Wednesday, October 9, 2019 // The Statement
4B
5B
Wednesday, October 9, 2019 // The Statement

I

hunt for my Jordanian guilty pleasure in Meijer as my
roommate looks for the Cholula.
Of course, it’s not here.
Every morning, Baba gave me a cornucopia of foods
that aren’t typically consumed for breakfast. From ramen
noodles, to oreos, carrots, to halloumi (the Arab equivalent
of feta), Baba tried it all on me. Finally, one day he gave me
“halawa,” a tahini treat that is surely 90 percent sugar. I
devoured my portion every morning without giving it my
usual second health-nut thought.
Nope, not here. I keep looking as if I’m going to magically
find it hidden behind 10 cans of chickpeas. It’s been a
year since my semester in Jordan, and I really could use a
reminder of what it was like to consume my interpretive
breakfast every morning with Baba, peacefully watching the
news and encouraging me to eat his carrots. Unfortunately,
the “international foods” aisle has a way of confining the
world to an empty shelf of chickpeas. Halawa isn’t even that
exotic! At least it hadn’t been in Jordan. Looks like Margot
finally found the hot sauce, promptly ending my moment of
nostalgia.
My dad always told me I had a chip on my shoulder. It was
probably a combination of the lingering baby fat, remedial
English classes and feeling like I never fit in. Being French
meant that I got weird looks whenever my mom addressed
me in a public space. It meant I didn’t get the cool snacks
that all my classmates had. It meant I never understood the
joke because I wasn’t adept enough at American culture,
despite having lived in the United States my whole life.
Ironically, these were all blessings. What I failed to
understand as a child was the invaluable exposure I
received, and the privilege I had in my ability to claim more
than one identity. As a child though, it felt like I had no
sense of belonging. The chips on my shoulder would gnaw
at my brain like a faulty pipe constantly dripping, but my
mother told me I needed to find a way to move forward. I
might’ve taken her too seriously because I started walking.
I envisioned going step by step, the movement inspiring
some sort of emotion, and it stuck.
Now, four years later and in the Michigan fall, I ask
myself for the hundredth time why I chose to attend college
in a state that doesn’t believe in springtime. Why walk to
class when you can ice skate instead, right? No, Mathilde …
not right. You hate this. I’d usually be listening to Michael
Barbaro, my daily news informant, but I opt for a phone
call with Mom instead. She recently watched a video about
how French words carry different meanings depending on
whether they’re masculine or feminine, and she brings up
a word that piques my interest. Péripatéticien. Good god I
can’t even pronounce that right. A pedagogue to the core,
she instructs me on its masculine etymology, thoroughly
unpacking this Aristotelian term.
“So, it’s just someone who walks?” I ask.
“Well, no Mathilde, it’s a man who wanders purposefully.”
What is a purposeful wanderer?

“You know … someone who walks back and forth
contemplating
various
philosophical
questions,
like
Aristotle and his followers did.”
“Donc, Je suis une péripatéticienne!” “So, I am a
péripatéticienne.” I had almost forgotten the original
conversation.
My mom bursts into laughter, eager to share her newfound
knowledge. Naturally, a female wanderer who walks back
and forth on the street proposes a different connotation.
But, by the looks of my empty wallet and clumsy winter
movements, I am veritably not a prostitute. Interesting. I
wonder if the same can be said for Arabic. I wonder if this
is how the Jordanian men perceived me when I had the
audacity to do the exact same thing that they were.
W

hile the risk-averse State Department lectured
my class on the penalties for marijuana usage,
I visualized the potential feasibility of walking
home. I was only two days into my semester in Jordan,
and I was motivated to do something distinctive for my
individuality, such as walking. Maybe this can be my alibi for
skipping the gym. What felt like the perfect plan revealed to
be the perfect storm, but Mike from the State Department
was almost done with his monologue and I was too easily
distracted by the recurring “What’s next?” mindset to give
the idea of walking home much consideration.
I traveled to Jordan after studying Arabic for three years,
unsatisfied by my dose of cultural exposure and veritably
hungry for more. I was set on walking. So, while my friends
went to the gym, I resolved that I’d walk home with my best
friend Stephanie. She conveniently lived two blocks away
from my homestay. It worked out well because Baba adored
Steph and felt more comfortable with my pilgrimages
knowing that we’d keep an eye out for each other.
If Steph was my right-hand man in Jordan, Baba was my
left-hand man. My homestay father can be characterized
by three things: the news, his jokes and the constant smoke
permeating the square mile around him. A retired doctor
for the Saudi royal family, Baba is an incredible man whose
life is filled with as much laughter as coughing. He fed me
more in one night than my grandmother, Petite Mam, had
in 10 years and he loved me as much as my real dad does.
Besides Stephanie, Baba grounded me. I walked through the
door every day, only to see his sheer ecstasy in seeing that
I arrived home. His unbridled smile was juxtaposed with
my plastered one: mine being prompted by relief and often
subdued by the trials of the past hour.
I

often wonder how Baba is doing now that I’m back.
I’ve sent him a couple of messages, but I haven’t gotten
a reply. I try to put the worst thought out of mind, but
it inevitably boomerangs right back. This daily meditation is
clearly doing wonders. I can’t help but speculate if he “found
out” about me. Does he know what my wardrobe actually
looks like? Has he figured out that I drink alcohol? As long
as he doesn’t discover how much happier I am now that I’m
home, I don’t care what he finds out. Am I happier? God, I

don’t even know. Whatever. Baba always preached about my
one-way ticket to Hell anyway. He often joked about how I
embodied his favorite Nestle three-in-one: a liar, selfish and
crazy! That was an inside joke between him, Steph and me.
It didn’t make much sense beyond the fact that he loved to
tease whoever was around. He could never say that without
busting a quick smile; he loved me so much, and I really
loved him too. I still do. I’m sure he’s just boycotting the
computer, not me. Right?
W

alking in Jordan kicked my adrenaline into
gear. I often found myself side by side with
the cars on the street while navigating my way
through a country that didn’t value walking as much as my
impetuous self did. Sometimes it was the massive plants
that were clumsily placed dead center on the sidewalk,
preventing me from walking without feeling like I was
going through the jungle. Other times, I preferred hedging
my bets against the cars rather than the men frequenting
the cumbersome sidewalks.
During my first time walking home, Steph and I had
eaten a particularly heavy lunch that only Baba would’ve
been proud of. In an attempt to compensate for the extra
falafel, we opted to walk home. It was pouring rain, and
mashallah (God willing) there must’ve been something in
those chickpeas, because we could not stop laughing. In
retrospect, the rain served as a shield, repelling all the men
who would otherwise be on their usual prowl under the hot
mid-sun day.
In that moment though, Steph and I reveled in our
fantasy. We were in a country where hospitality and
generosity were paramount and rambunctious Arab family
gatherings guided our social lives; the thrill of the culture
shock was as deafening as rapturous, especially with Baba
embodying Mr. Congeniality. Soon enough, I’d be laughing
and coughing just as much as him.
A pattern developed. I met Steph in the morning to take
our usual cab ride to the building across from the British
embassy. We’d fight with the cab driver about the price
when he assumed we were impressionable foreigners, and
oftentimes repel any advances he would make.
“So, where are you beautiful girls from?” he’d ask.
“Funny you should ask! We are part of an all-girls
Canadian band going on tour,” I’d say.
“Do you need a guide while you’re in Amman?”
“No, thanks!”
“Can I get your phone number, habibti?”
“No”
“Are you looking for a husband? Your eyes are
mesmerizing”
Hell. “No.”
Steph and I would laugh uncomfortably the whole time.
What else were we supposed to do in that situation? As
foreign women in a man’s country, we couldn’t overstep. He
drove the car. He was in control.
Every day after classes ended, Steph and I would meet

to embark on our odyssey. The journey wore us down as
the months progressed, but I refused to give it up. I had
made a decision that I would walk every day, and like hell,
I wouldn’t let my privileged discomfort stop me. In fact,
I thrive on spite! I wanted to prove to myself that I was
strong, that feeling weak out of vulnerability did not make
me so, and that walking was my means of proving it.
I gazed at the gorgeous mansions that left my mouth
gaping, and then my eyes would wander to those of the
armed men fantasizing about what could penetrate my
unguarded wonder and gaping mouth. They repressed
everything but their true souls, which were given away by
the looks in their eyes. Could I say anything to them? No.
They were pious men. I watched them pray with their guns
still on their shoulders during lunch every day, so I knew
this for a fact. They wouldn’t prey on me, not really. But
if you could see what was in their eyes. If only you could
understand that looking into their eyes meant inviting
yourself into their fantasy of undressing you.
I didn’t feel it physically, but in some ways, I felt it
harder mentally. These men were armed with AK-47s.
They wouldn’t do anything, but they could if they wanted.
Powerless. I felt powerless. It was fucking scary. The roles
had reversed since my first day of walking, and these men
had exchanged my fantasy in the rain for their own erotic
deviancy. It distressed me to feel no agency, to have no sense
of control or ability to make them stop. Stop. Howling like an
animal internally, but keeping to myself externally.
I stopped looking at houses and kept my head down.
I didn’t see the wonder, but I didn’t feel the pain either. I
put one foot in front of the other and moved forward. They
wouldn’t prevent me from walking because I wouldn’t
give them the satisfaction of submission. I felt like I was
undertaking a task of revolutionary cause, when in reality
I fed their fantasies, adding myself to their repertoire of
imagination and entertaining their repressed dreams.
N

ow, I trudge through the snow in Ann Arbor,
looking for safe places to step. I stroll through the
Diag contemplating what I need to accomplish
for the day, and incorporate ludicrous dance moves into my
walk. I don’t even give it a second thought. I don’t mind the
people around me, and I don’t feel insecure about who I am.
I wear what I want; I eat what I want; and alhamdulillah
(thank God) I no longer have a 10 p.m. curfew at the age of
21.
But I still don’t feel in control or at ease. All the
materialistic things I thought gave me agency just masked
the assumption that I had authority over my life. I’m clearly
quite impressionable. I’ve confused autonomy for equality
and this mirage has recently been shattered. It’s easy to
blend in when everyone looks like you. How does a hijabi feel
walking around Ann Arbor? Does she get stared at as much
as I did in Amman? How does she find a way to maintain her
autonomy in a community of Western conformity?


PHOTO BY DANYEL THARAKAN

MATHILDE GEANNOPULOS, STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR
Péripatéticienne

See PÉRIPATÉTICIENNE, Page 6B