I have a confession. I lied. I lied to my friend about reading online about other Arab adoptees in my situation. It was totally false.
I just...you know. Didn't want to feel alone.
So yesterday I spent at least 2 hours looking. And what the fuck turned up? Nothing. Adoption websites and forums I frantically searched thru. Nothing. Google search bar. Nothing. 7 or 8 different word rearrangements. Nothing.
Except specially bred, very expensive Arabian Horses. Horses that are worth more than the house you live in. What The Fuck.
I was starting to feel desperate.
Then, there is was. The words. Adopted Arab-American. And all in one place. Gleefully, I opened the link.
Its an article about Steve Fucking Jobs. Rage filled me. Are you fucking serious? That's it???? Steve Fucking Jobs and Me are the only ones??? This can't be. I felt myself escalating like a cartoon character, winding up, my body hurts.
Unbelievable. Me and Steve Fucking Jobs, half arab, on our father's side, white adoptive parents.
And guess what his Syrian Daddy said? "I want nothing to do with you".
Also: Unbelievable.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
The Brewing of Coffee
It all started in 1979. Well, to be more precise, 1978. I was conceived in 1978. I mean, I think I was. I really don't know. I could've been born early.
Maybe I should start with last week.
Last week I went to New Orleans for a conference. The Women of Color Network call to action against domestic violence. It was at this conference I realized I have been afraid to call my ethnic identity my own. The difference between naming and understanding that name became clear and I felt alone and reminded of of my opaque and extensive story.
There is a place for many adopted children too painful to touch. where am i from? who could i have been? This place sits inside us like Matryoshka dolls, and with each discovery a new doll is revealed. This discovery can be emotional or active or informational, or all three. I was informed of these dolls so long ago, I cant tell you a time I didn't know they were there. I found a new doll when I realized all my nightmares were related in 1994. I found another doll when I received my birth certificate and high school photos of my biological mother in 2002. I uncovered a doll in 2004 when my biological sister found me. I uncovered another doll later the same year when I contacted our biological mother. That was too many dolls for one year.
But that's another story.
There are a number of questions adoptees ask themselves, wordlessly in the night, but here, I will tell you those questions: why didn't they want me? whats wrong with me? will i ever be whole? who could love me now? does anyone else feel this way?
At this conference, a new doll emerged. She is a doll of action. This isn't a self analyzing, processing, soulful doll. She wants to learn. She wants to know what might've been for us.
My biological father's name is Melli Al-Qatahni. or maybe Melli Al-Qhatani. or maybe Melli Al-Qahtani. all I know he is from Qatar. I know he was in business school. I know he lived in Tyler, Texas for a time in the late 70s. I know he is somehow related to the royal family, which certainly explains my dislike of cleaning, and love of high back chairs and tiny tiaras. *ahem*
Perhaps he was a great man, and a genius of chemistry. It's also possible he was part of a predatory bird breeding operation. or maybe he just owned a construction company.
In my fantasies as a child, I imagined him in an onion domed palace, surrounded by gems and dancing beautiful women, laughing as he ate pig from a spit. Of course, in real life, he wouldn't eat pork. Ha! The silly fantasies of children. The very idea! *ahem*
But really, this image spoke volumes. the assumptions I carried were not discouraged or dispelled. Given no literature on Arabic culture or history, Islamic practice or custom, I had only my imagination to carry me to a conclusion. And as a child, I exercised my imagination freely.
The love story I concocted was equally as loosely based on fact. "My birth mother and father", I would begin, "were deeply in love. But he was a Muslim." I'd shake my head sadly.
"They couldn't be married."
To me, it was unthinkable I was anything but a product of tragic love. To be else would mean something too dark. I put that idea in a badly sealed box in the back of my mind where it leaked constantly and gave me nightmares and terrible things to think about when I had insomnia crawling up my spine. Which, as you can imagine, was often. Ritalin makes the heart beat faster, the hands shake, the hunger vanish, and the mind and body stay awake. like a thief waiting for the watch to change.
But that's another story.
So there I was last week, at a conference, surrounded by 282 beautiful amazing women of color. My body feels beautiful, my skin looks normal, and my features are not questioned or out of place.
I am not called "exotic" or told how "ethnic" my face is. No one asks "what are you" or plays the "guess ethnicity/nationality/orgin story" game. Or then proceeds to get angry or disappointed when they guess wrong, as if guessing correctly would have earned them a prize. Or at least some get out of jail free card. It is important to note that most of the people who say these things are white.
This happens because, generally speaking, People of Color know better.
It happens to them all the time, and they know how it sounds. Most importantly, they know what it feels like. If you don't know, allow me to enlighten you, so you wont do this to people anymore: It feels like scrutinizing, like you'll be judged. Its like you're revealing a piece of yourself you have no control over how it will be interpreted. There is no opportunity to go into the history, legacy, or culture that surrounds the answer to the question, when phrased "What are you?". There are many other, kinder, gentler ways of asking how someone identifies. But I really don't feel it's my responsibility to feed people the "right"way to go about it.
Ok, but back to New Orleans.
I'm sitting validated and beautiful, surrounded by powerful women, when I realize I feel wanting. It began as a tickle, then grew to an ache, and culminated today in an outpouring of tears and desire. I do not know the home I could've lived in. I do not understand the culture that could have been mine. This is the next doll. Here she is. I acknowledge and honor her. She is curious, studious. And brave.
Maybe I should start with last week.
Last week I went to New Orleans for a conference. The Women of Color Network call to action against domestic violence. It was at this conference I realized I have been afraid to call my ethnic identity my own. The difference between naming and understanding that name became clear and I felt alone and reminded of of my opaque and extensive story.
There is a place for many adopted children too painful to touch. where am i from? who could i have been? This place sits inside us like Matryoshka dolls, and with each discovery a new doll is revealed. This discovery can be emotional or active or informational, or all three. I was informed of these dolls so long ago, I cant tell you a time I didn't know they were there. I found a new doll when I realized all my nightmares were related in 1994. I found another doll when I received my birth certificate and high school photos of my biological mother in 2002. I uncovered a doll in 2004 when my biological sister found me. I uncovered another doll later the same year when I contacted our biological mother. That was too many dolls for one year.
But that's another story.
There are a number of questions adoptees ask themselves, wordlessly in the night, but here, I will tell you those questions: why didn't they want me? whats wrong with me? will i ever be whole? who could love me now? does anyone else feel this way?
At this conference, a new doll emerged. She is a doll of action. This isn't a self analyzing, processing, soulful doll. She wants to learn. She wants to know what might've been for us.
My biological father's name is Melli Al-Qatahni. or maybe Melli Al-Qhatani. or maybe Melli Al-Qahtani. all I know he is from Qatar. I know he was in business school. I know he lived in Tyler, Texas for a time in the late 70s. I know he is somehow related to the royal family, which certainly explains my dislike of cleaning, and love of high back chairs and tiny tiaras. *ahem*
Perhaps he was a great man, and a genius of chemistry. It's also possible he was part of a predatory bird breeding operation. or maybe he just owned a construction company.
In my fantasies as a child, I imagined him in an onion domed palace, surrounded by gems and dancing beautiful women, laughing as he ate pig from a spit. Of course, in real life, he wouldn't eat pork. Ha! The silly fantasies of children. The very idea! *ahem*
But really, this image spoke volumes. the assumptions I carried were not discouraged or dispelled. Given no literature on Arabic culture or history, Islamic practice or custom, I had only my imagination to carry me to a conclusion. And as a child, I exercised my imagination freely.
The love story I concocted was equally as loosely based on fact. "My birth mother and father", I would begin, "were deeply in love. But he was a Muslim." I'd shake my head sadly.
"They couldn't be married."
To me, it was unthinkable I was anything but a product of tragic love. To be else would mean something too dark. I put that idea in a badly sealed box in the back of my mind where it leaked constantly and gave me nightmares and terrible things to think about when I had insomnia crawling up my spine. Which, as you can imagine, was often. Ritalin makes the heart beat faster, the hands shake, the hunger vanish, and the mind and body stay awake. like a thief waiting for the watch to change.
But that's another story.
So there I was last week, at a conference, surrounded by 282 beautiful amazing women of color. My body feels beautiful, my skin looks normal, and my features are not questioned or out of place.
I am not called "exotic" or told how "ethnic" my face is. No one asks "what are you" or plays the "guess ethnicity/nationality/orgin story" game. Or then proceeds to get angry or disappointed when they guess wrong, as if guessing correctly would have earned them a prize. Or at least some get out of jail free card. It is important to note that most of the people who say these things are white.
This happens because, generally speaking, People of Color know better.
It happens to them all the time, and they know how it sounds. Most importantly, they know what it feels like. If you don't know, allow me to enlighten you, so you wont do this to people anymore: It feels like scrutinizing, like you'll be judged. Its like you're revealing a piece of yourself you have no control over how it will be interpreted. There is no opportunity to go into the history, legacy, or culture that surrounds the answer to the question, when phrased "What are you?". There are many other, kinder, gentler ways of asking how someone identifies. But I really don't feel it's my responsibility to feed people the "right"way to go about it.
Ok, but back to New Orleans.
I'm sitting validated and beautiful, surrounded by powerful women, when I realize I feel wanting. It began as a tickle, then grew to an ache, and culminated today in an outpouring of tears and desire. I do not know the home I could've lived in. I do not understand the culture that could have been mine. This is the next doll. Here she is. I acknowledge and honor her. She is curious, studious. And brave.
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