9 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