OMAR

Anyone who knows me knows I am mental about Omar Sharif. I can spot him three counties over. Once, while driving down Main Street in Brattleboro, Vermont, I noticed a movie poster for Monsieur Ibrahim and being that I had not heard of any movies from him in years my heart skipped a beat. I saw that the light had turned red, so I jumped out of my car to get a closer look. It was him looking better than ever. I was in that theatre, that night, with eyes glued to screen. I was in love all over again.

The fact that he is in his seventies now has not diminished his appeal for me in the slightest. In fact, I would have to say that as he ages his attraction grows.  The first time I saw him onscreen was when I was taken, as a child, to see Funny Girl. He played the character Nicky Arnstein. When I look at that film now he looks completely unsuitable for Babs but only because when I see it now I think to myself: A woman like that (Fanny Brice) would never have been able to love Omar. (If it not obvious to the reader, that was a bit of the cat in me that just got let out of the bag. He's mine Babs. Take your paws off him).

My earliest memories, the ones that I would deem as romantic, all go back to Arabia. I can remember seeing Arabic calligraphy in a book as a child, and thinking to myself, that it was the most beautiful handwriting I have ever seen. When Omar showed up on the screen I became forever transfixed with: accents, olive skin, crooked teeth that provoke charm, eyes that are dark, deep and seem always on the verge of tears. These are all traits that I can find physically attractive if arranged in just the right composition. I am going to admit something here that I have never admitted before. I am fixated on these traits. I think fixated is the right word because if truth be told, if you gave me Paul Newman, or some other blond, blue eyed type, it would have the same effect upon me as watching paint dry - I don't give it a second look. 

When I was thirteen it was Telly Savalas and Yul Brenner (I know, he's Russian), who graced my teen heart throb walls. Muammar Al-Gaddafi was secretly pined for (it's the hat, the brow, the bold features). I was mad for them. David Cassidy, Bobby Goldsboro... all those guys looked anemic to me; they looked unsubstantial. 

Here is the hard part. Does being fixated on a particular look make me racist? Isn't the eroticism of a people a form of racism? I don't know. I am scared someone will tell me it is. Are my feelings any different from the man that asserts: I like a woman with nice legs or a woman that declares I don't like hairy men? Let me go further. It is not just the physical look that must be just so it is also something that carries forth in spirit. A friend once told me that he preferred dark skinned women and could never imagine himself with a white women. His reasoning behind this feeling was that he derived a certain amount of comfort looking into a face that he could feel the earth in. When he said this I immediately knew what he meant. It was not a colour he was referring to -- soil being brown-- he meant it to mean that the earth is a thing that lasts, it goes on forever, it has been here forever. The earth is our mother and the earth can be trusted. He was saying that when he looked into the face of a brown one he felt comforted; a level of built-in immediate trust. And so it is when I look upon the face of Omar. I feel as though I am looking at family.

The first men in my life were my brothers. It was not my father as he was gone before I had memory. It was my brothers that were present. All of us, my siblings and I, are bi-racial. It is my brothers that look like they come from the tribe of Omar, Muammar, and Telly. Does my attraction stem from this connection -  that I am drawn to men that resemble the first men in my life? I don't know. 

My husband is Moroccan. He had these features but the spirit was absent. In the YouTube interview, below, Omar makes an interesting comment. He points out that he is incapable of being with a woman that he does not love. That statement actually makes me happy as I feel the same way about men. If I don't love you... so many things are never switched on inside me. You are not real to me unless I love you. Omar, now that he is older, realizes that he could never be with a woman unless she was Egyptian, like himself. He goes on to say that the importance of this is that he and another Egyptian woman would share the same love for the same food, similar humour, language, culture, etc. The mention of this breaks my heart for obvious reasons -- it means he would never think of me as a potential mate; kidding aside, it upsets me too because I have to wonder if I should give up this attraction I have for a group (let's face it -- Northern Africans/Middle Easterners), that I really don't stand a chance with. Is culture so great that people from different lands can't really connect? 

In retrospect I would have to say that my husband was a mystery but I think he was a mystery because he was a hidden manipulative person, not because he was Moroccan. I will also say that it was me that bent over backwards trying to understand his culture. He never made any attempt to understand Americans. He went by what he saw on the surface or had read in the paper before he arrived on our shores.

What Omar states is what Omar feels about his own life having made it to his seventies. He feels what he feels because it is what works for him and he is entitled to have things his way.  I am not ashamed to say that what I find attractive is that which is different from me. I am drawn to everything that I do not know. Have you ever heard Arabic love songs translated into English? These songs are unbelievably romantic. Once you have heard Cheb Mami your ears will never be satisfied again listening to Bob Dylan. The complexity of Arab music is dazzling to the ears. Oum Kalthoum would often, in her concerts, sing one line from a song over and over for hours just because her audiences derived feverish pleasure from hearing a particular lyric or line over and over again. America does not have an equivalent to Oum Kalthoum. It is the imagery that materializes when one utters Sharif or Kalthoum -- something earthen and familiar comes to mind and spreads a smile across one's lips. 

The Band's Visit, a wonderful quirky film about an Egyptian band that gets stranded in Israel, shows a scene where the female lead recounts her childhood in the theatres of Israel watching Sharif and hearing Kalthoun. The look on her face is one of delight and fondness. She has the exact same look on her face as I do when I think of Omar; as though I have a little sweet secret that I am able to savour whenever I wish just by thinking of him. I will always love Omar. Watch him blush when he hears the voice of the female caller who calls in to gush. It is priceless. His charms drips. Enjoy him. 

My awkward end is to let you know a little known fact about Omar. While attending school in the UK and captain of a soccer team, he became friends with none other than the late Edward Said.

See you soon