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

