Too Arab to be American; too American to be Arab.

For some reason, these two phrases seem much truer from Doha, QA than anywhere else.
In America, I knew who I was. I was an Arab American, and I never had to question that identity. Other families like me existed, and I grew up with other kids (both Christian and Muslim) who felt the same way.
Now Portland, Oregon is no Dearborn, Michigan or Anaheim, California, but its Arab American community was still alive and well, though sometimes divided.
Although everyone in the room felt a connection to the movie ‘Amreeka.’ It tugged at my heartstrings because so many of the conversations of the Halaby household were near and dear to my own family, friends, and community as we dealt with the American post 9/11 atmosphere, especially after the invasion of Iraq.
In fourth grade, this one kid would consistently taunt me and question both my Arabness and Americanness. I remember listening to several of his class presentations that dealt with American weapons and military technology. I felt sickened, but also incredibly misunderstood. In retrospect, I am assuming that he bought into the culture of fear. The culture of fear is very difficult to swallow if one cannot trust the leaders who are orchestrating the media around it.
Around me, few other classmates seemed skeptical about the events leading up to the invasion of Iraq. This skepticism and disregard seemed to continue all the way into high school.
Meanwhile, my dad and I went to peace rallies, and anti-war marches. I remember coming home with a collection of pins and slogans; one read, “Inspections work. War won’t.”

I spent a good deal of high school trying, in my own way, to raise awareness about Arab issues. My high school had two other Arab families.
My school newspaper gave me a voice. I wrote a few op-eds, and co-wrote an article about protests of the Gaza bombardment. Activism wasn’t the hip and happening trend at the time.
In our US history class, I remember delivering an impassioned rebuttal against the PATRIOT Act, to which one classmate responded, “Does it really matter if your phone is being wiretapped? As long as you don’t say anything bad, what do you have to worry about?” This real or perceived threat was quite sickening. Was I supposed to let my civil liberties as an American citizen fly out the window?! Something didn’t add up.

We criticized Senator Joe McCarthy and the House of Un-American Activities Committee in the same history class. History repeats itself, over and over and over, yet people don’t learn. New era. New target. Old tactics.

Mass media, and the violent terrorist image frustrated me to no end. I began to seek out other portrayals of Arabs. When I thought of the best movie portrayal of my family, “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” came into mind. But they were Greek. Until watching “Amreeka,” I wasn’t sure if that televised family existed.
I sought out Arab American literature, and found one of my favorite books at the time. “The Ten Things I Hate About Me” features a lead character by the name of Jamie. She is a 1st generation Lebanese Australian, and her real name is Jamilah. She was my alter ego in fictional form.

In addition, before there was FouseyTube, we had Remy, and his awesome songs about everything from Two Percent Milk to Hummus.



I think this is why I love the idea of narrative control so much. It not only sends out a true portrayal of one ethnic group to a large audience, but it also provides comfort and truth to the group that gets narrated.