Palestinian-Pennsylvanian: Reflections on My Heritage

parentals

I am the daughter of a Pennsylvanian woman and a Jordanian-Palestinian man.

On one side, I’ve been in America for several generations. On the other, I’m a first-generation American.

Mom and her family raised me. I didn’t even have my proper introduction to my father and his heritage until age 19, already fully developed and ingrained into my Pennsylvanian culture, preparing to navigate a culture foreign to my experience but natural to my bloodline.

Both sides lived lives of struggle and celebration, of keeping and losing land, of raising many children and living in close kinship with family.

Both sides lost the places they called “home,” one due to lack of proper funds and increasing age, the other as the result of colonialism and war.

Both have born the difficulties of maintaining peace of mind, body, and soul, for themselves and for their descendants. Both have sought “better” for themselves and their children, and both have discovered this road and these goals are not as precise as they had been told.

My mother and father left their own homes to seek their fortunes in Orlando, Florida. Mom returned to her family soon after my birth and stayed until she received her degree and found a job teaching in Virginia. Baba returns to his home sporadically due to distance and increased prices of airfare, sending money and visiting when he can, longing for the community he left and which I take for granted.

I know what it means to be Pennsylvanian. It’s eating corn on the cob with every meal in August, rooting for all the Pittsburgh teams no matter how the season fares, riding “quads” instead of ATVs, and drinking “pop” but never “soda.” It’s familiar. I can fall into its rhythms and norms easily.

Being Arabic is a different story, mainly because I don’t really know what it means to be Arabic, not culturally or even ethnically.

As a child, I knew my father came from Jordan, but I had no idea what their customs were, how different or similar they were to mine or my mom’s family. I found out Baba was a Muslim in Middle School when I found a Mecca necklace while snooping through Mom’s jewelry box. I did not know Mustafa was part of my name until I found it on the back of my baby picture hidden inside a “Baby’s 1st Christmas” ornament.

Being Pennsylvanian came laid out and ready for me to claim. It’s my upbringing and my inheritance. I know its stories like the back of my hand. I can recite several from memory without hesitation, with great joy and sorrow when necessary.

Being Arabic did not come for me. I had to seek and find this birthright of mine, and now I’m not even sure it’s mine to have anymore.

I only have an idea of the foods we eat and an even more limited knowledge of the language we speak, the clothes we wear, and the music we listen to. I have yet to set foot on the land taken from my family and the land we settled in our displacement.

Am I not Arabic? Am I only Pennsylvanian? Do I have claim to the inheritances of my mother and father, or only to my mother’s?

And what does it mean to even claim an inheritance you can’t touch but can only experience?

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