How My Family Became White Americans

Tshaj mentions the immigrant waves of peddlers, their children who become grocers, the regular process of assimilation…  

And I smile,

seeing the images my mind has created:

My Great Grandfather (the local confectioner’s immigrant clerk),

selling candy to the white children in the neighborhood.

It’s around the time of the Great War

and the country of his birth, far across the beautiful sea,

is emerging from their Turkish overlords (a type of Arab Spring).

But حجار is now Haggar, free and struggling in America,

requires his children to translate the important phrases,                  to

the teachers, the police officers,

the journalists and businessmen (I still wonder if he worried then, if he didn’t assimilate they’d be rid of him).

So soon the children forgot the language of the ancient Semitic civilizations,

dawn the new imperialism,

spoken in their classes.

Barely out of school when they enlist,

for the next great generational conflict.              Bound on a destroyer

through the turquoise sea his Father fled across to freedom.

Grandpa Ed was called “Blackie” then, like the oil stolen from his Father’s people, his hair a rare rich thing in a land of blond haired children.

Yet he says the tarnish of their nicknames was a bond,

these innocent boys learned to cherish.

Never questioning the flag, or their leaders, or the order. And when the war was won,

they were honored for their service…

and my once impoverished dark haired grandparents open up their own business.

And of course, it’s what all people need (as immigrants can’t fail to recognize),

a grocery store,

the cornerstone,

 around which a Sioux Falls neighborhood develops.

                  Where 50 years after my Arab Great-Grandfather’s death,

                                                                                                            I can still go to buy my candy.  

And because they welcomed him, I consider how fortunate my life has been  

while the news shows another “distant tragedy of migration”.

The shorelines of a once beautiful sea, spotted with drowned faces, …so familiar.

And my heart hurts,               because my life     here,                         

 shows that sea,     is not what divides us.                            

To Share and be Recognized

Easy to forget the details of her words, the examples using names I’m not familiar with, the intonation, the grammar mistakes that nipped at my neck in the moment. For the subdued statements to meld together like her downturned eyes, or the focus on the distance. And maybe she was busy, after all we were working, and maybe she was trying to find the right words still translating, from one side of her mind, a language that speaks in a structure so different, in tone, in timing, in shape and order… that she must feel like two different people in one body. But when I apologized for intruding, and with ever bad timing, her face lit up, and her tone changed to assure me.

And he spoke, not so much in open honesty, than in painstaking courage to reveal, that which should not, but why not? between each sentence he wondered. Then tried to find the words to explain and with patience I waited. And reassured, and complimented his bravery, so each time he revealed more, sometimes too eagerly. And each time he offered to guide me,

if need be.

She sits at the front desk, and in-between phone calls - answers my questions. And signs out keys to the renters, and opens doors to allow me, a view of the room in which her family resides, because her sister fell in love, and chose to express it, now they bear a weight as a family collective, made worse by the rumors, and the younger generation defends them, but her mother still wishes they had a patriarch to represent them. And she’s stuck at the front desk, and I think that she hates that, but she’s waiting politely for my next inquest, and sometimes she’s irritated that the phone interrupts with its singing. And I get the impression she doesn’t mind my questions or lingering.

I ask if he meant it, when he invited me to the celebration, and he adamantly responds with another invitation, and I worry about his family, and the other people present, and I worry I will make the worst kind of impression, and I share this, and I’m nervous and I’m worried that he’ll see it as rejection, because he stares at me wondering, and shaking his head just, slightly,

he reminds me, encouragingly that I wouldn’t be intruding, but as always I step back my fear always subdues me, “I’d be way too anxious” I say, dismissing the idea.

And he gestures his disagreement and ever so gently.

Says “but   when you’re anxious, it’s pleasant,

…you just start to smile more.”

and in his knowing gaze, I feel my hardened heart start to warm.

I think back on my days of “research” as a blessing, gift wrapped in timid word choice, hands pocketed, curious brows perched, for understanding. And wonder if my curved cheeks peaked, pink lips wrapped the relaying, and shared in a mutual exchange not often given. Forming a connection through blushing, too human to be sacred, and yet the give-and-take brought new reverberation, like a platonic flirtation, I simply asked, and then listened. And there is something critical there, about giving permission… to share, and be recognized.

Hosting the Herd

On the tender skin of my left shoulder I feel them,

the tenacious line of horses,

                  held tight to the ridge,      of politeness and worry,

                                    …just listen…                              I remind myself, pulling back on the reins.

But I smile, knowing I am equally

That lead horse,

                                    full chested and longing,

the surprising strength of his will

tramples shivers down my spine,

begging to call out, high headed

in a full throated

                                                                                                            neigh.

But the whinny is tugged back,               Wait!

…don’t rise above the bit…

                                   

in a cautious moment, I horse snort curiosity,

pleading for an opening, a breakaway chance, a pulse to lead the pack,

                  …don’t be too much…

Forced into tentative,                                regulated,                                  movements,

                                    a single extended leg investigating open prairie:

A) First from the shoulder, the confident connective tissue, eagerly pressing but wary of resistance.

                  “…maybe we could…”

B) The patella, the back knee, smoothly testing, leans back, yet pushes the issue forward.

                  “…and then, maybe you could…”

C) The forward knee, relying heavily on the cannon, suggesting a point of mutual assurance.

“…and then I could…”

D) The pasterns, articulating, calling for consensus in the hoof, the grounded coffin.

“So then, that will be it. We’re set.”

The lead horse and the rider look back and beam with exhilaration,

seeing the strides they’ve made slowly, working towards full gallop. 

…okay then…    They take a synchronized congratulatory breath         …next issue?

But again, the line breaks, one forward, one back, one sidetracked.

Blowing, and snorting and squealing as herds do.   A circus of the enthusiastic and animated, too little sleep and too much inborn anxiety, so jokes are told and stories shared, arguments posed, disclosure dared

…and of course met with the occasional pin dropped awkward silence, 

large eyes reading the alerted bristles, judging gestures,

each of us an animal, pregnant with fretful anticipation,  

cast aside with a smile, another insight,

the volume raised, as our steps proceed, communal cascade in a new direction.

I feel the wary tightness return,

witnessing a stampede given purpose,

force a breath into my chest,                  and remind myself to

…marvel in this moment…

                                   

Generational Acculturation

Between thumb and fingers,

she clutches the metal tool tightly,   her impressions

bringing forth rich symbolic magic, the meaning passed on and on and on.

she looks up and sees her Grandmother seated in the corner chair,

always with her head down.

Between thumb and fingers,

she clutches the metal tool tightly,   her impressions

bringing forth rich symbolic magic, the meaning passed on and on and on.

she looks up and sees her Granddaughter seated across the room,

always with her head down.

On the wall, he sees her story;

bent over in the field, black pajamas, pink belt the same color as the crops

his eyes scan the paj ntau for the violent soldiers,

but they all look the same,

confused by the jumbled lines,

he sometimes forgets the meaning.

On the “wall,” she sees his story;

bent over at his desk, he points to the memes in English bold print

her eyes scan the screen for the violent bullies,

but it all looks the same,

confused by the jumbled lines,

she sometimes forgets the meaning.

She sits patiently, while her Teacher speaks

she fumbles with her hands, just out of view

trying to think of how to share his words,

out of the corner of her eye, she sees

her stoic Father nodding along to the Teacher’s admonition,

and she worries about his reputation.

He sits patiently, while her teacher speaks

he fumbles with his hands, just out of view

trying to think of how to share his words,

out of the corner of his eye, he sees

his dutiful daughter nodding along to the Teacher’s instructions,

and has no worries about his reputation.