Grate e Fshatit Tim

I have a cousin. Her name is M. I really did not like her when she was a kid. I thought she was so dumb. Dumb is a harsh word. Maybe I should say “no that intelligent”.
She looks different from the rest of the girls in the village. She has thick black eye brows, te lakuara like a bridge; like a roman bridge, like that roman bridge still standing on the Egnatia highway. These two “bridges” sit elegantly over two big blue eyes. World….I mean blue eyes! That is so unfair! Why don’t I have blue eyes?! Where in the world did she get those blue eyes? Her mother has brown eyes, her father has brown eyes; everybody around her has brown eyes. Oh No; she had to get a pair of those blues and stand out! When she was born, her father took a look at her and uttered with displeasure “a kukuvajke has been born”. Lord knows what he meant! I guess he was upset that a girl was born, and on top of it she looked strange. She had blue eyes! Blue stands for slut. You have blue eyes - you probably will be a slut when you grow up. At least that is what my grandma thought. She was doomed from the very beginning. To make things worse, she has blond hair. Long curly blond hair. Girls at school called her dhi. Dhi means goat and goat means ugly-envy-slutty. Her mom braided her hair all the time when she was little. They say that if you braid your hair, it will grow faster. Her hair did grow faster than any other girl’s hair. It grew like weed. I was so jealous of her hair. It was so silky, soft and long. Her skin is smooth and white, it looks like fresh milk standing still; waiting there per tu trazuar me gisht. Sometimes I have the urge to put her under microscope and examine her skin carefully; maybe I will find a brown spot or pucerr, or some sort of defect. Then, I can scream..aaaahaaaaa, seeeee…. your skin is not that perfect!
continues...

1-13-2009

Her mother wanted to marry her off as young as possible before she got too old. Once a girl turns 25 in Albania, you are considered "old stock". You better start praying that some guy will be interested and ask for your hand. I cannot even describe the anxiety of a girl over 25! "The clock is ticking, god I am unmarried and a virgin!"
But my cousin M was lucky and her mother had done a good job advertising her virginity in the neighborhood. I mention virginity because that is a huge sales pitch. No guy would want a girl who is not virgin. Virginity means purity. Anything less than that means dirty! You get the picture!
My grandpa who is also Ms.M's grandpa, had a friend in the city and this friend of his had a son and this son was unmarried. His name is Rakip. Rakip was looking for a wife at the time. He was 30 years old. My cousin was perfect for him. She was 15, beautiful and a virgin. When Rakip heard of my cousin, he was a little bit hesitant because she was a village girl and Rakip was a city boy. City people don't marry outside the city limits. It is almost like interracial marriages here in the States. City people are sophisticated, educated and simply better than village people. Marrying a village girl is like lowering the standards. But Rakip did not mind lowering his standards because my cousin was young and beautiful. He told his mother "mom, she is a child...i will raise her on my own and train her like i wanted her to be"! That was the end of it!
My cousin and Rakip got married. My family was happy. M was going to live in the city and have a better life.

2/14/2009

M went off to live in the city. Her mother was happy. One daughter one project. She was done with the M project. Or at least, so she thought.
Rakip was an immigrant by profession. He worked 9 months out of a year in Greece. When he got married, He stayed two weeks with M and went back to Greece. M was left home alone with her parents in law. M did all the work around the house, day in and day out. M's typical day: She woke up early in the morning and milked the cow, cooked breakfast for the in-laws, fed the chickens, cleaned the house, worked on the garden or in the fields, ran back home to cook lunch and milk the cow again, go back to the garden, come back home to cook supper and finally for the third and last time milk that darn skinny cow. This was a her city life in the outskirts of Elbasan city. One day, as she was milked the cow; the cow kicked the bucket and spilled all the milk. Her in-laws chewed her up. A new bride was supposed to know how to milk a cow. But M did not know or at least had not perfected this art to the satisfaction of her in-laws. Her shortcomings were profusely debated and discussed in Rakip's family. The spearhead of the debate was always her father in law. His complaints were never-ending. " I brought a peasant home and she doesn't know how to milk a cow". M's was in trouble.



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