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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

Read more at michigandaily.com

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. 

Read more at michigandaily.com

