Crossing

[Guest Ryan]

Crossing

My father came to this country in 1976,

a twenty-something man in a new home

half a world away from anything he knew.

He crossed the border as a young man

from Fursil, Lebanon to Mankato, Minnesota,

Arabic to English, fasulia to french fries.

After citizenship tests, schooling, jobs, a wife, kids,

he seems like a pretty All-American guy.

But I know better.

On Saturdays he calls his brothers and sisters

and from my bedroom I can hear nothing but beautiful Arabic words

spoken in his melodic baritone voice.

In the evening he cooks Lubi, though the neighbors grill steaks,

and the aromas of cinnamon, tomatoes, and green beans dance around the kitchen.

He turns on the TV and watches with a worried face

as the newscasters rush through the turmoil in the Middle East

so that they can move on to more important things like celebrities and sports.

Lebanon and America are my father's two homes.

He fits in in both places, but doesn't fully belong in either anymore.

My father is a border dweller,

living in one land and feeling in another.

My life is a borderland, too –

between body and brain, between sight and sense.

I received Barbies and pink dresses for Christmas,

but I preferred to sneak into my brother’s room

to play with his cars and try on his clip-on First Communion tie.

As a teenager I sat on the sidelines, silent --

the synchronized swimmer who was teased about bushy eyebrows and lack of makeup,

who wanted to go to Prom in a suit but was told it wasn’t allowed.

The girl who wore the boys’ uniform to Catholic school

and baffled and angered the folks at Sunday Mass.

A sad, confused, desperate kid,

with a pocketknife in my hand, hotline numbers in my pocket,

and a calm, hopefully-convincing smile on my face.

I shift daily, ready to jump into those male or female boxes

whenever safety or discomfort necessitates it,

though I can't find a real home in either one.

When my parents are gone I feel free to express,

to bind my chest and pack and pass

and see how many times I get thrown out of ladies’ rooms.

Or men’s rooms, for that matter.

But when they’re here, I’m daughter not son.

Stuck on one side of the gender line,

desperate to make a crossing

from pink to blue, girl to never-woman,

she to ze to he to **** it, just me!

See, I understand my father, though he doesn't yet understand me.

I understand that it’s tough to live in a world which only sees what it wants to see,

that it hurts to be attacked but hurts worse to be ignored,

that it’s hard to be a contradiction in these times and places.

An Arab-American in a time of war and violence.

A genderqueer boy born girl in a place of intolerance.

A person crossing over, just trying to find somewhere to belong.

[MaryEllen]

Hi Ryan,

Very beautifully written. Very touching.

MaryEllen

[Guest Drew]

wow man! that was really good, touching, like MaryEllen said.

[Guest GoldenKirbichu]

You have a nice style of writing, I like it.

[Guest raydub]

thats beautiful

Ray

[Guest Kyden]

That Awesome for real man! Very to quote again touching.

[Guest theEND]

That's a pretty neat comparison, I've never thought about it like that

[Guest Michele H]

with your permission, I would like to give my counselor a copy of what your wrote and also to a couple of people who I have told

[Guest Ryan]

with your permission, I would like to give my counselor a copy of what your wrote and also to a couple of people who I have told

Um, sure, go ahead.

Thanks for the comments, everyone.

[Guest Donna Jean]

Liam,

Now, that was truly moving! I had to go back and read it again after the first time through.

You have a way with words that really speak volumes and paint a picture so clear that I was moved to tears. How wonderful! I just want to say thank you for this and don't stop here...

Very nice my dear, please do more...

Peace

Donna Jean