First of all, I would like to thank to you for your great help.
My exam was on 11February my speaking questions
What is your name?
Are you a student or work?
Do you like children?
Some other questions then he gave a topic
Talk about an occasion when you spend time with child?
What you did ?
Who can do good care of children mother or father?
Why do you think mother can do good rearing of there children?
Why some father do rearing of there children?
Some more questions about children
Writing task 2
In some countries smoking is ban as it is injurious to health similarly some people think that mobile phone should be ban on certain places
Do you agree to this idea?
I have question to ask that my risult has to come on 24 February and now it will come on 3 March why my result delay? ??????
Thanks mam in advance
I shoved the letter in its pink envelope deep into my faded denim backpack and stared at my sneakers. I felt bad because I knew this little girl with big black eyes had the best intentions when she wrote in her fancy handwriting on flowered stationary that she wants me to know she knows, and that it is okay, that she does not think it is a bad thing that my mother is a –only in Hebrew the word is lesbit, pronounced less-beet, and this is the first time I had seen it written. The ugliest word in the dictionary, so ugly it shouldn’t have the right to exist—not in English or Hebrew or any other language. It’s a word that is so dirty it might as well be a swear word; only it’s not, it pretends to be civilized, to be tolerant and progressive, but my eight-year-old self knows better than to fall for that. I never uttered the word and when I heard it I shuddered so deep inside that I thought I might break or throw up or run so far away that when I come back it’ll be long after the word has been banished from society. It’s a word that reeks of shame, of sex, of the backside of life exposed to me much too soon.
Tel Aviv in the early ’90s was waiting for someone to break the silence, to speak up and wake it up, shake it up. My mother took on this role. It wasn’t her loose sagging bra-less breasts under men’s t-shirts or the rattail she kept, not even her experimental theater that I knew was pushing the issue. I could almost handle that. What made it unbearable was being fourteen and having your mother on national TV talk shows as the first person to come out publicly and lead the way for the rest of the gay community to come out of the woodwork and declare their true sexuality. I would sit in our living room in front of the TV cringing, pushing myself to watch her answer questions I didn’t want to hear the answers to about coming out, later desperately trying to avoid the prying eyes of classmates in the hallways.
The Tel-Aviv neighborhood we lived in at the time was a one-year deal for my mother. She had dragged Kaya and her two daughters and me back to Israel to live in the apartment Mom’s parents had bought her because it was close to their home. But it was much too tame for my mom, their wild daughter, who had been to the moon and back, witnessing more of the world than any of her friends and relatives had with all their combined travel outside our small distant country. My mother had seen it all, but most importantly, she had seen herself for the first time; she had found herself in the streets of San Francisco in the early ’80s, in the bars of the Mission, in the women-run fringe theaters, and coming home to my wondering father, all wandery-eyed and flushed, a new rhythm pumping through her veins.
I am embarrassed that you are a lesbian. My life has been one big game of hide and hide, lying through my teeth to friends about the woman who lives with us, worrying that parents don’t want their daughters to spend the night lest they catch this awful lesbian bug, a life of being afraid to hold my best friend’s hand, to hug a girl, to undress in front of my very own mother, to talk about sex, about periods, about loud late night voices in a locked bedroom. About the bruises on her body after the fights, about sitting in a car hearing over and over again how this is it, how this is the last time they will break up, how it is over and this is never going to happen again. About why the word lover for me has always been dirty, ugly, threatening, a word not to be said or written or heard or touched. Lover meant loud and painful sex behind closed doors, lover meant hater, lover meant this mess of a woman who told me she was going to kill my mother, lover was everything that wasn’t love, everything that wasn’t what I felt for all the boys I laid eyes on in school, lover had nothing to do with the butterflies I felt fluttering exhaustibly in hallways as I inhaled the scent of a crush who walked by. Lover was the stubborn brown ring at the edges of the toilet bowl that you leave for last when you finally get around to your only chore growing up: cleaning the bathroom and shower. Lover was nothing I wanted to be or to have, even though sex was crawling out from my skin so fast I grabbed the first boy who told me he thought I was pretty.
I’m missing a moment, or perhaps a string of them; I’m missing the way the world changed for me, where simplicity turned into something else, something retched that stuck to my body, to my clothes, to my hair. Something that turned me inside out many times a day in an attempt to find a way to be comfortable, to stand still and not worry about where the next blow was going to come from. I’m missing the place where the simple truth of my mother loving women turned into everything love was not, into something I had to bury deep inside the marrow of my bones.
The fact that my mother loved women was nothing to be shy about when I was six. At that age life was life, love was love, and all I craved was stability, so much so that I melted with ease and delight at the announcement that we were moving in with her new girlfriend and her two teenage daughters. There would now be family dinners, maybe, and the comfort of having somebody else absorb my mother’s anxiety.
No longer was I the only one imagining what went on in the bedroom between my mother and her lover; no longer was I able to pretend that Kaya was just a friend sleeping in the living room. I had all of Israel watching my mother speak about the importance of coming out and accepting her and others like her. On TV shows, in theaters, in the newspapers. I had all of Israel with me peeking into my mother’s bedroom, making sense of her short hair and manly style. If a mother dancing in the car on the way to school is embarrassing for an eleven-year-old boy, what does a young teenage girl feel when her mother announces her sexuality on national TV ?
When I became a fiction writer in my 30s, I wrote a story about a woman who killed herself eating too much opium. After my mother read a draft of that story, she had tears in her eyes. Now she had proof: my grandmother had talked to me and told me her true story. How else could I have known my grandmother had not died by accident but with the fury of suicide? She asked me, “She here now?” I answered honestly, “I don’t know.”
When I was twenty the local Tel Aviv newspaper approached my mother and asked her if she would write a piece about coming out for Gay Pride Day. To my surprise, when she told me, my immediate response was to ask her to see if they wanted me to write a piece as well. About coming out of my mother’s closet.
Instead of this repentance, I want my mother to rekindle the fire that burned inside her when she was younger than I am now, I want her to feel that sense of urgency that made her leave me in the sidelines, that made her push through life in a search for breath, because now I too know what it’s like to be asleep, I know what it’s like to live a lie, I now know that when you don’t unleash the beast inside you, it comes back to tear you at the neck instead of running free. I want my mother to find the place where she traded in her love of woman for what she thought it meant to love regardless of the pain and abuse. Because it’s my mother who needs to stand with pride for coming out of her own closet when everyone else was still hiding. I want for her to set aside her own shame about translating love into the nightmare that became my childhood; I want her to cut a line down the center of our life and hold to the light her courage to be free, allowing the shameful expression of her freedom to fall to the sides, limp and lifeless. Maybe then shame can finally break its ties with anger. For us both.