She soon married a man from her hometown of Jezzine, although they didn’t know it then. By the time she had her third child, she was fluent in English. She had seven children in all. Although Situ still cooked food from her homeland, many of her other traditions faded away and her younger children only learned a few words or phrases in Arabic. My Grandmother tells me that she was embarrassed of her ethnicity, and remembers hating it when she had to take pita sandwiches to school for lunch. Her other siblings felt the same shame and embarrassment. My Grandmother married a Navy pilot, and their family was “All-American”. The only clues to her heritage were her children’s dark hair and eyes, and their olive skin.
My generation seems different, though. It seems that we want our background, our ethnicity. I am no exception. Many times I have wished that I knew those Arabic songs everybody knows the chorus to, and the names my great aunt Nina yells at bad waiters or drivers. When I went to the Syrian Lebanese convention (SFSLAC) that was in Jacksonville this year, the feeling intensified; it was a tiny taste of the ‘forbidden fruit.’
Evelyn, an old friend of my aunt Loraine, is a woman who is large of both stature and personality. She pulled me out onto the dance floor when the Arabic band started playing, and tried to teach me the dubke. The dubke is a traditional dance where everyone holds hands, going 'one, two, stomp, kick'. The line weaves in and out following the leader, who holds a white handkerchief. It was really fun and exhilarating. I loved meeting all the old friends of my family, too. However, even though I had a great time, I regret that none of those things have been a part of my life. I felt like an imposter there, but at the same time I felt accepted. I realized that that is who I am, a part of my identity. I am sick of the feeling that I am living and breathing Generic America, that if I passed through any other town on the highway, I would see all the same things.
Many immigrants rejected their culture and tried to Americanize themselves and their families. They wanted to be accepted, to be a part of the “American Dream.” And for most, that wish became a reality - the term cultural melting pot is becoming closer to the truth every day. But I don’t want to be a face in the crowd. I want to embrace my roots, and I believe that in order to grow, to spread your leaves and LIVE, you need to know your roots, and strengthen their grasp on the crumbling soil of history that anchors us all.
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