LDena ian K Dhalaf uchinTR uffaha eed
America Teaches Me About My Self I.
Whose English Is It Anyway?
My English is a source of great consternation. I speak it well in spite of. In spite of includes but is not limited to: heritage religion geography – corporeal, territorial. Americans are trying to understand me and I get the feeling they want that effort to be acknowledged. I begin to realize that my English is more than my language, my unaccented stealth arrival in locations normally peopled by How to put it politely? The soft spear of what kind of immigrant doesn’t need to be taught how to speak? II. Weaponized The human mind can learn multiple languages in early childhood. No need to wrestle with identity politics too early, just offer your babies the world. By age six a window closes and the mind wants to consolidate. Already we’re taking stock, choosing tribes. I remember my mother’s voice singing a Fairuz lullaby amara ya amara come down from the treetops, little moon. I could hear the rumble of kh at the back of her throat, but couldn’t reproduce it. When she took me home 74
Crab Creek Review
Lena SKteven halaf S Tanchez uffaha to visit her family, my khaltos, the consonants I could not form were the subject of much charmed giggling. Amerkaniyyeh they said lovingly, little girl with plodding American sounds. With time and lullabies the sounds had a chance to take root. I became the girl who could land a resounding qaaf, or soften it to sound like my Syrian grandmother. An Arab girl who could recite the Qur’an according to the proper rules, who could build towering vowels for the sacred to echo inside of them. Arab girl who, years later in America after the first of many wars, heard the young army recruiter on the phone stumble over the “kh” in her last name: “Ms. Khalaf, your Arabic language skills are a great asset. You could be of use to your country. “ III. Neighborly Our neighbor’s name is Jane. She always seems to be asking questions for which there are no answers. I grew up thinking of her as Jane, the American. In college I learned that this is absurd. This prevents me from thinking of myself as American. Denies that most of us immigrated we aren’t entitled to that name, none of us are native to this land. The truth is when I say American I mean white. In America I learned that this is absurd. This prevents me from thinking of myself and all the other people who aren’t white as American. Denies that Crab Creek Review
75
LRena enéeKM. halaf Schell Tuffaha this country is home to many, who have chosen it and who have been torn out of their homes and enslaved by it, who have thrived in it and who barely survive it. The truth is when I say White I mean people like Jane, with her endless questions. Jane who gives me a ride to school sometimes while my mother is at work teaching English to secondlanguage speakers, children of the newest Americans, Jane whose husband’s raging voice makes the branches of the apple trees between our American houses tremble, Jane who asks, when I remain silent in the car because I learned from my mother that it is absurd to explain your humanity to someone who can’t plainly see it “Do you find that your culture makes you reticent?” IV. Solidarity It always begins with a question. The person facing you may not realize a neon halo shimmers above her head as she gropes for evidence. How the room you’re in becomes the interrogation chamber, how she is comfortable beneath the single distended bulb, your life a file with claims for her to assess.
76
Crab Creek Review
Lena Khalaf Logan Tuffaha Seidl “I’m having trouble believing any woman would choose that.” Woman from inside of what could be the closest embrace, our same bodies shamed, hunted. How quickly the sound of our heartbeats is smothered by the color of our skin. A chorus assures you she means no harm, this asking for evidence, this lusting for what aches inside of you. A chorus assures you she does not need you broken, does not need a wound, only the trickle of blood.
Crab Creek Review
77
