One dinner table for all
October 29th, 2003 byOn Tuesday evenings, the Catholic Campus Ministry offers Dollar Dinner; dinner, for a dollar, cooked by some local fraternity or sorority, whichever one is picked for redemption that week. We the student body oblige, cautiously.
I open my fast at 5:09PM, sitting in the department lounge on the old earl green couch. I’ve spent many a night crashing on this couch, late night sessions here. AP sits on the nearby table studying for her exam.
I have but a sip of water, and a fast hopefully accepted. I try to make some dua’s but my raised hands seem to capture so little, my begging hands empty of a cup to hold mercies in.
I wonder how much I just missed there.
We walk down the hill to church for dinner, me and AP. The cold crisp air feels sharper on an empty stomach, the sights louder, the sounds muted a little bit. It’s an interesting perception. Father Al greets us and his dog comes bounding out, a mad little Lassie. We have a strange relationship. I come by, I always raise my hand to pet her. My hand still unmoved, she bounds off. It’s a tradition. I love her from such a distance.
The taco salad is served by the organization of the week. They have no idea how to serve, we have no idea how to be served. Father Al pops in and out, dishing out advise on top each serving. He’s great. I’m supposed to finish reading Karen Armstrong’s History of God and discuss it with him. I’m still on the first chapter, the book lying on my side table next to Puzo’s Omerta and a cigar given as a gift. I’ve only touched one of them.
At dinner, I sit next to woman from Haiti, with her two daughters aged two and three. Playfully, I trick them into eating their veggies. Their silent half smiles, in awe of friendly strangers, I take as loud giggles unheard. It’s a secret language that everybody speaks.
“Where are you from?” the mother asks me.
I never have answer for this question. I always have to think of one. And I’m never satisfied with each new one.
“Virginia”, I finally answer after almost a minute of pregnant pause.
She looks at me, her eyebrows raised slightly, amusement flushing in and out.
“Where are you from. Originally.”
Ah. Caught. Stuck. Headlights on low intensity. I smile a little uncomfortably, knowing very well the answer expected of me and realizing that I will not give it. I tell her where my parents currently reside in the world, and leave it at that.
Throughout this entire ordeal, AP sits quietly next to me, her grin questioning but not asking. This identity, this background, this cultural baggage luggage that everyone else so easily tags with themselves, I wrestle with face to face, not letting it be my back|ground. I’m not in a rush to find the answer, no. I flex, and I will make it flex with me, whether it likes it or not. Insha-allah.
I’m more concerned about what she said to herself during dinner:
“No, this isn’t their plate. This one is. This one has the meat in it…”
I almost choked on my dinner then.
October 29th, 2003 at 1:31 pm
That “Where are you from?” question is one I constantly wrestle with myself. There never seems to be a good answer, a satisfactory one. Which reminds me, I have a post half-written about that, and forgot to complete it and put it up. Yet another thing to get to, one of these days.
But I don’t like labels, and it sometimes frustrates me that others so easily grasp onto the labels presented by asking the “Where are you from?” question, even if it’s in friendliness.
Sometimes I just tell people I’m from Zanzibar. “Yes, that’s a real country.” Ha.
October 29th, 2003 at 2:12 pm
i hate the idea of cultural baggage. maybe because i’ve only heard cultural baggage used in a negative sense by people generally looking to assimilate into one confused mess. nevertheless, it’s a way of disregarding the richness of what we inherit not only from our own parents but from our people and i dislike that it’s used that way.
October 29th, 2003 at 2:18 pm
That’s a good point Chai.
I’m not using the phrase “cultural baggage” to only associate with the negative attributes of any society. I’m just using it to refer to culture in general.
However, a change is in order. So I’ll instead use a different phrase. Perhaps that will work better.
October 29th, 2003 at 3:09 pm
Ha! I’m always tempted to allow the conversation to develop as follows:-
Them: Where are *you* from?
Me: Eng-er-land
Them: I meant *originally*
Me (rubbing my brown chin thoughtfuly): What do you mean originally, I’m WHITE!
Instead I turn into a fumbling, bumbling mess and avoid answering all together *sigh*
The only thing equally annoying is people not acknowledging that you are anything other than plain ‘white’. My nephew might (unfortunately) have that problem, what with his blonde hair, blue eyes and white skin. Not to mention the bizare looks and comments my sister gets.
Oops sorry, I always discuss myself on other peoples blogs! argh!
Another very well written post Waleed. I like this –> “Their silent half smiles, in awe of friendly strangers, I take as loud giggles unheard. It’s a secret language that everybody speaks.”
October 29th, 2003 at 9:11 pm
it’s just an opinion. you don’t have to appease the public.
October 29th, 2003 at 11:36 pm
It’s not appeasing, it’s learning and evolving, eh.
=)
October 29th, 2003 at 11:44 pm
learn THIS!
October 30th, 2003 at 12:33 am
I’m more concerned about what she said to herself during dinner:
“No, this isn’t their plate. This one is. This one has the meat in it…”
why did you choke when she said that?
October 30th, 2003 at 12:38 am
duh, he was choking on the meat!!
he had her plate…
what is your nationality Waleed?
October 30th, 2003 at 7:50 am
And I opened my fast at 5: 16 PM.
October 30th, 2003 at 11:39 am
wait, so her plate was supposed to have meat in it?
October 30th, 2003 at 12:59 pm
testing x 2
October 30th, 2003 at 1:01 pm
OH it WORKED.
FINALLY.
no really – FINALLY.
homie. i refuse to divulge my email address.
n of course now all the things i was going to say i no longer have the patience to type all up again -
except –
ramadan kareem all.
October 30th, 2003 at 4:24 pm
My parents are from the indian subcontinent.
Common Phatima, try a little harder. =) Yes, it’s required you put in your name and email addy. But you have urls you can chuck in there, I know you do. Ramadan mubarak to you too.
I almost choked because the woman, the mother, was sacrificing her food for the sake of her children.
There’s nothing abnormal about that, mothers are creatures of incredible strength and sacrifice.
I just didn’t expect to hear that, to be so close to such actions. It reminded me all too well of the bounty I am gifted with, and I say Alhamdulilah.
October 30th, 2003 at 5:30 pm
Adnan asked about nationality. Waleed, you answered with your ethnicity. One isn’t necessarily the same as the other, is it? I always find it interesting, in my own life experiences, that people constantly ask me for my nationality and then get all befuddled when I answer, “American.” That’s not what they meant. I know it, too. I just like being annoying like that.
October 30th, 2003 at 5:40 pm
Heh.
Well, I looked up what Nationality means.
And according to that definition then, I have none for I choose none.
This also goes back to what Yasmine was saying about labels being attached. I ask for none, so why pin some then?
I am, however, a citizen of a certain nation, as per law.
October 30th, 2003 at 7:26 pm
Why don’t you want to have a nationality? Is your nomadic lifestyle really so fun?
October 30th, 2003 at 10:39 pm
Yes yes, it is that much fun actually Faiza.
It. just. is.