For the Sonorous

I left my home in Egypt in the middle of the third grade, so when I made it to New York, I was plunged into not only a new school, but also a new environment. At nine years old, I couldn’t speak the language. I understood English, but there’s a difference between understanding a language and speaking it. There is an ineffable quality to the “language barrier.” I could know all the definitions of a word but fail to use it in a coherent sentence.

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I spent months just watching everyone and listening to everything. The entire experience was different. I was on the outside of a city that let anyone in—no matter the race, gender, or, sexuality. I had to do my part to fit in. I would go home everyday and look up a new word I had heard that day, or one I couldn’t get across. For years I repeated that process. I learned new words and new ways to use them, new cultures and new traditions. I remember it was fun, the learning. I remember having difficulty understanding how the same word could mean different things in different contexts. What I don’t remember is how I finally found my place in this city, or when I started thinking in English rather than Arabic. For the longest time I was entranced with the learning process, the breaking down of all those sounds and their meanings. I learned a little each day, until I finally felt like I belonged.

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I thought for so long that I had fought for my place here. That my parents fought for their place here, and that we had earned our spot. We weren’t outsiders. I thought I had earned my place when I made a friend in America all on my own. When I gained the ability to read big, hundred-page books cover to cover. When my mom and my sister came home as American-citizens for the first-time, and when I was sworn in and held my navy-blue passport for the first time.

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But here I am again. Back where I started, as distanced as the Earth and the Stars.

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I sat on election night 2016 for hours on end watching the big screen. I didn’t feel outside before that day. I was part of the movement against the bigotry and the hate. I sat then fighting for a cause, fighting against the hate, fighting for justice and equality for all. In America people have the right to hate, to say whatever they want, and to put down whoever they please, but why do so? I watched the election unfold like a nightmare, thinking is this what has become of us, so overcome by hate that we must force it, force its burden, upon others? I didn’t feel outside then, but today I do.

Today I am not fighting bigotry and hate, because today I know bigotry and hate don’t fight; they be. We can see them or we can choose to look the other way. Then and today, they’ve revealed themselves, and their presence leaves me speechless.

I read a story about a girl who lived here her whole life, and never felt out of place, but she now wonders if half the country doesn’t want her here. I find myself wondering the same. Have I fooled myself and led myself to believe that I am an American? In the depth of my heart I always felt like my home isn’t here, but I thought I could build one here. Is that no longer true?

In my language there is a word for a person living away from their country, an immigrant life; one in “غربة.” It’s such a lonely word, and I’ve never liked it. It implies solitude, being away from those you care about, being alone in a strange place. To my knowledge, there is no equal for it in the American language. I had taken that to mean that anyone could belong here. Somewhere along the line I thought I had left that word behind, like so many others—that I belonged here. I am now starting to see an alternative truth.