It happened over a pile of garlic fries and a blue cheese "hill-billy" burger at the
Ram, right before Spring Break. My parents, tired (and admittedly worried) of my uncharacteristic moping, poor attitude, polar mood swings, and overall grumpiness, had decided to stage an intervention.
Being my parents, they of course knew that the best way to get me to engage with them was by appealing to my stomach...and/or by getting me riled up about political things that I care deeply about. Turns out, they got quite a bit of both that evening. Everything that had been weighing on my shoulders for the last few months since getting back to the States and all the thoughts that, unable to be released by an incredible plague of writer's block, remained trapped inarticulately in my mind, became topics of conversation that night.
We of course started out on the benign, safe, lovable, easy subjects like school and rowing, but it wasn't long until it turned towards a rehashing of recent news. My mom, the
Gladys Cravitz and gossip queen of my life, of course had to inquire into the relationship realm first: Had I talked with Phil since the breakup? (no) Did I want to? (yes) Would I? (probably not) Why? (because I had rationalized myself out of contacting him again, mainly because it still hurts. Plus, I was in the process of getting used to the fact that a lot of things in Jordan will always remind me of him/us. I'm okay with that. I want to heal. I know it was real...just not realistic I guess). My answers, much more calm and reasonable than the last tearful conversation, seemed to please my Mom. I could see her sizing me up with those all-knowing eyes, as she reached across the table to squeeze my hand.
Emotional grade? B+
It was an easy transition into talking about Jordan then of course, something that as I took a bite of my fatty burger seemed a long way off from the hummus and falafel of Hashem's. But I settled right into it. Jordan makes me think of sandstorms, long pants, Sanoodii wa ustrahtee, shai, Muna, Majd, my beloved neighborhood girls, CIEE staff, camels, Petra, Aqaba, taxis, taxi drivers, wandering through cities and getting lost, retracing my steps, walking with purpose like a local, speaking Arabic, thinking in Arabic, realizing that my English is now peppered with colloquial Arabic and thus getting odd looks from strangers...
I miss Jordan so much. Once I get started talking about it, I don't want to stop. It makes me ignore the glazed over faces of my listeners for just a few minutes longer than what is polite. But I can't help it. I know I'm teetering dangerously on the edge of romanticizing my experience there now that significant time has passed. I've been able to fall right back into expected social behaviors of the USA without consequence while living vicariously through the Facebook statuses of my CIEE friends who have stayed for another semester. It lets me smile and nod along, while lounging around my house in the USA in my usual sports bra and shorts (major
haram).
In any case, my parents are some of the few who don't glaze over when I tell them in no particular order more of my favorite stories. I also revisit my time with
IOM Iraq alot; how I lived the life of a professional adult, writing reports and conducting research that people usually get paid to do in their careers. I've had a taste of the future, and I want more. Because of my time with IOM and the U.S. Embassy in Harare I have begun to think of a career relating to international migration and protracted refugee conflicts. It's a relatively new and exciting field, one that is demanding experts, policy makers, and lawyers. I think I finally hear my calling. I tell my parents so. They look incredibly pleased that I've escaped the wishywashy meaning-of-life career limbos typical of a liberal arts student. I grin excitedly, but warn them I haven't made any promises.
Abroad experience/Future Plans Grade? A/A-
Finally, we discuss the politics of revolution sweeping across the Arab world. It's something I've followed on Al-Jazeera obsessively. It's distracted me in class, while rowing out on the river, and kept me from my homework. It's a movement I somehow feel tied to, as if the Egyptians' struggles are mine too. I know it sounds ridiculous. How can a white blonde American girl feel justified in "identifying" with the millions of impoverished and oppressed peoples in the Middle East? Around the world? Especially with the degree of privileges I benefit from. At its best, my "connection" is superficial, but I've ignored it and decided to let my overall identity as a human being overwhelm my doubts. Perhaps it was the eerie realization that the hostel I stayed in in August was literally 2 blocks from Tahrir Square. Perhaps it was thinking of the kind Egyptian men we chatted with who were genuine, kind, overwhelmingly generous and respectful. I don't really pray, but I prayed a couple nights thinking of these men, their faces in my mind with their families, for their safety.
Then there was increasing violence in Lebanon, another beautiful country that humored my love of culture and adventure. Photos revealed protesters in the very square in Tripoli where I ate baklava and caught the bus a month earlier. Beirut similarly became transformed into roadblocks, fiery tires, and protests. I was on edge as the weeks unfolded seeing how Jordan, my host-country, would respond. Then came the discussion of Palestine.
It was a series of issues that evolved into one of those typical heated family discussions that I love so much. My family is an incredibly loud force in public, considering its only the three of us. :) We stayed in the booth long after the couples and families in the surrounding booths departed, enjoying our conversation and the time together.
Political awareness/family bonding Grade? A (for effort)
Much has happened since that intervention, but it was a turning point in my reintegration in the USA. Until then I didn't really know where I belonged; or rather I felt like I belonged in too many places. It was with this realization that I found a label: I was experiencing the a full-blown 5 step grieving process of denial, sadness, anger, bargaining, and acceptance, with lots of nostalgia thrown into the mix. I had spent the last year and a half planning for the 8 months while abroad but hadn't considered an exit strategy.These places all became familiar to me and mark a stage of my life that I will never ever be able to return to. It was truly a once-in-a-lifetime series of events, people, places, and times. I am still coming to term with that, but am much more confident in finding a way to look forward now.
Who knew that my family and a massive dose of Americana would help push me over into the next part of my life... to the next horizon.
