Identity

Picture a family. How many children do you see? How many parents? Mother, father, boy, girl: the nuclear family almost always appears as a two-parent household with (usually) two children.  One child or two, “the family,” according to popular media, has two parents. 

That is not the reality for me; I am a part of a two-person family -- one child, one parent.

Just as an only child behaves differently than a child with siblings, a single-parent household functions differently than a two-parent household.

The first time I heard the word “diaspora,” it fit perfectly into my mind's holding place for funny words. Diaspora. I would try it on like a cloak-and-veil, whisper it under my breath, and brush it through my dark eyebrows. I’d write it down in cursive; Google it incessantly every time I forgot its perfect definition. The first time I heard the word diaspora I was looking in the mirror.  

Being Arab American means I have a nose that precedes me, and sideburns that adorn my olive-toned face. It means that agarwood (عود) is my olfactory train, and that every event is a wedding. 

“Yeah, you would know all about this. I need a lovey, romantic card for somebody,” the large- framed man said in a lowered voice. He glanced around the store from the counter where we stood and squeezed the fingers together near the top of his chest. He made me feel like this was a secret, but he also didn’t know that I was a new employee, so I didn’t know exactly where the cards were unless they were for an anniversary, a brother-birthday, or a bar mitzvah.

Tonight feels like fall. Like the type of weather that makes you imagine sweaters and sweatshirts comfortably, and makes me want to pull out a book and drink something hot. Mosquitoes are still biting me, but other than that this is my perfect climate. I'm so in tune with the weather right now because I’m sitting outside (in the dark) on the back deck of my mom’s house, the only area besides the basement that I am allowed to exist in — thanks to my positive test result for COVID-19.

I’ve never really been one to appreciate change. At least, that's the label that I’ve upheld since childhood. I can still hear my dad saying, “Yeah, Addie really doesn’t like change,” explaining away the weird quirks I refused to let go of. 

I spent 20 days alone while abroad this summer, during which time I had ample opportunity to think about reading; I spent more time thinking about reading than actually reading. I read a lot, between 75 and 100 books per year. I also perform reading a lot, posting almost as many pictures of books on Snapchat and Instagram for no discernible reason. My obsession with books peaked in my first and second years of college, during which time I authorized that vacuum of a non-narrative (girl: reading) to define me. I used excessive reading as a crutch to avoid writing.

The silver metallic ink may have faded a bit, but the words are still clearly visible: “For Abby ~ Travellin’ Music.” The precisely formed letters immediately evoke visions of sentences diagrammed on whiteboards, answer keys created together and shared, a teaching partnership of mutual encouragement and competition. Decades later, I wonder if either of us would have gone so far without those shared years. I suspect we would have—we were (are) both driven—but my journey would have lacked a signpost I have depended on.

Ten Years Old. Before even walking into the store, I am hit by the scent of Abercrombie & Fitch “Fierce” wafting into the mall. My fifth-grade mind had learned to associate this smell with attractive men shirtless on the beach, and preppy clothing galore. The smell of cardamom and citrus becomes even more pungent as I enter, my eyes adjusting to the dim lighting and taking in the upbeat pop music. It’s the definition of sensory overload. Before the obnoxiously attractive guy at the door can ask if I need any help, my friend already has her arm loaded with clothes to try on.

A few weeks ago, I was kneading bread and thinking about capitalism.

Redheads, of course, are not like other girls. In literature (and just maybe in life), red hair is an encoded promise to deliver the heroine from standard girlhood; it guarantees a life worth telling, implying that most girls’ are not. Redheaded heroines are witty, undaunted, independent, and bold, qualified for narrative-worthy lives which “other girls” can’t access.