I came across this article today entitled: We Are Not All Africans, Black People Are! (http://www.thoughtleader.co.za/sentletsediakanyo/2010/12/28/we-are-not-all-africans-black-people-are/) which both enraged me, and dumbfounded me at the same time. I am used to reading and hearing racist remarks from White people about Africans. It is very rare that I encounter racism, or reverse racism from “African” people.
To sum up this guy’s idiotic rants; he is basically making the argument that only black people are African. North Africans are by no means African since they are the product of colonialism and slavery. In a few sentences he managed to dismiss an entire history of North Africans, including Egyptians, as a people rightfully belonging to the African continent, and entitled by birth to the title “African”.
What do I care, right? Egyptians after all are Arabs, right? WRONG!! Despite populist propaganda dating back to the 1950s, the majority of Egyptians do not particularly identify as “Arabs”. I know a lot of people will disagree with me on this, and we can spend hours, if not days and weeks, arguing about Egyptian Arab identity. Whatever the argument, one cannot claim that Egyptians are simply-and only Arab. We speak Arabic, and the majority are Muslims, but that hardly rests the case. Egyptians also have 7000 years of heritage and historical ties to the African continent; we have traditions that are not Arab or Muslim in nature in any way shape or form; our colloquial everyday Egyptian-Arabic language structure is more Coptic than it is Arabic; Coptic, is not only just a “Christian” religion, but an Egyptian language and identity, that, whether we recognize it or not in modern day Egypt, we cannot deny that it impacts and influences our culture and traditions.
So, why am I so bothered by this? After all, I don’t live in Egypt, I don’t claim to be Arab, I’m hardly “black”, and I live in the Midwest of the United States of America.
I am bothered because I personally identify as both Egyptian, and African; and I do not think I am the only one. As an immigrant, I can tell you that I have struggled with formulating and holding on to my identity as an individual over the past 10 years. Initially as an asylum seeker, I had to deal with a crisis of identity, as I was seeking protection from the country and culture with which I identified for two decades of my existence. Later on as a permanent resident in the U.S. I had to carve out a identity for myself as I was neither an Egyptian, nor an American. Now, as I citizen of the United States of America, I am an American, but I also cherish and pride myself on my Egyptian heritage and upbringing, no matter how much I disagree and despise some of the cultural aspects I was brought up in.
I am also bothered by this de-Africanization of the Egyptians in this article, because, as an immigrant, and as a U.S. citizen, I have been forced by the U.S. government to identify as “White” on all official documents, from naturalization certificate, to passport, to social security forms, to the census. Apparently, the “ government defines White people as "people having origins in any of the original people of Europe, the Middle East, or North Africa.” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_American). How in the world did people from North Africa came to be lumped up in the same classification as people from Europe, I have no idea. Historically, while having some similarities due to colonialism, North Africans are far removed culturally, and socially from Europeans. I refuse to use skin color as a means of classification since there are white, black, yellow, red North Africans and Europeans. So, “White” hardly fits the bill! So, while I find the terms “White” and “Black” in and of themselves limited and idiotic classifications, I understand that they are necessary evils. However, if we are going to categorize, then we should exercise a little bit more scrutiny.
As I write this, a friend commented to me that the concept at play here is “continental”. I do agree since logic dictates that people from one continent should be referenced as belonging to that geographic location. Ergo, Egyptian is African, Indian=Asian, Lebanese=Asian, Namibian=African, Brazilian=South American, Dutch=European, Mexican=American, and so on and so forth. We cannot dismiss Egyptians from being African because they live up there at the north east tip of the continent and were conquered by the Arabs, British, and the French, and speak Arabic and the majority are Muslims. Egyptians are African, and a large number of them, if we are going to go by the color of their skin, are in fact black. If you examine history also, you will notice that Egypt extended far into “Sub” Saharan Africa, far beyond what its modern borders are today. Heck, just to be facetious (and at the risk of making a racial generalization), if you go by the size of my ass, then I am black too!
Dismissing Egyptians, Algerians, Tunisians, Moroccans, and Libyans as African is like cutting off a huge chunk of the history of human civilization. That said, the larger issue at hand here is our obsession with these moronic classifications in our desperate attempts to carve out our national and human identity in an increasingly globalized world. I cannot begin to address this issue here, but hope to one day. In the meantime, we should give some thought to the idea that we should shed these obsolete and moronic classifications, for a more general terminology. Since we as a people are obsessed with label, I vote for “Human” as the next classification. I know, I know, it is too idealistic, and even naive, but it is the only label that we, as a race, can agree on, for now.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
The Company Man
It is a very rare occurrence that I cry in movies. If and when that happens it almost never happens in public, or I will never admit it. I have no shame in crying during a movie, I just don’t want to go through the trouble of explaining to whomever is sitting next to me why I am crying. So, I was shocked the other day when a movie trailer (not even the actual movie) made me tear up at the movie theater. It came out of nowhere. There I was munching on stale popcorn and waiting for the movie to start when the trailer came on. A few seconds later I was sniffling and quickly wiping a tear from my eye and pretending it did not just happen.
Of course, the sheer horror of crying because of a movie trailer was compounded by the nature of the trailer itself. It was a Ben Affleck, Kevin Costner, Tommy Lee Jones movie for (insert preferred deity here)’s sake! The movie is called The Company Men, and Affleck plays a “corporate hotshot who loses everything after he's fired. Costner plays his brother-in-law, an ordinary guy who installs drywall, and gives his brother a construction job.” (http://moviesblog.mtv.com/) So, far it looks like another annoying Ben Affleck movie that will most probably flop in theaters because he sucks as an actor and is never believable in anything he is involved in. It was the tag line at the end of the trailer that got me though:
“In America, we give our lives to our jobs…it’s time to take them back.”
Yes, I know, it is completely super cheesy, you can almost see the Velveeta dripping off of it, but it definitely rang a bell for me.
Thinking about this tag line made me reflect back on the almost ten year that have passed since I packed up my bags and moved across the pond. I am 31 years old now and eons away from the almost 22 year old that had no plans and no clue what he wants to do with his life when he moved here. All I cared about back then was to safely get away from the campaign of persecution and intolerance the Egyptian government was raging against gay men. Some of my friends were arrested, and lots more had their lives ruined in a senseless crusade of hate. I packed up my bags and moved here on June 11, 2001 (the day Timothy McVeigh was executed). I had no plans, and only $500 to my name. I made this money by selling some of my belongings the month before. If it weren’t for the grace and love of my American family (the family that hosted me when I was an exchange student five years earlier) I would not have been able to be here today.
In American we give our lives to our jobs...
I spent the first two years here changing my residency status and getting a work permit. Nothing beats down a man’s soul than the feeling of a lack of purpose and inability to be productive. I felt like a waste of space during that time of my life. I could not work, and I could not make money. I had the fortune of having a roof over my head and food on the table. I spent my days helping around the house, and dating a guy who had “mistake” written all over him (that’s a story for another day).
My life changed when in 2003 I finally landed my very first job. I was a 23 year old university graduate, with a degree in political science from Egypt’s most prestigious and expensive university. But, 8000 miles away that doesn’t mean diddlysquat. I started my job as a night clerk at a White Hen Pantry about half a mile away from my (host) family’s house in the Chicago suburbs. It was a convenient job because I did not have a car and could just walk to and from work.
I needed the money, and it was a job! There is nothing wrong with any job as long as it is legal and it makes a man feel like he is worth something—anything! I made big bucks back then too. For someone who made nothing for two years, $7 an hour made a big difference. I took over the cash register at 10pm, learned to stock the fridge, mop the floor, clean the slicer, and of course make coffee and stock the donuts. I racked up experience talking to stoned and drunk people at 2 AM, and turning down underage patrons trying to buy booze and cigarettes. But, most of all, I learned to appreciate my life, appreciate the people I worked with, and count my blessings. I even made it up to $7.50 after just a couple of months.
There are so many stories I could recount about my coworkers. There was Annie (or as I called her Snaggle Tooth Annie because she didn’t have a single tooth that wasn’t rotted and pointy like stalactites). Snaggle Tooth Annie was a nice simple woman who was more or less uneducated and had no idea what a mammogram was. She thought I had a crush on her too, which is both funny, and revolting at the same time. There was also Mary who had thin but BIG 80s hair, heavy eyeliner, and mascara that clumped her eyelashes together and made them look like daggers protruding out of her eyeballs. Mary loved hairspray and would hit the hairspray bottles on the shelves to reinforce her bleached out mane when the owner wasn’t around. Good times!
In American we give our lives to our jobs...
Things changed for the better when Matthew came into my life. Meeting him, and falling in love with him, gave me just the boost and motivation I needed. I sent out resumes and hit the temp agencies until I landed a couple of temp positions. I also applied for grad school, bought my first car, and actually started to built some credit. After all, I don’t exist here if I don’t have credit.
It was less than I year later when both Matthew and I moved in together in Chicago. We both said goodbye to the suburbs and living with family, and started on the path of independence and building our careers; he as a teacher, and I as a graduate student at DePaul. We bought our own non-hand-me-down furniture, bought a new (well, newer) car, and carved out a life for ourselves. I went to class, worked part time, and started thinking about the career I wanted to have. I had grand ideas about getting a PhD and teaching, but two years in grad school lessened my resolve of more studying and living on grants and ramen noodles for 10 years.
I got a job in cultural exchange in an international non-profit and started making more money. A year later we actually bought our first place together and life couldn’t be better. I had succeeded in attaining the American Dream. Hard work had paid off and now I was on top of the world. All in all, it was a fairytale come true. Poor immigrant works hard, becomes successful, finds love, buys a house, a dog (3 dogs actually), and lives happily ever after.
Yes, I am incredibly lucky; I could even be the poster child for the American Dream. Around four years ago my boss at the time asked me if I thought the American Dream was dead. It was a discussion we were having during our department retreat while having lunch at Millennium Park. I remember being horrified at the thought. For, there I was proof that one can pull themselves up by their bootstraps and make something of themselves. The American Dream was alive and kicking.
In American we give our lives to our jobs...
It is the end of 2010, I am 31, and just became a United States citizen six month ago. I have truly entered a new chapter in my life, and I am constantly freaked out about it. I have been contemplating so many questions over the past few months and I am nowhere near an answer than I was earlier this year.
When I took that oath of citizenship I swore off allegiance to any foreign sovereignty (or potentate). I basically swore off my past and took on a new identity. Yes, of course, one can never really “swear off” their past since it is part of my history, and my character. But, in a way, I was swearing off the past, and looking towards a brighter, more promising future in a new home that holds endless potential and promises for those strong and resilient enough to work for it. Since then, I have found myself contemplating such existential questions as: who am I really? What have I accomplished so far? Am I on the right path? Have I made the right decisions? My career clock is ticking and I need to find answers right now!!
Over the past year I have seen more gray sprouting all over my head and beard. Other than vanity, I find this very troubling since it serves as a reminder that I am getting older and I need to start figuring this shit out soon. I am struggling to find fulfillment in my life. I have concentrated on nothing over the past 10 years than doing what people expect me to do…get a job, a career, and build that tidy white picket fence around my life for all to admire and covet.
Now, as another year is approaching, I am pondering my accomplishments and second guessing my decisions. I am questioning my career choices and wondering if I have made the right decisions all this time. I have always said that I want a career that would allow me to make a positive difference in the world—this non-profit, international education, cultural exchange, peace, love and all that jazz. But, did I really mean, a career that makes a difference in the world, or a career that makes a difference for me? This whole idea of a career and making something out of myself has been embedded in my head all my life, because this is what we do where I come from. You are born, you go to school, you get excellent grades, you go to more school, you graduate, you get a job in some fancy shmancy something or other, or you take over the family business, get married, pop out boat load of kids, send them to school…etc. Your life is designed for you; it is what you are expected to do, and it is what most people do. There is no plan for gay immigrants turned citizens who don’t want kids, and do not want to follow in their father’s footsteps and take over the family business.
In the absence of a grand design, I have made it up as I go along. I have given the past few years of my life to my job that I don’t know what I would do without it. I don’t have a hobby, I don’t have many friends that are near and dear to me, and I spend eight hours of my day wondering to myself “is this it?”
I don’t want this to be it! But I don’t have a plan “B” either. I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up; and when I grow up, I don’t know if I will like the answer either. But come hell or high water, I better figure it out.
…it’s time to take[my life] back.”
Of course, the sheer horror of crying because of a movie trailer was compounded by the nature of the trailer itself. It was a Ben Affleck, Kevin Costner, Tommy Lee Jones movie for (insert preferred deity here)’s sake! The movie is called The Company Men, and Affleck plays a “corporate hotshot who loses everything after he's fired. Costner plays his brother-in-law, an ordinary guy who installs drywall, and gives his brother a construction job.” (http://moviesblog.mtv.com/) So, far it looks like another annoying Ben Affleck movie that will most probably flop in theaters because he sucks as an actor and is never believable in anything he is involved in. It was the tag line at the end of the trailer that got me though:
“In America, we give our lives to our jobs…it’s time to take them back.”
Yes, I know, it is completely super cheesy, you can almost see the Velveeta dripping off of it, but it definitely rang a bell for me.
Thinking about this tag line made me reflect back on the almost ten year that have passed since I packed up my bags and moved across the pond. I am 31 years old now and eons away from the almost 22 year old that had no plans and no clue what he wants to do with his life when he moved here. All I cared about back then was to safely get away from the campaign of persecution and intolerance the Egyptian government was raging against gay men. Some of my friends were arrested, and lots more had their lives ruined in a senseless crusade of hate. I packed up my bags and moved here on June 11, 2001 (the day Timothy McVeigh was executed). I had no plans, and only $500 to my name. I made this money by selling some of my belongings the month before. If it weren’t for the grace and love of my American family (the family that hosted me when I was an exchange student five years earlier) I would not have been able to be here today.
In American we give our lives to our jobs...
I spent the first two years here changing my residency status and getting a work permit. Nothing beats down a man’s soul than the feeling of a lack of purpose and inability to be productive. I felt like a waste of space during that time of my life. I could not work, and I could not make money. I had the fortune of having a roof over my head and food on the table. I spent my days helping around the house, and dating a guy who had “mistake” written all over him (that’s a story for another day).
My life changed when in 2003 I finally landed my very first job. I was a 23 year old university graduate, with a degree in political science from Egypt’s most prestigious and expensive university. But, 8000 miles away that doesn’t mean diddlysquat. I started my job as a night clerk at a White Hen Pantry about half a mile away from my (host) family’s house in the Chicago suburbs. It was a convenient job because I did not have a car and could just walk to and from work.
I needed the money, and it was a job! There is nothing wrong with any job as long as it is legal and it makes a man feel like he is worth something—anything! I made big bucks back then too. For someone who made nothing for two years, $7 an hour made a big difference. I took over the cash register at 10pm, learned to stock the fridge, mop the floor, clean the slicer, and of course make coffee and stock the donuts. I racked up experience talking to stoned and drunk people at 2 AM, and turning down underage patrons trying to buy booze and cigarettes. But, most of all, I learned to appreciate my life, appreciate the people I worked with, and count my blessings. I even made it up to $7.50 after just a couple of months.
There are so many stories I could recount about my coworkers. There was Annie (or as I called her Snaggle Tooth Annie because she didn’t have a single tooth that wasn’t rotted and pointy like stalactites). Snaggle Tooth Annie was a nice simple woman who was more or less uneducated and had no idea what a mammogram was. She thought I had a crush on her too, which is both funny, and revolting at the same time. There was also Mary who had thin but BIG 80s hair, heavy eyeliner, and mascara that clumped her eyelashes together and made them look like daggers protruding out of her eyeballs. Mary loved hairspray and would hit the hairspray bottles on the shelves to reinforce her bleached out mane when the owner wasn’t around. Good times!
In American we give our lives to our jobs...
Things changed for the better when Matthew came into my life. Meeting him, and falling in love with him, gave me just the boost and motivation I needed. I sent out resumes and hit the temp agencies until I landed a couple of temp positions. I also applied for grad school, bought my first car, and actually started to built some credit. After all, I don’t exist here if I don’t have credit.
It was less than I year later when both Matthew and I moved in together in Chicago. We both said goodbye to the suburbs and living with family, and started on the path of independence and building our careers; he as a teacher, and I as a graduate student at DePaul. We bought our own non-hand-me-down furniture, bought a new (well, newer) car, and carved out a life for ourselves. I went to class, worked part time, and started thinking about the career I wanted to have. I had grand ideas about getting a PhD and teaching, but two years in grad school lessened my resolve of more studying and living on grants and ramen noodles for 10 years.
I got a job in cultural exchange in an international non-profit and started making more money. A year later we actually bought our first place together and life couldn’t be better. I had succeeded in attaining the American Dream. Hard work had paid off and now I was on top of the world. All in all, it was a fairytale come true. Poor immigrant works hard, becomes successful, finds love, buys a house, a dog (3 dogs actually), and lives happily ever after.
Yes, I am incredibly lucky; I could even be the poster child for the American Dream. Around four years ago my boss at the time asked me if I thought the American Dream was dead. It was a discussion we were having during our department retreat while having lunch at Millennium Park. I remember being horrified at the thought. For, there I was proof that one can pull themselves up by their bootstraps and make something of themselves. The American Dream was alive and kicking.
In American we give our lives to our jobs...
It is the end of 2010, I am 31, and just became a United States citizen six month ago. I have truly entered a new chapter in my life, and I am constantly freaked out about it. I have been contemplating so many questions over the past few months and I am nowhere near an answer than I was earlier this year.
When I took that oath of citizenship I swore off allegiance to any foreign sovereignty (or potentate). I basically swore off my past and took on a new identity. Yes, of course, one can never really “swear off” their past since it is part of my history, and my character. But, in a way, I was swearing off the past, and looking towards a brighter, more promising future in a new home that holds endless potential and promises for those strong and resilient enough to work for it. Since then, I have found myself contemplating such existential questions as: who am I really? What have I accomplished so far? Am I on the right path? Have I made the right decisions? My career clock is ticking and I need to find answers right now!!
Over the past year I have seen more gray sprouting all over my head and beard. Other than vanity, I find this very troubling since it serves as a reminder that I am getting older and I need to start figuring this shit out soon. I am struggling to find fulfillment in my life. I have concentrated on nothing over the past 10 years than doing what people expect me to do…get a job, a career, and build that tidy white picket fence around my life for all to admire and covet.
Now, as another year is approaching, I am pondering my accomplishments and second guessing my decisions. I am questioning my career choices and wondering if I have made the right decisions all this time. I have always said that I want a career that would allow me to make a positive difference in the world—this non-profit, international education, cultural exchange, peace, love and all that jazz. But, did I really mean, a career that makes a difference in the world, or a career that makes a difference for me? This whole idea of a career and making something out of myself has been embedded in my head all my life, because this is what we do where I come from. You are born, you go to school, you get excellent grades, you go to more school, you graduate, you get a job in some fancy shmancy something or other, or you take over the family business, get married, pop out boat load of kids, send them to school…etc. Your life is designed for you; it is what you are expected to do, and it is what most people do. There is no plan for gay immigrants turned citizens who don’t want kids, and do not want to follow in their father’s footsteps and take over the family business.
In the absence of a grand design, I have made it up as I go along. I have given the past few years of my life to my job that I don’t know what I would do without it. I don’t have a hobby, I don’t have many friends that are near and dear to me, and I spend eight hours of my day wondering to myself “is this it?”
I don’t want this to be it! But I don’t have a plan “B” either. I still don’t know what I want to do when I grow up; and when I grow up, I don’t know if I will like the answer either. But come hell or high water, I better figure it out.
…it’s time to take[my life] back.”
Monday, December 27, 2010
Project Nephew
Dear People with Children,
I hope you had a great holiday weekend, and that you gave your kids books and note pads for Christmas. Yes, that's right, I am one of those lame book-giving uncles your kids hate. What, you didn't know I was an uncle? Actually, I do have two nephews (one related by blood--Mini-me as I call him; and one by osmosis), and one bratty, hateful, ingrate of a niece (she's definitely by osmosis).
Let me tell you about Mini-me! In 2004, my only sister (related by blood) had her first child. I was ecstatic for her, and slowly began to adjust to the fact that I have become an uncle. I was very excited, but also relieved because, while I love my sister, and by extension, love my nephew, I was 8000 miles away, with no possibility of really influencing this kid's life in any way shape or form.
As fate would have it, I got the opportunity to meet my nephew a year later while in Europe for summer school. My family took the opportunity of my relative close proximity to Egypt to fly to Paris and meet me there. My mother, father, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew all made the trek to Paris to spend a week with me. I not only got to see my family for the first time in five years, but also experience Paris by stroller, which for me was excruciatingly aggravating.
My nephew, for all intents and purposes, was the miniature version of me. He bore absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to his father. His mannerism was me, his temperament was me, his look, his hair, his laugh, his cry...everything about him was an eerily miniaturized version of myself. I saw right in front of me the genetic interpretation of the old Egyptian proverb, "boys take after their uncles."
Now, I imagine most uncles would actually like that, and take the opportunity to dode over their mini-me's and step into the role of a surrogate parent. I, on the other hand, was terrified of the responsibility, and wanted nothing to do with it. There I was staring smack-dab in the face of my potential redo. He was the remake, the rematch, the do-over, and I wanted nothing to do with him. I spent most of my adulthood trying to erase and restructure all my parent's fuck ups that have been embedded over the past two decades under my skin, behind my eyes, zipping like lightening bolts through my neurons, that I wanted no hand in Project Nephew with all it's potential liabilities and almost certain screw ups. I did not want to be a parent, and I most certainly did not want to be an uncle.
I remember vividly sitting on a bus in Paris with my mother, and looking at my sister holding her son who was cranky and tired from all the site seeing he was still too young to appreciate. My mother, after berating me about my smoking habit, looked at my nephew and asked "don't you want one of your own?" I looked at her with the horror generally reserved for seeing the walking dead getting ready to tear me limb from limb and shook my head. Undeterred, she said, "imagine having your own child to raise, to share your legacy, and your experience." Horrified, I said, "Absolutely not! I have nothing I want to share with a child, and I have no 'legacy' to hand down." I can tell my mother was disappointed, but I don't think what I said registered with her. I can just hear her brain going "does not compute...does not compute..." I had spent the past five years running away from my father's so-called legacy, and refusing to get sucked into his shadow, that I could not imagine inflicting that same kind of fate on someone else.
It could be cultural, or it could just be human, but I seem to evoke feeling of confusion and unease when I tell people I do not want kids. It happened the other day during a work social. I told my coworker that I have no desire to have kids; that the sheer responsibility and self sacrifice needed to have a child is terrifying to me. What I was thinking--and not vocalizing, was that my parents fucked me up enough as it is, I can't bear the responsibility of passing down some of the issues I inherited from them to a hapless child. I don't think I have an ounce of paternal, or maternal instinct in my body. I traded the parental gene for the gay gene back in the zygote stage...good riddance too.
Speaking of genes, a few weeks ago I was talking to my sister and I learned that there is perhaps more truth to that old Egyptian proverb than I feared. Apparently my 6 year old nephew likes to play soccer. However, he likes the sport, not for the sport itself, but for the shoes. He joined a soccer team because he likes the shoes!! I repeat, my nephew joined a sports team because he likes their footwear. If that still didn't register, then consider the fact that he also took up horseback riding because he likes the way the equestrian boots, and the helmet look on him! This is not to mention that he loves costume parties, and going shopping for clothes. So, while I am not exactly stereotyping, I kind of am. I am stereotyping myself and how my six year old nephew is taking after his uncle who is 8000 miles away. I wonder what will happen when he turns 12, 16, 18, 21....would this be my so called legacy?
So, where am I going with this? Short answer is, I am terrified of children. They are filled with so much hope and promise that I am afraid to fuck them up. This is of course aside from the fact that they are vile little creatures that nag, cry, want and want and want, talk back, and feel they are entitled to every ounce of your attention and have the rights to your very soul.
If there is anything in the world I am sure of, it is that I would make an absolutely horrible parent. This feeling is compounded by the fact that my own dogs prefer the company of my partner than they do me. They follow him everywhere like a shadow and run away from me (one of them leaving a trail of pee in her wake) when I call them. I shudder to think what I would do to a human being.
So, consider yourself warned children lovers!! Hide your children when you see me walking down the street. Don't crowd me with your strollers, or shove pictures of your children in my face. Don't send me Christmas cards with your smiling little monsters wearing bright sweaters under the tree; and don't assume that I will eventually "grow" into my paternal-hood.
I wish you the best in your parental endeavours.
Yours Truly,
Uncle Akmuk
I hope you had a great holiday weekend, and that you gave your kids books and note pads for Christmas. Yes, that's right, I am one of those lame book-giving uncles your kids hate. What, you didn't know I was an uncle? Actually, I do have two nephews (one related by blood--Mini-me as I call him; and one by osmosis), and one bratty, hateful, ingrate of a niece (she's definitely by osmosis).
Let me tell you about Mini-me! In 2004, my only sister (related by blood) had her first child. I was ecstatic for her, and slowly began to adjust to the fact that I have become an uncle. I was very excited, but also relieved because, while I love my sister, and by extension, love my nephew, I was 8000 miles away, with no possibility of really influencing this kid's life in any way shape or form.
As fate would have it, I got the opportunity to meet my nephew a year later while in Europe for summer school. My family took the opportunity of my relative close proximity to Egypt to fly to Paris and meet me there. My mother, father, sister, brother-in-law, and nephew all made the trek to Paris to spend a week with me. I not only got to see my family for the first time in five years, but also experience Paris by stroller, which for me was excruciatingly aggravating.
My nephew, for all intents and purposes, was the miniature version of me. He bore absolutely no resemblance whatsoever to his father. His mannerism was me, his temperament was me, his look, his hair, his laugh, his cry...everything about him was an eerily miniaturized version of myself. I saw right in front of me the genetic interpretation of the old Egyptian proverb, "boys take after their uncles."
Now, I imagine most uncles would actually like that, and take the opportunity to dode over their mini-me's and step into the role of a surrogate parent. I, on the other hand, was terrified of the responsibility, and wanted nothing to do with it. There I was staring smack-dab in the face of my potential redo. He was the remake, the rematch, the do-over, and I wanted nothing to do with him. I spent most of my adulthood trying to erase and restructure all my parent's fuck ups that have been embedded over the past two decades under my skin, behind my eyes, zipping like lightening bolts through my neurons, that I wanted no hand in Project Nephew with all it's potential liabilities and almost certain screw ups. I did not want to be a parent, and I most certainly did not want to be an uncle.
I remember vividly sitting on a bus in Paris with my mother, and looking at my sister holding her son who was cranky and tired from all the site seeing he was still too young to appreciate. My mother, after berating me about my smoking habit, looked at my nephew and asked "don't you want one of your own?" I looked at her with the horror generally reserved for seeing the walking dead getting ready to tear me limb from limb and shook my head. Undeterred, she said, "imagine having your own child to raise, to share your legacy, and your experience." Horrified, I said, "Absolutely not! I have nothing I want to share with a child, and I have no 'legacy' to hand down." I can tell my mother was disappointed, but I don't think what I said registered with her. I can just hear her brain going "does not compute...does not compute..." I had spent the past five years running away from my father's so-called legacy, and refusing to get sucked into his shadow, that I could not imagine inflicting that same kind of fate on someone else.
It could be cultural, or it could just be human, but I seem to evoke feeling of confusion and unease when I tell people I do not want kids. It happened the other day during a work social. I told my coworker that I have no desire to have kids; that the sheer responsibility and self sacrifice needed to have a child is terrifying to me. What I was thinking--and not vocalizing, was that my parents fucked me up enough as it is, I can't bear the responsibility of passing down some of the issues I inherited from them to a hapless child. I don't think I have an ounce of paternal, or maternal instinct in my body. I traded the parental gene for the gay gene back in the zygote stage...good riddance too.
Speaking of genes, a few weeks ago I was talking to my sister and I learned that there is perhaps more truth to that old Egyptian proverb than I feared. Apparently my 6 year old nephew likes to play soccer. However, he likes the sport, not for the sport itself, but for the shoes. He joined a soccer team because he likes the shoes!! I repeat, my nephew joined a sports team because he likes their footwear. If that still didn't register, then consider the fact that he also took up horseback riding because he likes the way the equestrian boots, and the helmet look on him! This is not to mention that he loves costume parties, and going shopping for clothes. So, while I am not exactly stereotyping, I kind of am. I am stereotyping myself and how my six year old nephew is taking after his uncle who is 8000 miles away. I wonder what will happen when he turns 12, 16, 18, 21....would this be my so called legacy?
So, where am I going with this? Short answer is, I am terrified of children. They are filled with so much hope and promise that I am afraid to fuck them up. This is of course aside from the fact that they are vile little creatures that nag, cry, want and want and want, talk back, and feel they are entitled to every ounce of your attention and have the rights to your very soul.
If there is anything in the world I am sure of, it is that I would make an absolutely horrible parent. This feeling is compounded by the fact that my own dogs prefer the company of my partner than they do me. They follow him everywhere like a shadow and run away from me (one of them leaving a trail of pee in her wake) when I call them. I shudder to think what I would do to a human being.
So, consider yourself warned children lovers!! Hide your children when you see me walking down the street. Don't crowd me with your strollers, or shove pictures of your children in my face. Don't send me Christmas cards with your smiling little monsters wearing bright sweaters under the tree; and don't assume that I will eventually "grow" into my paternal-hood.
I wish you the best in your parental endeavours.
Yours Truly,
Uncle Akmuk
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