| What it Means to be Arabic in America |
| by Anonymous |
1992 was the year where the U.S. armed forces attacked Iraq within Kuwaiti. The Gulf War had started and some missiles reached Doha, Qatar; Qatar is a peninsula off Saudi Arabia’s eastern seaboard. My father knew that it was time to leave and find a more secure place to live. He made the decision to come to the United States because he is a doctor and at the time there was a need for doctors in the U.S. I was born in Amman which is the capital of Jordan. Then we moved to Mecca in Saudi Arabia, and finally moved to Doha which is the capital of Qatar. My family and I always lived in a city setting and we were never exposed to the lower-uneducated classes of any of the prior mentioned countries. The way the countries were run was different from that of American ways. For instance, in Doha, my family hired a maid that would stay overnight. She became some what of a ‘nanny’. The maid was of a lower socioeconomic class but since she lived with us my mother would dress her in middle class like clothing. Besides that maid the four children of my direct family were never exposed to any of the lower classes; garbage men picked up the garbage at dusk. Once we arrived to the US we had to begin the assimilation process as quickly as possible.
The assimilation process began when my family arrived to our original destination in the U.S. My father assumed that it would not be as hard to adjust if we lived in a city like area. Then he realized that it would cost too much to live in a city such as New York. So plan B became New Jersey. We arrived to New Jersey and decided to live in Wayne sometime in July of 1992. For the first few years we kept to ourselves and did not associate with anyone. We finally found some Arabic people who went through the same situation of migrating to the U.S. and enduring the process of assimilation. Religious background didn’t matter to those possessing a temporary visa; just as long as they were Arabic. It never mattered before why should it now? I had never spoken a word of English until I arrived here. My parents are both in the medical field and medicine is universally taught in English.
My process of assimilation began the first year that I had arrived to the U.S., which was sixth grade. The priority on my agenda was to learn every aspect of English. In doing so, I learned how to read and write and could speak decently in about ten months. The One thing I had never experienced, until arriving here, was sarcasm. Kids of my school would make smart remarks to me and I never took them the way they were intended (rudely). Then I began to watch Television due to my loneliness and finally began to understand what those kids meant by all their remarks. I remember one comment vividly and it was a question asked by one of the boys in my class. This Hispanic kid asked, “What are you? A Hindu”, I said “no”. Then he asked if my father was a cab driver, and I said “why would he be?” innocently not knowing that he was still trying to say that I am of Indian decent.
The three years I spent in Junior High School were probably the worst years of my entire life and the mere breaking point of the assimilation process. After recomposing my self I entered high school. I suddenly began to understand how ‘clicks’ at school functioned. All I needed to do to assimilate is to alter my appearance by switching wardrobes, dying my hair, and fitting the standard American fashion. Besides altering my look, my skin color started to fade due to insufficient periods of summer. My skin was always the lightest of my family, which confused people when it came to deciding whether they should speak to me or not. My skin tone became lighter because of the cold, dark winter of Jersey. In my country I was exposed to the sun all year long, well at least in Qatar. I suddenly began to be self conscious about my skin; this was unprecedented.
Since I began my school career, I’ve been an honor student; being an honor student really helped with my process of assimilation (a little bit of sarcasm). Then High school came and I was exposed to too much freedom. I was able to cut any class and never get in trouble for it. No one suspected me, I was the ‘goodie two shoe’. Cutting class became the only way to become popular enough to hang out with cheerleaders and jocks. Both freshmen and sophomore years went to waste. I was getting A’s and B’s on my tests but failing because of my attendance. Once my mother found out she pressured my dad into buying a house on the richer side of Wayne, and that way we would be forced to switch schools. I entered this school as a junior and figured that assimilating would occur like it had any where else, which meant that after a certain amount of time people would start talking to me out of curiosity. This was not the case; this school was mainly white-Jewish kids with fathers who are lawyers. I figured that since my family had money and that I was pretty pale that I would fit in. I was only accepted by the poorer of the white girls who were not Jewish. I never said my name unless I was asked, because anyone could tell that I am not of European decent by my name. I dreaded the beginning of each class, and how every teacher would attempt to pronounce my name: “Raywon, Roan.” I was even called Ron once. Then I would always think that the teacher would give me an attitude, as if it were my fault that she struggled to pronounce my name. The horrible mispronunciations of my name definitely made my life ten times worse. I always swore I would change my name when I turned eighteen and end this misery. Then loneliness drove me to do my homework and I got lost in my books. So my grades improved, but it was pretty hard to pick up my GPA.
Next step of my process of assimilation was to get a job; the jobs would have to be part time because I was still in high school. Predictably I ended up working at Burger King as a cashier. While working at Burger King I noticed that there was only one white guy who worked there and he was about thirty years old. The rest were mostly Spanish and the manager happened to be Arabic. One day a man of Indian decent came up to my register made his order and sat down. When I gave him his food he pretended as though I forgot to add something to his order. My supervisor over heard this and took my side because he heard the original order and knew that I was right (at least that’s what I thought). So the Indian man got nothing for free and had to wait for the additional food that he ordered. About a month later the same thing happened except this time the guy was white. My supervisor gave him his food for free and wanted me to go to his table with a free apple pie and apologize. I could not stop the tears from coming out, I have never had to swallow my pride before and this manager wanted me to do so because the customer was white. That’s when I quit working at Burger King.
The process of assimilation almost came to a total halt. To top things off, on the way home from my last day at work my mother and I went to the gas station. We filled up the car and didn’t have enough cash on us so my mom used her credit card. Off course the gas station attendant saw the last name and realized that we are Arabic. So he began talking to my mom in Arabic. After they finished their conversation we proceeded to leave. The whole way back to my house I couldn’t stop thinking about what went wrong in that gas station attendant’s life. Why are a lot of Arabic men gas station attendants?
The next part of the project at hand was to get a boyfriend. In school a rumor was going around that a kid who looked like Devon Sawa (that actor who plays Casper’s human form) was transferring into our school and would be entering George Washington High School as an eighth-grader. He was white with blonde hair and big brown eyes. I saw him around and could not help my stares. I was always attracted to dark men with dark hair but some where within the midst of assimilation my idea of beauty must have changed. I figured he was like the other white kids and would never go out with some one like me. To my surprise someone had mentioned to him that I was hopelessly in love with him and that night he called me. In any other home a phone call for a woman from a man would have been normal, but in my house my father thought that it was worse than murder. Luckily I picked up the phone, and we began to talk. He said that he was interested in hanging out with me and that he wanted me to meet his family. I was more than glad to do so. I arrived at his house around 5:30 the next day because I was invited for dinner. His mom must have thought I was Spanish because she said Hola when I walked in. I paid no attention and sat down.
A year went by and I was still dating him and being exposed to his family on a constant basis. I felt as though I was collecting information by administering first had research on an all American family; I assumed that finding out how an American family interacts would help with my process of assimilation . At one point I was sitting in the living room when the TV was on and ‘Casper’ walked out and left me with his mother. I began to talk to her and found out that she never finished school and that she smokes pot. I don’t like to judge people but I already had a bad impression of her in my head. After she said she smoked pot she offered me some and I said, “No thanks”. There was an awkward and long silence where the news caster suddenly became the center of our attention. He mentioned something about cab drivers being shot in New York City. The mother said “good, maybe there won’t be so many fucking sand niggers.” Up to that particular moment Casper’s mom still didn’t know what my ethnic background is. A “sand nigger” is a racial slur that degrades both Arabs and African Americans. A word such as that has started many fights and pushed such cases into the statistical data of racial crimes. For some reason I felt the courage to say something but I was afraid that it would damage my relationship with her gorgeous son. I contemplated whether I should say something for about an hour. Then finally I did, “you know I happen to be a ‘sand nigger’.” Although she froze I did too; I realized I shouldn’t have referred to my self as a sand nigger.
After that day I felt so proud of my self for finally admitting that I am Arabic and that I didn’t let any consequence stop me. I also realized that assimilation is indefinite and that everyone has to assimilate to a certain degree. This enlightening realization motivated me to work even harder in school to show that I can become something and somebody. Just as my parents did, I too wanted to show the world that Arabs don’t have to work at a gas station, or 7-11, or any low paying job. I wanted to scream when I got my job at State Farm, I wanted to yell at any one who thought that just because I am not white that I cannot succeed; in recent years acquiring a job as a non-white person in a corporate market has become easier due to affirmative action. It was almost as though this huge pressure was lifted off my chest. I didn’t bear the fate of my race in this country any more. I will become successful and show everyone that Arabs gave Europeans math, astronomy, and even soap. One day those facts will be part of the curriculum in Junior High so that kids can finally understand that we have contributed to this great society. The perfect society of America filled with dreams, as well as racism, sexism, ignorance and hate. Idefinitely want to live in such a place. America is the most ideally- moralistic and ethical country of the industrialized world. Why would anyone not want to live here…