Belly dancing, dabke, manakish, Fairouz, karke. This is my culture. This is who I once was, who I was born to be. Lebanese born and raised, yet there is hardly a trace. Lost, lost, lost. Who have I become? An American. I am an American, not by birth right or by nationality, but by nature.
I departed from Lebanon approximately 10 years ago, but the proud Lebanese girl I once was stayed behind. As the years went by, the little girl with the Middle Eastern accent gradually disappeared. I am still proud of my Lebanese roots, as I always have been, but ever since I moved here, I have been subconsciously transforming. My transformation was not triggered by shame, but rather by necessity. The necessity of belonging.
Being Lebanese while living in America is a foreign concept. America is the country of immigrants, so why is it that I always felt so out of place? I was alone. Through all my years of living here, I have only had one Lebanese friend, and I hardly ever spend time around Lebanese people. My friends have been very diverse through the years, but all of them had something in common: They were Americanized.
Maybe it was that I wanted to fit in, or maybe it was just that I did not know any other way to be. I moved here at a young age, so my recollection of my childhood, of my culture specifically, is quite vague. I forgot how to be Lebanese. I almost wanted to forget how because I did not know that being different was OK.
I have never felt as detached from my people as I do now. My parents, although far more American than they once were, still try to keep my family's Lebanese roots alive. Unfortunately, since I am away at college, I am no longer able to witness their tireless effort to keep us from forgetting where we come from. Here, I am just a Lebanese born American. I have their hair, their fair skin, their accent, their interests and their pride. "USA! USA! USA!" I chant as I cheer on their soccer team.
This summer, I am going to visit my homeland, and I will be a foreigner once again. When I am there, I will be looked at as an American, as someone who does not belong. My love for Lebanese culture will never die, but I am now an outsider in my own world. People will laugh at my heavy tongue when I speak Arabic, and I will have to be taught, once again, what it means to be Lebanese. Lost, lost, lost. This is the only word to describe what I feel. The only word to describe what has happened to my roots, to my culture.
