A Story: An Arab American

Though some stories are worth telling, there are others much better off abandoned and erased. I tell my story to my self, allowing it to penetrate the pericardium of my heart in hopes of finding solace. I tell it in whispers, unable to fathom that I was the participant of destroying a healthy family unit and bringing shame to loved ones. Shame has been a part of my life, my upbringing and my persona. It is a cultural way of life as an Arab. Our lives are predicated on shame so that we are reluctant to sway from the dogma and principles of our traditions. All of the monolithic faiths have passed down to their disciples a gift: Judiasm gives blame, Christianity, guilt and Islam, the shame factor. It’s not the religions per se or the dogma, it is man’s interpretation that has damaged the Holy words.

We all have a story unfolding in our lives, choosing to believe we are the protagonist, hero or sometimes the victim. Our stories are told behind an invisible podium, while a microphone stands in salute ready to project our words as we begin to recite them. Usually we tell our stories in first person, a means to convey the characters and the drama that is unfolding. Any listening ear, preferably one that will blanket us with empathy becomes an audience. We recount the heartaches the miseries and sometimes the intermittent joy of our lives. It’s funny that those moments of happiness-and you are sure there are some of those moments, are never as prominent as the woes of the past. It is the past that weaves its fingers through our every step of our lives and makes the story more difficult to explain, masking the journey with fear.

I don’t tell my story anymore.  That is, I don’t tell it with self- pity as a precursor. It has evolved throughout the years and having wiped the residue from the lens of the past, I have resurrected images that remain in the edifice of my mind, helping shape the story. There is not ONE thing that defines me. That is a blessing and a curse. If I choose to blame anyone or thing, it can be the varying cusp of my Gemini traits: stars on the day of my conception colliding to bring forth a soul of versatile attributes.

Recently, I had an audience that has stolen the truth from my lips with elaborate theories, mislabels and their own superficial ending. For their sake, this story works for them, easing their roles and responsibility of the wicked hand they dealt. It eases their minds to tell the story as they see fit, knowing all too well the only persons able to tell the story are those involved in the hurl of lies. Even then the story is tainted because truth is subjective to the players of this game called life. I’m glad for this story to emerge now in my 40’s because it’s pain has ripped through the sky, forcing me to abandon old notions and theories and reevaluate the meaning of my duty on this Earth. It is said that only through true trauma and pain, can one exorcise the body of toxins and prepare for the ultimate purification. I’m ready.

My story begins in the middle, parts of it residing in the past. The only evidence of the plot and the truth are trapped in the crevices of the walls that stood as silent witnesses to the insults and the injuries over the years. I don’t’ tell my story in first person anymore, noticing that it was not only pointless to relay it to deaf ears, but that it was an erosion of the truth. In innocence I told my story to myself as I saw it. Naturally, that is how we tell our story: from our own point of view. Often it is tainted without objectivity. Only recently have I embraced the courage to tell it in another way when I dare speak of the events of my life that influenced me leaving internal scars.

I’ve told of my struggle-mine and mine alone, to the harvest moon that watched over me as I first cursed it’s presence and then begged for its mercy.  Some of what I have internalized is now audible to the silent skies because in this small retreat after repeated mistakes I found that time does not pass unless there is honesty in its sphere.

I look inwards nowadays and up towards the stars for signs. Each star I see a promise yet to be fulfilled. With each star, I hope that the words I convey will be my salvation. Though my story as an Arab American struggling with the dual culture is personal, I believe it relates to many facing hardships of assimilation. The poet in my life sphere is determined to rise above the demolition and grant others the ability to heal only through introspection of the less obvious. The memories spark the wounded child in me that longed to be understood as a patron of beautiful words. Instead, the Queen persona in me has mislead her court to interpret the actions as rebellious, stubborn and menacing. I am conflicted on how my mission is to unfold, but then there are so many chapters left before the final conclusion.