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Thursday, July 2, 2020
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com MICHIGAN IN COLOR
Home is me / Kill me dirty country
GABRIJELA SKOKO
MiC Managing Editor
home is me.
stubborn. scared of your own
soul.
so the Soul maintains itself.
unsure if home should be insan-
ity or if you are insane.
and so only the Soul is main-
tained.
I know I am insanity because
you will not call me citizen.
Finding my place: the power of change
GRACE GARMO
MiC Staff Writer
Graphic by Hibah ChughtaiI
As I showed my mom my out-
fit for school in the morning, she
performed her routine check. She
nodded as she scanned me up and
down until she noticed a new piece
of apparel.
After months of pleading and
convincing, I was finally wearing
a pair of ripped jeans. I held my
breath in anticipation for her order
to change my outfit, but she reluc-
tantly mumbled, “Looks good.”
I heard traces of disbelief in her
voice. Why anybody would want to
pay full price for “destroyed” cloth-
ing was beyond her, but I think in
that moment she finally grasped
how much it meant to me. In Leba-
non, her home country, clothing
like ripped jeans was always reject-
ed and out of the question. My
mom’s acceptance, though reluc-
tant, was a sign of accepting a piece
of American culture and realizing
how I was raised in the United
States, not the Middle East.
I’ve always had an underlying
frustration with who I am, but I
came to terms with my identity
struggle when I began high school.
Having come from a middle school
surrounded by other Middle East-
ern students, I never stood out in
the classroom. Because of this,
I experienced a culture shock
when I entered my dominantly
white high school. I felt as though
everybody around me was raised
on a completely different planet
with different cultural values. For
instance, dating in Middle Eastern
culture is highly frowned upon,
especially as teenagers. I spent my
entire life being told I was never
allowed to engage in a romantic
relationship. I was shocked when I
began high school and my peers all
around me were dating, even kiss-
ing in the hallways. I have never
been allowed to wear leggings or
cropped shirts, yet it seemed to
be the preferred style among my
female classmates. Even though I
lived and grew up in Metro Detroit
just like the other students, I had
never felt more alienated. I felt
like a foreigner in my home coun-
try. Eventually, I tried to voice my
concerns to my parents. I found
this difficult because their high
school experiences were drasti-
cally different from the “typical”
American’s. My mom was raised
in Lebanon and my dad was raised
in Iraq, where the purpose of sec-
ondary education was simply to do
homework and graduate. Events
like spirit week, Friday night foot-
ball games and homecoming were
nonexistent. Though my parents
never held me back and encour-
aged me to be active in my school
community, they never actually
experienced any of these activities
themselves.
When I first tried to have a talk
with my parents about my struggle
to fit in, they had no
idea how to react. My mom and
dad had raised my older siblings
with traditional Middle Eastern
values, and no questions were
asked. I was the first of their chil-
dren to spark conversation about
our values. I became frustrated
when my parents accused me of
attempting to abandon my culture.
“Why are you going against the
ways we raised you? Why aren’t our
ways good enough for you?” Time
after time, I exasperatedly retali-
ated with “That’s not how it works
in this country!”
I have never been ashamed of
being Arab-American, but as I
spent my entire school career being
asked about my “radical” culture
and accused of being a terrorist, I
could not help but think about how
much easier it would be to be like
everybody else. I did not choose
my ethnic background. My par-
ents made the choice to immigrate
to the United States, and I have to
deal with the consequences. For
instance, I was once approached
by an elderly woman while I was
browsing through a department
store. She gave me a silent, dis-
gusted stare before yelling, “You
filthy Arab! How dare you come to
my country! You make me sick!” I
often reflect on this incident and
constantly wonder if it would have
occurred had I looked differently.
The most heartbreaking part of
this experience was looking at my
mom and seeing the utter devasta-
tion in her expression. The guilt she
felt was palpable. She never wanted
her children to experience the dis-
crimination and isolation that she
received when she first arrived in
the United States.
Little by little, I attempted to
prove to my parents how adapt-
ing to American culture was not a
rejection of my ethnic background,
but rather a means of creating an
identity for myself as an Arab-
American. My mom and dad slowly
allowed this change, and each new
opportunity was a personal vic-
tory. As a 15-year-old sophomore,
I finally attended my first high-
school party. Of course, I had to
dress conservatively, text my mom
every five minutes and be home by
nine. I accepted these unsurpris-
ing terms and celebrated this step
in the right direction. That night,
I came to a realization: I hated
parties. This was extremely dis-
appointing to me, but an absolute
relief for my parents.
Near the beginning of my junior
year, I attended my first dance with
a date. Just two years before, my
parents and I discussed that boys
were, simply put, “bad news.” Yet,
here I was, walking into a school
dance with a boy. I smiled as I
reflected on this personal victory,
and though my parents were miles
away, I could hear their worried
thoughts as if they were standing
right next to me.
My parents have always empha-
sized the importance of maintain-
ing my Lebanese-Iraqi roots. I was
brought up speaking Arabic and
practicing traditional Middle East-
ern values, which was something
that my high school peers were not
familiar with. I grew up listening
to Arabic music and watching Ara-
bic television programs.
Graphic by Hibah ChughtaiI
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HOME IS ME
KILL ME DIRTY COUN-
TRY
dirty water. dirty water. dirty
water.
cleanse this skin of bullets
spring—
ing off our brothers’ backs, into
our mother’s home—
we all return, yet we prefer
to think of home nostalgically.
“Remember spring.”
we do not feel safe anymore so
we cling onto season like it is our
mother’s home.
dirty country sing. dirty women
come in spring.
you see that we are thirsty for
what is beneath us. yet, we remain
null of spring
to drink from. to heal with. to
bathe in—
dirty water. dirty water. dirty
water.
Sprung.
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