I've made it

Here I am.

Flying is brutal. Annoying and stressful and there should be a law implemented that prevents children from flying on red-eye flights.

I was placed in an aisle seat, which was good, except I was in between a family: the father was at the window, his young-ish (12, maybe?) daughter was in the middle, and then me, and across the aisle were mom and weird little brother. Needless to say, mom kept talking over me. And this stupid girl. We fought over the armrest. Seriously, this little girl kept shoving my arm off the armrest and then looking up at me and smirking. And, as some of you know, I have a thing about feet, and at one point she took off her shoes and socks, put her foot over so that the sole of her foot was pointed in my direction, and started rubbing her foot, sloughing off dead skin. I wanted to KILL HER.

I did get some sleep though. But the time difference killed me and I lost two hours of night.

The flight should have taken off at 12:40am, and was scheduled to arrive at 6am, with my connecting flight at 7:10am to Dallas. The flight didn't leave till 1:05. Needless to say, I nearly panicked. We arrived at 6:40. I was seated in row 20. Basically I had to grab my stuff and run through Houston-Bush International to get to the right gate and board on time. Luckily, I made it. They were at baggage claim waiting for me. My luggage all showed up fully in tact. We didn't get lost on the way to the apartment. Everything went well.

The apartment. My god, the apartment. He'd warned me that it would be "disorganized" but that just may be the biggest understatement of the year.

The first thing that hits you is the smell. It reeks. And then the sound--very faint buzzing. Try to turn on a light--nothing. Basically, for some bizarre reason, even though the electric bill was paid, the power was cut off. For three weeks. Meaning everything in the fridge was gone and absolutely disgusting. The bedroom is a mess. The living room is a mess. There's no where to step and you don't want to step anyway, because the smell makes you retch. Dishes piled in the sink, a full tray of french fries sititng there for three weeks gathering mold. G's mother steps outside and goes to the apartment's office, and they're working on bringing back the electricity. She also steps outside and calls a professional cleaning service. She swears up and down that there's no way in hell I'm staying there as it is, and I'm thrilled because it was vile. It was really discouraging.

But. The interview!

I showered, in the dark. Got dressed, in the dark. Got made up in the dark. Got driven to the interview 20 minutes early. Met everyone, interviewed, and I think it went well (touch wood). Everyone is friendly and funny and they seemed to like me. They had another interview after me at 1, but let's be real. If they really liked that person, they wouldn't have waited two weeks for me to get there to interview. I should hear back soon. HEALTH INSURANCE!

After the interview, we packed up all my things (again) and I tagged along with G's mom as she ran her errands.

I love her. Seriously. I love this woman. She's smart, she's funny, she's witty, she doesn't take any shit. She likes me because if she didn't, I'd know it. I love her. I met his sister too and tagged along with her as well, and she's great as well.

I was a bit discouraged after the flight and seeing the apartment but I think things are looking up. I'm exhausted and running on about 3 hours of sleep total since 4:30am Monday morning but that's okay. Tonight I will sleep.

My mom called and I talked to her. So that's okay. It's better like this I think. I'm away but they aren't fully cut off and so they can handle it better. They're sad but they're dealing. And I'm living my life. And this is how it should be.

Two weeks post-graduation and I've got my shit together. I am awesome.

Well SHIT

I am at the airport. But about 20 things went wrong. I'm not sure if its for the better or not but here I fucking am. I apologize for my language in advance but this is getting ridiculous.

The morning went by simply enough. I sneaked out my bag and put it in the trunk of my car, waiting for my friend to pick me up. At that point, in theory, I would switch quickly from my trunk to hers and we'd be on our way, and that's it.

I take the suitcase from my car, and am almost in D's. I'm just about to close the trunk but the suitcase doesn't fit all the way and I need to adjust to be able to close it, and as I'm doing it, the garage door opens and my dad runs out. He wants to know what I'm doing. I try to play it off; D needs the suitcase and so I'm lending it to her. Even as I speak I know he won't buy it. He's not stupid. The whole thing falls apart. We have an entire scene right there in the middle of the street. D is in the car and my father sits at the edge of her trunk, so that it's impossible to close it. He's shaking and panting and falling apart. How could I do this to them? he asks. After 22 years of raising me and being with me, this is how I repay them? I'm going to destroy the family? On and on. He asks me where I'm going and what I'm doing. I tell a half-truth. I have a job out of state. The more I tell him, the more I see him fall apart.

This is what I was dreading. My father, I can deal with him angry and aggressive. I know how to approach him this way. What I can't do is deal with my father weak and vulnerable and crying. This is what was facing me. How could I leave without saying goodbye? Weren't we a good family? Didn't we give you everything you wanted? On and on. He kept begging me to stay an extra day, so we could "properly" tell people a real story; so they wouldn't have to face the shame of having to explain that their daughter just left. It still fell back to that.

I stood up for myself. I could have stayed an extra day, like he wanted, but that would have blown my own cover and I didn't want to. And so I left. I told him no. He asked why, and I said that it was because I didn't want to. I made a choice. It was not something he agreed with, but I made my choice. And for that, I am proud of myself. I feel guilty for lying some more and guilty for hurting him, but I stood up for myself against him for the first time. And for something huge. I accomplished something today. And I think he respects me now.

He made me sign the pink slip to my car haha. That was fantastic. He woke up all my siblings and made me say goodbye. He kept trying to get me to stay longer so I could say a proper goodbye to my mother as well. He kept asking, over and over, for me to just delay the flight for one day. But that's impossible. My interview is tomorrow. I can't wait another day. And so I didn't.

I've done it. I got to the airport. I went through security. I sat near my gate. And then--

The flight is delayed. By hours. If you have a connection, you're missing it for sure. I had to get on the shuttle to get to the other terminal with my luggage. So now I'm stuck with a red-eye flight. Sitting in front of the airline check-in, which won't open for another 3 hours. I set my things down and discovered blood all over my hand--I cut myself on something. My back hurts from all of my bags. My entire life is packed into two suitcases and two backpacks. My largest suitcase weighs 70 pounds and I was charged an obscene amount for it, which was luckily refunded thanks to this whole flight mess.

I am exhausted. Is this a bad sign or is this a good sign? My dad's reaction--amazing. I cannot believe how well he has taken this. He says the house is always open, and if I ever want to come back then I can come back, no questions asked. He offered me money about 4 times (didn't take it, but I wish I had it). He called me twice, left a voicemail once and I answered the second time--"Don't be too naive. Don't trust anyone. If you ever need anything, don't ever hesitate to ask. The house is your house and it's always open." And just now, a text with similar sentiments (but also a plea to come back).

I am not going to cut them off, at least not yet. I'll play it by ear. I'll talk to them when I feel like it. I'll text if I want to. I don't have to answer all their calls anymore. I don't have to do anything. I don't want to hurt them but this is what I wanted to avoid--the guilt and unnecessary pressure. Enough.

I do feel bad though and I keep crying. I'm getting amazing support--from my family, which I did not expect, but also from my friends, which I expected but is hitting me a lot harder than I thought it would. I am surrounded by good people.

They've given me a free meal voucher but I don't want to get up with all of my things and drag them around. It's so difficult to maneuver with all my bags. I have so much time to kill though.

I hope my family doesn't show up. They know what airport I'm at but they also think I'm on the flight now so who knows.

I am so exhausted. I should be on a plane right now.

D-Day

This is it. Packed and waiting for my ride. Trying to figure out how to get the HUGE suitcase out the door without being noticed. Usually my dad walks me out so I can't just say I'm going. I think I'll say I left something in my car and put the thing out there so that when D shows up it'll be easier. Dunno. Was hoping he'd stay asleep.

Nerves are making me dizzy. Maybe it's the anxiety pill? I've been up since 4:30 so I finally took one at around 6:30. Maybe it's the anxiety pill + lack of sleep. Whatever it is, I'm glad I'm not driving.

Plan of action:
1. Get to where I'm going
2. Change phone number
2a. Alert the proper people that my number has changed
3. Pack the rest of my things, currently being stored at a friend's house
4. Get to the airport
5. Send emails at the airport
6. Get on the plane
6a. God I hope I can sleep on the plane

Easy.

Guilt part II, and daddy issues (kinda)

My good friend guilt is back. Just popped half an anxiety pill and hopefully I'll be able to sleep tonight.

My father has been on the other side of the world for the past two years and I didn't miss him. This sounds terrible but it is what it is. Growing up, my relationship with my father was one of fear and avoidance. He has had a hard life. He's built himself up from nothing here in the States and I don't think anyone else in his position would have done the same. I respect him. But I'm also afraid of him. And so, growing up, if I wanted something, I would go to my mother, who would then formulate her attack and approach him at the right time to ask him for what I wanted--permission to go to the movies, to go to a party, whatever. He would deliberate, give her his verdict, and she would report to me. Asking him directly was out of the question because I wavered and fell apart the second he started cross-examining me.

I feel guilty because I know that he has the best of intentions for me and all of us in general, he just doesn't know how to actually listen to anyone else. He doesn't know how to take other opinions. He thinks that there is only one way to do things--his way--and no one knows better.

He is oblivious. And this is going to hurt him the most. I've written him a separate email, in addition to the one I'm going to send my entire family, but he won't listen. That's the thing--I can talk all I want about how I need to do this for myself, but I know he's just going to scoff and get angry and belittle it. This is how it's always been. And that's another part of why I have to do this. But I still feel guilty. He came into my room today and sat next to me on my bed and made a little small talk, and the Hoover Dam inside my head that was holding back all the guilt broke and fell apart and was destroyed in the course of a two minute non-conversation with my father. He will be devastated. That's what I can't take. Anger, I can deal with. But the inevitable sadness that will surface when his anger subsides, I can't handle that. I'm going to avoid that.

I honestly hope this doesn't kill him. His health is already terrible, he has blood pressure and cholesterol issues, I hope this doesn't trigger something. Then we can really talk about guilt.

It's so interesting that I feel this way because he's the parent that I never talk to and always avoid. My mother and I used to have a really good relationship. But these days, she and I have nothing and my father at least deflects her nagging away from me, so I appreciate that. I don't feel guilty about her, I don't feel guilty about any of my siblings, I just worry for him. He's just an old man who's worked his ass off and doesn't really deserve this, but has set himself up for it.

There is one day left. This will be the longest plane ride of my life. I'm still excited. I'm still hopeful. I still fully believe that this is the right thing to do. I'm still terrified. And now we can add guilty to that list as well.

He constantly talks about how he needs me. To look after my siblings if something should happen (which I will do). To help with money (which I will do). To keep track of his legal documents and business overseas (which I will do). But he also has 4 other kids and another adult daughter in college who can also do that. I'm not the only one, and that's (slightly) comforting.

A part of me wants tomorrow to be a shitty family day so that I won't be so guilty, but I also would like to go with a positive last memory.

Countdown: TWO DAYS!

I am so excited. I am. So. Excited. Words cannot express how excited I am.

I am a creature of habit. I love my routine. I love knowing exactly what will happen, and at what time, and who will be involved. When my routine is disrupted in any way, I become anxious and stressed. This, this is 100% outside of any habit or routine I ever had. And I love it.

I've been thinking about the family question for some time (see previous post), and I've come to the realization that my family is the one I created with my friends this past quarter. I've never understood when people say that their friends are family, because I was always raised to believe that my friends are not as trustworthy and loyal as my true, blood family. Clearly, this is far from the truth. I've never received as much support and positivity from any group of people before.

This is actually the first time I've had true friends. I've been a loner for pretty much a majority of college, and just finally started breaking away from that. I'm not sure why. I think it's a combination of my being tired of being unhappy, and my father being out of the country. It was easier. But now I have friends, people who I love, who let me store my things in their houses, who let me sit in the corner of their office to pass the time while I pretend to be at work, friends who buy me lunch when they know I can't afford it after all of this, friends who worry about my well-being. It's bittersweet. I'm beyond excited and hopeful to make this move in two days but I'm going to miss everyone.

I can feel myself changing because of this. Or, I have changed, and this is the product of that change. I'm more assertive. I'm not scared of the consequences anymore. I wanted something, I had a goal, and even though it's terrifying and will sever a lot of my relationships, I'm doing it. And it's worth it. As much as I'd like to pretend I'm independent here, it obviously won't compare at all to what I'll be dealing with in two days. I want to become a better person. I want to become an actual adult, whatever that really means, although I suppose this is my interpretation of adulthood.

Countdown: 4 days

The biggest debate that has come to surface when I tell people about this is the issue of loyalty: do I place loyalty to the group (family) first, or do I go with my own individualistic gut instincts?

Generally speaking, it can be fairly easy to predict who will say what: my American friends immediately support me and express the fact that it's most important to be true to myself--the most important thing is my own happiness and my own hopes and dreams. The few Arabs that I have trusted with this situation provide a more interesting opinion. While they do realize that it is incredibly difficult to balance Arab and American, the loyalty always falls back on the group and the family.

In my opinion, this loyalty has to be a two-way street. I wouldn't mind making sacrifices if I felt as though I were getting something in return. Essentially I feel as though my parents buy my complicity. I am not lacking in anything material, and I realize that this is a huge blessing and privilege that not everyone has. However, I have these things in place of a respected position in the family as the eldest child--my opinions don't matter. Discussions with my father about things we disagree about don't happen.

A few days ago, while sitting with my father and sister, a topic came up regarding a man that my father holds in high esteem. My sister, on the other hand, dislikes him, and I never knew why until that evening: this man has two wives just to have two wives. I made a comment in passing about how I disagree with that and immediately was attacked by my father for that. He assumed that I was okay with extra-marital affairs here in America: "So you're okay with all the bullshit they do here in America?" No, I am not, but to continue that conversation was to open up a can of worms that would threaten him, all because I was expressing an opinion that he does not agree with.

My best friend's father is a Republican, and she and I are Democrats. We spent Monday morning talking about issues and disagreeing, but speaking like adults--calm, level-headed, letting each other speak without interruptions or name-calling. This doesn't happen in my house. Disagreement--on any issue--is automatically taken as disrespect, as stepping out the pre-existing familial hierarchy.

I am supposed to put the group and family first, and yet I can't even explain why I don't agree with a man having two wives?

This has happened before regarding religion as well. Keep in mind that my family is fairly secular and educated. Both of my parents have college degrees, and in fact my mom is currently the only one working and making money for the family. The second I made my opinion clear about my views on religion (religions in general, not any one specific faith), my father became incensed, grabbed me by the upper arm, and "explained" to me why I was wrong and why his views were correct without any ounce of doubt. And that was the end of our conversation.

I am expected to put aside my thoughts, opinions, and happiness for the family? How is that a fair exchange? Should I just accept what they want me to think because I have a laptop and room to myself? I'd much rather not have any of my material possessions and be respected as a human being instead. That's certainly worth more to me than any of my material things.

I feel as though my position in the family has degenerated to nothing more than the occasional driver and back-up plan. My parents assume that if something happens to them, I will step in and help keep things together. And this is true, I will gladly volunteer to help my family with anything they need, but until they need something for me, I am treated the same way as when I was 15. My life currently is no different from when I was in high school. I live in the same house, drive the same car, am told when to come home and when to go out, and am constantly bothered with questions regarding my every move. So I am an adult when they deem it necessary, and a child the rest of the time.

I am having a hard time dealing with my guilt.

At what point do I stop worrying about how my family feels and focus on myself instead? And most importantly, why is that wrong?

Why am I fighting this battle in the first place? I find myself getting angry as I realize that this wouldn't happen if, A) I could just be myself around my family and have them deal with it; or, B) I could just suck it up and be who they want me to be.

Despite my continual resistance against their archaic thoughts and attitudes about me, and women in general, I cannot shake off the guilt.

I've spent a great majority of my time after 9-11 defending stereotypes, defending Muslims and Arabs, and doing my best to explain away these stereotypes as stereotypes only. Unfortunately, as my own life progressed, as I got older and discovered myself and clashed with my parents--namely, my mother--on these points, the sad realization hit me: each stereotype I've tried to explain away was happening to me.

Repressed woman: check. The first time I ever went to the movies with a group of friends, I was in the 10th grade. It took two days of convincing my dad before hand. He was worried about my "virtue".

Obsession with women's sexuality and virginity: check. Any time I ever did go out, the one thing I was told was to "take care of myself". This is Arab-dad-code for "don't have sex". When my mother found out/suspected that I was having sex, I had to deny deny deny, and to prove myself, she scheduled me a physical with the gynecologist. She wanted to sit in on the exam and have the doctor specifically tell her that my hymen was still in tact. Luckily, this entire ordeal was ultimately avoided. However, now when she gets mad at me, the name calling begins, and I am most often labeled a whore.

Over-bearing man-of-the-house complex: check. My father, in an argument once, referred to himself as god. That was it for me.

Timid woman-in-her-place expectation: check. Recently, about a month ago, my father needed some information from us, and requested it via email. Being in the middle of exams, my sister and I put it off for about a week. I apologized for my lateness and gave him the information; my sister, on the other hand, apparently asked him what the information was for. His answer? An email, with choice words capitalized, bolded, and in red (NEVER, DO NOT, etc) forwarded to all of us, highlighting his importance and chastizing her for daring to ask a question. God forbid.

I could go on.

Why am I feeling guilty again?

Countdown: 8 days

Growing up, I absolutely detested being Arab. It (and I) was different from everyone around me and I just wanted to blend in. We were immigrants, very poor, and I had just transferred schools to boot. I wanted friends and I wanted to be "normal" but instead I was the new hairy brown girl that no one wanted to talk to. Combine this with my father making a point to ignore us unless we spoke to him in Arabic, and refusing to eat anything other than my mother's--admittedly very good--home-cooked Arabic food, and not allowing me to do anything outside of school with my few friends because "we're not like them", I was full of resentment.

Cut to high school, post 9-11, and I realized it wasn't so bad. I realized that my father's Arabic techniques helped me retain a rich, important language. I brought friends over for food and I wasn't embarrassed by my parents' heavy accents. I had finally come to think that being Arab-American was in fact a real possibility, that the hyphen between Arab and American helped bridge the two cultures, letting ideas, foods, cultures, move back and forth on that bridge and creating a new culture specifically made for me. During high school, I was "Arab-American."

Applying for college started straining that relationship. I was going to college, of course, but only if it was close enough for a commute. And from there, my ideals and my morals began to clash with my parents'. I wanted to live in the dorms, but "respectable" (whatever that means) girls don't do that. Hell, I wanted to go to school 6 hours away, and that became a huge issue of contention. So, I commuted. My class schedule was taped to the fridge, and when I didn't show up at home 45 minutes after the end of my last class, the phone calls started streaming in. "Where are you? What are you doing? Who are you with? Why are you with them? Why aren't you home yet?" Socializing was impossible and I spent my first 3 years of college isolated and depressed, unable to make friendships outside of class because they required dinners and outings outside of class time, and that was impossible to do. And if I dared to be anything other than thrilled at the fact that they were allowing (their word, not mine) me a college education, I was ungrateful and a possible whore, wanting only to stay out all hours of the night drinking and having sex.

I've come to the conclusion that, at least for me, it is impossible to be both an Arab and an American. Certainly not in the way my parents want it. Maybe this is a testament to the fluidity of the term. Arab-American. It can mean anything. Am I more American than Arab? My sense of individuality and my lack of commitment to the group, the community, does this make me more American? Certainly Americans are much more concerned with individual happiness than Arabs who, after all, worry most about family honor and name, and what will people think of us now? I don't think this issue is as pressing in American culture.

And so I've found myself stuck for some time. Balancing the two sides of the hyphen doesn't work. To be more Arab, as my parents want, means giving up the things that are important to me. To be more American is to alienate my family, at least temporarily (I hope) until they come around. I've tried to be what they want for four years and instead found myself in the midst of depression and academic probation, barely making it through the days but putting on a smile when they want and keeping them quiet. This isn't how it should be.

Ultimately, I have to live with this decision. I have been thinking about this for four years. I've discussed it with numerous people in varying degrees, and I finally got up the courage to see a therapist my last quarter at school. It was the right decision to make.

This is terrifying. As the day comes closer, I wake up each morning nervous and anxious but also infinitely more hopeful and excited.

The First Step

On a whim today I bought my one-way plane ticket.

I have been thinking about this for 3 years. And for longer than that, I've been repeatedly told that I have limits on the things I can do because of my gender. It sounds cliche and old-fashioned, but when it came time to apply to college, my family and I didn't discuss schools based on price or major, but proximity to home and whether or not I could commute back and forth.

My father once sat me down and said, "This is my plan for you." He then proceeded to outline what I was expected to major in, what career I would be able to obtain from that, and what kind of man I should marry soon thereafter. It was simple, and best of all, I didn't actually have to do any kind of independent thinking or make any independent choice for myself.

I realize that doing this will have a huge impact on my family. My mother will bear the brunt of the reaction, especially from my father, and I worry about that. Days like this, relatively conflict-free days, I feel guilty. But most of the days are not conflict free, most days are stressful and upsetting, and I've come to the conclusion that I shouldn't be feeling the most stress at home. I should be able to come home and relax. But--impact on my mother. My father will blame her, of course. He won't see this coming. He thinks he's doing me favors each time he tells me what to do. He thinks he's sparing me the trouble of making a decision.

I'm worried about how this will impact my younger sisters. Will they be tougher on them to prevent something like this in the future?

I was raised in a culture of no--I was told the things I could not do, not what I could and should do. No, I could not go out, it's not proper for a girl, and what will people say? No, "our girls" do not move out for college or for a job, they go from their father's house to their husband's. Girls do not SPEAK that way, it's improper. Girls don't sit that way, they don't walk laugh act eat play that way. For no reason other than being a girl. This is not a good enough reason for me.