Crossing

My father came to this country in 1976,

twenty-something years old and in a new home

half a world away from anything he knew.

He crossed a border as a young man

from Ferzol, Lebanon to Mankato, Minnesota,

Arabic to English, fasulia to french fries.

With a 9-to-5 job, a wife, two kids, and a suburban lawn,

he seems like a pretty All-American guy.

But I know better. 

On Saturdays he calls his brothers and sisters

and from my bedroom I can hear nothing but beautiful Arabic words

drifting through the thin walls.

In the evenings he cooks Lubi, though the neighbors grill hot dogs,

and the aromas of cinnamon, tomatoes, and green beans swarm the kitchen.

He turns on the TV and watches intently with a worried face

as the newscasters hurry through the turmoil in the Middle East

so that they can move on to more important news about Paris Hilton or college basketball.

Lebanon and America are my father’s two homes.

He fits in in both places, but doesn’t fully belong in either anymore.

My father is a border dweller,

living in one land and feeling in another.

My life is a borderland, too –

between body and brain, between sight and sense.

You see, I received Barbies and pink dresses for Christmas,

but I preferred to sneak into my brother’s room

to play with his toy cars and try on his clip-on First Communion tie.

As a teenager I sat on the sidelines, silent –

the synchronized swimmer who was teased about bushy eyebrows and lack of makeup,

who wanted to go to Prom in a suit but was told it wasn’t allowed.

The girl who wore the boys’ uniform to Catholic school

and baffled and angered the folks at Sunday Mass.

A sad, confused, desperate kid,

with a pocketknife in my hand, hotline numbers in my pocket,

and a calm, hopefully-convincing smile on my face.

I shift daily, ready to jump into those male or female boxes

whenever safety or discomfort necessitates it,

though I don’t really belong in either one.

When my parents are away I feel free to express,

to bind my chest and pack and pass

and see how many times I get thrown out of ladies’ rooms.

Or men’s rooms, for that matter.

But when they’re home, I’m daughter not son.

Stuck on one side of the gender line,

desperate to make a crossing

from pink to blue, girl to never-woman,

she to ze to he to fuck it, just me!

See, I understand my father, though he doesn’t yet understand me.

I understand that it’s tough to live in a world that only sees what it wants to see,

that it hurts to be attacked but hurts worse to be ignored,

that it’s hard to be a contradiction in these times and places.

An Arab-American in a time of war and prejudice.

A genderqueer boy born girl in a place of intolerance.

A person crossing over, just trying to find somewhere to belong.