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.