe ready to drop on her heart.
As quite a few marriages buckled and imploded, the women in the community began arguing vehemently amongst themselves. Qurans and hadiths were regrettably turned into useable props for debate. Catchphrases were bantered about.
* * *
“‘Monogamy is the norm’…‘Polygyny is the Sunnah’…‘Want for your brother [sister] what you want for yourself’…‘Be grateful for what you have and build on that’…‘The Prophet ﷺ had more than one wife’…‘The Prophet ﷺ was madly in love with Khadijah’…‘You must follow the law of the land’…‘The law of the land doesn’t supersede the law of Allah.’”
* * *
Overnight, everyone and their mother had become an armchair scholar.
During one particular sister’s meeting, a heated debate ensued with women on opposing sides of the argument fiercely battling.
“So, let me get this straight, sister. What you’re saying is that while it’s normal to be jealous, feeling jealous doesn’t equate to a valid reason to protest a second marriage?” countered one outspoken young woman, teetering on the cusp of losing her temper.
“That’s what I meant,” remarked the other sister, equally as determined. “Just because a wife is jealous, doesn’t give her exclusive rights over her husband’s choice to marry again or not. Remember, just because the husband decides to take on another wife, it doesn’t mean he stops loving her. If she’s jealous, she needs to handle it.”
“Handle it? Okay, fine, I understand that, and I don’t necessarily disagree. But besides feeling jealous, don’t you think she may feel betrayed? Hurt because he might have broken their agreement—even if it was a verbal one? Maybe he told her when they first got married that he’d never take a second wife, or maybe she’s just not into being a co-wife. Doesn’t want the added family, financial burden or stress. I don’t think her feelings should be casually dismissed. She’s got just as much right to her feelings and wants as him.”
“I agree, the first wife has a right to her feelings and wants, but at the same time, she doesn’t have the right to try and force her husband into being monogamous just because she doesn’t want polygamy—just because she doesn’t want to be a co-wife. Allah made it permissible for men for a reason. The first wife can’t make it haram just because of jealousy or because the husband has had a change of heart.”
“Hold up—who said anything about haram? Just because the first wife doesn’t want to be in a polygamous marriage doesn’t mean she’s saying it’s forbidden. What she is saying is that it’s not for her. It’s not the way she wants or agreed to be married.”
“She doesn’t have that right if that’s what her husband wants.”
“Of course, she does. She can divorce.”
“And what? Destroy a perfectly good marriage? Because of her issues? Her insecurities? Then what?”
“Are you kidding me right now?” The young woman scanned the room at the perplexed listening faces, gauging the level of support. “So, if I understand you correctly, you’re saying that if the first wife doesn’t go along with the husband’s program, then she’s the one to blame for their failed marriage. The husband gets off scot-free. He’s just the innocent bystander in all this.”
“If the first wife cannot accept Allah’s decree, then yes, she is to blame.”
“No matter how much he’s hurt or lied to her.”
“It’s not about her being hurt; it’s about what is permissible.”
“Oh right, sure, like you wouldn’t care if your husband suddenly took on another wife without caring about how it made you feel.”
The other sister’s back stiffened, her voice turned curt. “My husband doesn’t have to confer or ask my permission, sister. Neither does yours for that matter. Any insecurities I have are mine to work on—between me and Allah, not you, not his other potential wife, and not him. You sisters need to get your deen right.”
“So nobly pretentious—until you’re the one being forced to put it into practice.”
“But that’s on you then, isn’t it?”
The young sister wasn’t about to back down. “It’s absolutely his problem. Remember, he made a commitment to his first family. He doesn’t get to play I changed my mind after making a verbal agreement. He doesn’t get to hide behind halal and haram to suit his nafs.”
“How’s he hiding by changing his mind?” snapped the older sister.
“How is he justifying destroying one healthy, already existing family unit to replace it with another all because of his nafs?”
“He’s not the one destroying the marriage, his first wife is,” countered the older sister, her eyes narrowed in fury.
“Like hell, he isn’t. Just because he can take another wife—under extenuating circumstances I might add, doesn’t mean he has to.”
“And it doesn’t mean he can’t,” retorted the other woman.
“Sisters, sisters,” cried one of the other women present. “Control your tongues.”
“This is the house of Allah,” yelled another.
“You could have fooled me,” snapped the younger woman before stomping out the door.
“And that’s why men take on a second wife,” whispered one sister conspiratorially to the other.
The women weren’t the only ones weighing in, but the men in the community behaved entirely differently, albeit keeping two camps. Those who emphatically believed polygamy was a right to be enacted at will and those not so inclined. Those who endorsed polygamy tended to stick together, cheering one another on and unabashedly applauding those shared stories involving risk or presumed valor, while the others tried to avoid the conversation entirely, waiting for the day when the whole ordeal subsided once and for all.
Walaa could only remember a scant amount of polygamous relationships from back then having lasted. Those that did were undeniably strong and healthy. But if she remembered correctly, they were also the marriages where everyone had been on board, and nothing had been done deceitfully or underhanded. Just strictly and respectively by the sunnah.
But Walaa also remembered the fallout that had accompanied that time. How eventually most agreed to disagree. Divided camps with each side thinking they were right. Sadly, many lingering feelings of hurt, distrust, and resentment had produced enough internal damage to fracture a once cohesive community. Walaa feared round two fast approaching.
Chapter Seven
A Mother’s Broken Heart
THROUGH A SHEER CURTAINED window, Felicia Vine watched as her grown son sat on their back deck, drawing. One-minute relaxed—peaceful in his element, and the very next, frightened and reclusive. Felicia’s heart broke when Melvin, jarred by the shrill of distant sirens, started to moan as if in pain.
“My poor boy,” she whispered to the heavens. Melvin cowered; his arms wrapped around his head as if his very survival depended upon it. Perhaps, in some sad and prophetic way, it did.
Despite his many challenges, she and Bill had done all that they could to give Melvin a good life; providing him with a cloak of love and protection at least within the confines of their home. However, the outside world had proven to be an entirely more difficult environment to navigate, especially considering how difficult it was for Melvin to relate to other people.
“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, Melvin,” Felicia would often remind him. “Friendship is based on trust and respect. Some kids aren’t good at being friends yet. They haven’t been taught how to deal with folks different than themselves. They don’t mean to hurt your feelings, son. One day you’ll meet the right people.”
Once Melvin got older, and out of school, Felicia assumed the bulk of his problems with bullies over, but sadly, the next generation of neighborhood tormenters began to hound him. Calling him names, throwing rocks, mocking him. However, the parents of some of these young tormenters were the absolute worst, particularly that horrible, vapid woman from across the street. Felicia had to deal with that piece of nasty work constantly.
“Amara,” yelled Felicia marching to the edge of her lawn ready to battle. “Don’t ever let me catch you calling my son that vile name again.”
“First off, Felicia, before you go all politically correct on me, the word ‘retarded’ isn’t that bad. It just means he’s slow is all. What you overheard was me trying to explain that to my boys, and you jumped to conclusions. Secondly, I’m doing you a favor. Melvin’s going to get treated far worse once he’s on his own, and it’s not like you’ll be around to protect him forever. He might as well learn to defend himself now.”
“Melvin doesn’t need to be called a bunch of despicable names to get better equipped at being bullied by the likes of you or your kids,” snapped Felicia. “The name calling stops now.”
Amara crossed her arms over her chest, and stepped closer to Felicia, ready to interject, but Felicia beat her to it.
“And before you dare lecture me about how Melvin should adapt to your abuse, you should be spending your energy and time educating your children that what they’re doing is unacceptable.”
“That’s what I was trying to do before you decided to butt in. Believe me, we all know Melvin’s a bit off,” said Amara, making the crazy sign with her finger around her temple. “Personally, I feel sorry for him.”
“Save it. Melvin doesn’t need your pity either.”
“Fine. But since we’re on the subject of Melvin and the need to educate our children, how about you take your own advice and teach your grown retarded son to stay away from the bus stop. He doesn’t belong there, and you know it. Always gawking at everyone. It’s plain weird.” She said, her finger pointed at Felicia’s face. “He’s not a parent, and he’s got no business showing his face, and scaring the kids.”
“How dare you!” yelled Felicia.
Amara smirked. “You’ve been warned. If he shows up again, I’ll call the cops.”
“Melvin’s never harmed a single soul in his life, no less scared children—and anybody who says different is a flat-out liar!” Felicia trembled, her anger turned her face a crimson red. “He’s got as much right as anybody else to walk wherever he so chooses.”
“Fine,” snapped Amara, “Suit yourself, Felicia, but then don’t get upset with me when somebody calls him a bunch of names you don’t like.” Amara spun on her back heel and headed across the street, mumbling loud enough for all to hear. “You know Felicia, if it quacks like a duck, it’s a duck, and if it stalks like a stalker—”
“Go to hell!”
You Satan-spawned, evil, mean-spirited bitch.
But as furious as Felicia felt, she knew others in the neighborhood shared Amara’s twisted mindset. They just weren’t nearly as bold or rude to throw it in her face, but she’d caught their scowls and heard the vicious rumors.
Bill’s death had been a devastating setback, especially for Melvin who folded into himself, not comprehending why his Daddy no longer lived at home. The frequency of his outbursts increased as did his tenacity for drawing, but at least his art provided Melvin a welcomed outlet, so she encouraged his creativity. Though, after a while, even Felicia found it near to impossible to keep her son supplied in sketchpads.
They had tried to safeguard their son from harm for over thirty-two years, fighting to keep him out of institutions and group homes, scrimping to save enough to financially fill all his immediate needs for the remainder of his life. Now, between continually battling with healthcare providers, doctors, insurance companies and nosy, cruel neighbors, Felicia faced another, more pressing obstacle: How to ensure Melvin’s safety when she wouldn’t be around and who would assume responsibility for his needs and wants. Who would understand Melvin’s need to be alone? To draw? To touch? Who would advocate for him against an ever-changing health system? Know how to handle Melvin when he jerks away or clicks his tongue—or raises his hands in disapproval? Who would be able to decipher his many peculiarities and not be offended, or worse—attack him out of fear and ignorance?
While the prospect of her death didn’t necessarily frighten Felicia, the uncertainty of what would happen to her beloved son without her there to protect him most certainly did.
Melvin had been Felicia’s miracle baby.
After years of disappointment, Felicia and Bill went on with their lives, making peace with the knowledge that they’d never become parents. As a Ph.D., Bill taught history at the university while Felicia built up a small but profitable business medical coding from home. Their combined income provided a more than comfortable lifestyle in an up and coming neighborhood, until one particular routine gynecology visit.
“Pregnant?” Felicia repeated, mouth agape.
“Most definitely,” said the doctor.
“But you said—I thought I couldn’t—”
“It happens. The chances were slim, but it happens. Case in point.”
“But all those tests?” Felicia wasn’t sure if she should be happy or alarmed. “I need to tell Bill,” she said pointing, indicating he was sitting for her in the waiting room. Bill typically didn’t attend his wife’s doctor visits; however, they had planned to go out for lunch afterward since he was off from work.
“That’s fine. Get dressed and meet me in the office. I’ll have the nurse call him back if you like.”
Felicia agreed, but while dressing, her mind raced.
Pregnant? Me? How?
This has got to be a mistake!
The obstetrician cautioned Felicia and Bill that a first pregnancy so late in life could carry an increased risk of health issues, but the couple, enthralled with the possibility of becoming parents, believed their prayers had finally been answered.
Throughout the pregnancy, Felicia remained overly cautious. Close to forty years old when she conceived, her biggest concern centered around stillbirth, miscarriage or an ectopic pregnancy. However, once the prenatal tests came back negative, the couple rejoiced, anxious to hold their surprise bundle of joy.
“I read in a book that children born to older parents have certain advantages,” said Bill one night as they cuddled together in bed.
“Such as?” Felicia rubbed her belly, trying to coax the baby growing inside her womb to awaken and kick for daddy.
“Well, for one, we old folks have better economics and can afford a heck of a lot more.”
“What we lack in energy, we make up in money.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Felicia laughed. “We’re also more grounded. Have more experience and wisdom to impart.”
“And we’re a hell of a lot smarter than we were years ago.”
“I know I am at least.” Felicia playfully nudged her husband’s shoulder. “Ah! I think he’s finally awake. Put your hand here,” she said, gently guiding Bill’s palm over the baby bump to where an arm or a leg readily moved. “Feel him?”
Bill smiled. “Hey, little guy. It’s Daddy,” he whispered; lips pressed softly against Felicia’s swollen belly.
“We’re going to need to decide on a name for him soon,” said Felicia.
“I’d like to name him after my father and give him your dad’s name as his middle.” Had it been a girl, the couple had already decided the opposite would have been true.
“Melvin Christopher Vine,” she muttered. “It’s got a nice ring to it.”
“Then it’s settled.”
Melvin’s birth couldn’t have gone any smoother. Felicia’s water broke mid-afternoon, and by midnight, a nurse announced to a dozing Bill that his beautiful baby boy with a full head of hair had entered the world. Elated, Bill leaped to his feet and began handing out cigars to the other dozing fathers.
Felicia doted on her baby boy, beside herself with joy, and for the first few weeks after the birth, everything seemed picture-perfect. It wasn’t until around four months later when she began to grow concerned and wary that something had gone terribly wrong.
“I don’t know what it is, but something’s not right,” she said one evening after putting the baby to bed. “Melvin should be doing certain things by now, and he’s not.”
Bill turned off the television. “What certain things?”
“For starters, he isn’t trying to roll over or push himself up. He just lies there.”
“All babies learn at a different pace. I don’t think that means there’s necessarily something wrong.”
“He also makes no eye contact. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed that no matter how much we talk to him, he never looks our way?”
