photo: Emina Okanovic/ BY-NC-SA

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I’m considered an Irish-American girl but for one night each month, I get to try on a new culture. I get to be Bosnian.

My Bosnian-born friend Emina introduced me to Bosnian parties. Once a month we pack up from school and head to her house to dress up.

We arrive at the party around 8 and wait for the guys, who always arrive fashionably late at 9. As soon as I walk in, I can officially no longer hear anything. Techno music blares through the near empty warehouse.

We run to the bathroom every ten minutes to check our faces. We eat our Bosnian junk food: two pieces of white bread with greasy meat inside.

The concert includes a well-loved Bosnian singer, countless drunk men, women dressed in sexy clothes, drama, cigarettes, and lots of dancing. You have to dance a certain way or else it’s obvious you’re not Bosnian. And don’t look at the Bosnian boys too long because than they think you’re too easy and they lose interest.

So now that I know the rules, I fit in perfectly and the Bosnians never suspect a thing...