La Crise d'Identité

Every writer needs their inspiration. 

That’s what I’ve been looking for, relentlessly, since my arrival at American University. 

I guess you could say that I was enlightened. 

Having lived in Delaware for nine or so years, I knew nothing other than the monotonous drone of rural life. It was pure boredom-- a slow-paced and exasperating routine. 

I would wake up, get ready, and stand outside my neighborhood at 6:45 every morning to wait for the yellow vehicle of doom (known to those less cynical people as the “school bus”) that shuttled me to my imminent ennui. An hour and a half later, after that dreadfully bumpy, rough and frankly enraging commute, I would shuffle out, already frustrated with my day. 

After seven hours of pointless worksheets (that’s right, worksheets-- the intelligence of today’s youth is seriously underestimated) it was straight to sports practice for me. 

Then, after an entire day of being talked at by people with southern accents, the very same yellow vehicle of doom would take me home. 

Dinner would be there, on the table, thanks to my loving mother. Homework came next-- lots of homework. Oh, I guess I might have taken a shower in between there somewhere too. 

Finally, exhausted from the day-after-day repetition of those daily activities, I would collapse onto my bed and fall into a deep, blissful, and dreamless sleep. Emphasis on dreamless. 

I may have forgotten to mention something: I’m not American. 

Well, technically. But then again... who is? We’re the melting pot, right? All people, regardless of ethnicity, race, gender or color aspire to live the American dream. It’s just the cool thing to do these days. 

I was born in Beirut, Lebanon. My parents brought me here when I was little to escape the civil war that was plaguing our country at the time. I guess that was a smart move... I don’t think I would have liked growing up in a bomb shelter. 

Actually, yes. I would have loved it. Don’t get me wrong, I swear I’m not some insane sadist. I wouldn’t like the actual act of living in a bomb shelter, hiding in fear and apprehension-- but just the memory of it. It would add to my identity as a purely Lebanese woman, you know?

No... I guess you don’t. 

You see, before I came to American University in Washington, D.C., I was perfectly fine with being “American”-- after all, I grew up here, and I knew nothing else. I had only been to Beirut a few times since we moved to the United States. I was at peace with the fact that I could make myself blend into my culturally lacking surroundings in rural Delaware. That was before I knew that “diversity” actually existed in some places. 

It was complete culture shock. I was blown away by it. 

Arabs of all shades and colors, Europeans, Latinos, Africans, Asians, Indians... Holy cow. It was like a mass invasion of foreign aliens. And I was loving it. The way they walked in their little cliques, still immersed in overseas culture, taking great pride in where they came from... it was beautiful. It was inspiring, really. 

It made me realize something-- I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to be labeled “American.” I wanted to be defined by the beautiful and mysterious country that my family once called “home.” I was Lebanese, nothing else. 

One of the many advantages to my growing up in a Lebanese household was the gift of language. I speak English, French, Arabic, and Spanish. In Delaware, I was a genius. It was simply unheard of for anyone to be a polyglot. I was known as the girl of many tongues (and that is NOT to be taken literally, so please calm down gentlemen).  

Oh, how I wish that were the case in D.C. There, people scoff at mono-linguists. Sure Sarah, you speak a few languages. Big whoop, so does everyone else. 

I wanted to be foreign. I wanted everyone to know that I wasn’t from here. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops (cliché, I know). I wanted to be... unique. 

But who am I kidding? I’m not Lebanese. I grew up here, in the organized, clean, and powerful States. Not in the battle-worn, chaotic, and breathtakingly beautiful mountains of the ever-enigmatic Beirut. I speak English with no Arab accent (incidentally, I would like to take this opportunity to inform those avid movie-watchers that native Arabs do NOT speak English with British accents... Hollywood can be excruciatingly inaccurate sometimes). I have an American driver’s license, and an American permanent residency card. I have never had the fear that my mom wouldn’t come back from the grocery store because of some hostile roadside bombing. I have been safe, protected, and blessed with this life in America. The sky-high obesity rates, severe national deficit, financially-fueled and somewhat corrupt politics, scandalous media, and back-breaking tuition prices... all of it. I love it. God Bless America. 

So I guess I’m pretty darn United Statesian (United Statesanese?). But then again... I don’t speak English in my house. I eat Lebanese food. I grew up with classical Lebanese ideals. My collegiate studies are all centered around the Middle East and its glorious inner struggle. I am very possessive of my Lebanese identity. I want to work for CNN Beirut, for goodness’ sake. It’s what I do, and it’s who I am. I’ll never let it fade. 

So, in a sense, I’m a two-sided human being. I grew up in the American way of life, but I still refuse to let go of my-- for lack of a better adjective-- Lebaneseness. 

So, what does that make me?

Well, I guess it makes me..... The non-American, American girl? The non-Lebanese, Lebanese girl?

No... I am the Lebanese American. 

And there are thousands, millions more out there, just like me, torn between two cultures. I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to make a choice. You don’t have to be one or the other. Not many people can say that they’re from two places. 

You can be it all. Embrace it.