Insecures Anonymous

Names, characters, places, and incidents are all imaginary, and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Ahmad: Hello,  my name is Ahmad, and this is my first meeting!

In unison:  Hello Ahmad, welcome.

Moderator: Welcome Ahmad to your first meeting. We generally go around the room, and allow each one to talk about themselves, and why they believe they are so insecure, and how they compensate or cope with it. Since you are new, we can have you go last. The rules are simple; be honest, be respectful, do not interrupt…but passive aggressive eye rolling, or body posture is allowed. I mean, we’re not perfect, and the least we can do is judge each other silently. Again, welcome, and we are pleased to have you!

So, let’s begin! Who would like to go first?

Josh: I’ll go, first. Hello, my name is Josh, and I am an insecure…or am I? I don’t know, sometimes I think I am fine, and it’s people around me who just have to deal with how great I am. But other times I just get so lonely, and so upset that no one is giving me attention and I just…you know…I, I…I…what am I trying to say?! I guess, I just can’t help but put myself out there in order to cover up my vulnerabilities and feelings of insecurities. So, I travel a lot, right? Awesome…I mean, I love it! I love being able to just hook up with guys everywhere I go. I have friends all over the country, and I know I can fuck any of them any time I travel. It’s awesome really. I guess if I have to be completely honest, I would say  that’s how I deal with my insecurities. I need to sleep with as many guys as possible in order to feel validated, and make sure that people really like me. I have so many great friends…they’re more than friends, really; they are more like my family. But I feel like if I don’t fuck them, that our relationship is not that important. I guess I know it’s wrong, but that’s just how I deal with it, I guess.

Moderator: Alright then! Thank you Josh. Everyone, please just keep your feedback to yourself for now. I noticed several eye rolls as Josh was talking; but remember, we are all insecure, and show it in different ways. Who wants to go next?

Greg: Alright, I guess I will try to follow horn dog over here! My name is Greg, and I am an insecure. I am insecure because the world does not recognize how smart I am. I have been mistreated and unappreciated in my work, and I just don’t think they value the caliber of work that I do for them. I like things in order, and I like people to do things the way I want, in the order I want them. I make lists all the time for things I want done, and I call or email it to people. I find that I keep things in check better that way. I’ve lost relationships that way, but it is ultimately not my fault. I think if people appreciated me more, they would realize that what I am doing is best, and they should just try and show some appreciation for what truly a great person I am. But, unfortunately, we don’t live in a perfect world, so I deal with my insecurities, and people’s ineptitude by drinking. I think drinking helps me loosen up. I look forward to it all day actually. It helps me relax, and really express myself the way I want to. I look forward to that drink all day long. I want to go to the bar, and order my first drink ,and just relish the taste. I immediately feel my body calm down, and my tongue loosen up. I like telling people around me how I really feel about them. Perhaps it is easier for them to hear it when I am drunk. I don’t know…half the time I don’t really remember what I said the night before; but I still feel better that I said it. But, who cares, right? As long as it makes me feel better. That’s how I deal with my life!! 

Moderator: Thank you, Greg. That was fascinating. I think we got some good eye rolls going there too. Who wants to go next?


Andrew: I’ll go. Hello y’all…my name is Andrew, but everyone can just call me Andy, and I am an insecure. I have a pretty good life! I actually love my life. I have a big house, fancy cars, and a loving partner. Both of us are very lucky to have amazing friends and family around us. I love him, and our life together. But, I still can’t shake the urge to be validated by other people. I guess that’s where my insecurity comes in. I’m a Facebook addict, and I can’t help but post pictures and updates about myself several times a day. People just lap it up. They love my pictures and my posts. I feel like people adore us…heck, they probably envy us, and just want to be us, or part of my family. I have a big heart, and I would open up my home to everyone to enjoy me and my husband. I feel like posting pictures of myself all day is the least I could do. I love seeing my body in the mirror, and I love posting the pictures for people to enjoy. I mean, why would I deprive people of this?  Okay, okay…I know I sound full of myself. I guess if I have to drop the bullshit, I would have to admit that I am afraid of not being noticed. I am afraid of just being a regular person like everybody else. I look in the mirror and I don’t see what people see in me. I know they see a body, but do they really see ME? But I guess if they only see a body, it’s better than not seeing anything at all, right? I don’t want to grow old and just wither away. I want people to notice me. I want people to cut through my walls…the façade that I put up, and really get to know me. Perhaps the pictures and posts that I put online are my invitation to people to notice me and lean closer and try to get to know me. I am a sex object, I get that. I am fine with that. I guess I perpetuate that…but who wants to know Andy?! I guess my photo addiction is how I deal with my insecurities.

Moderator: Thank you, Andy!! You really topped the lot here with all the eye rolls going back and forth. I would suggest you and Josh touch base after the meeting. It may do both of you some good…or, on second thought, better not. Don’t do that!! Who’s next? Todd, want to go?

Todd: I’d really rather not…but sure! Hello, my name is Todd, and I am an insecure. I am usually very quiet, and I hate talking to people. I am here because my boyfriend…well, I guess my ex-boyfriend suggested that it may do me some good to get a bit of support for my insecurity issues. It may help me put myself out there more and meet people. I meet people fine online, but generally just to have sex. I guess I identify with Josh here a little bit. Sex makes me feel good, and makes me feel special and wanted by others. I don’t have many friends, and I generally don’t like large crowds or talking to people. I don’t have to talk during sex. I can just smoke some pot, and go at it. They can leave, or cuddle for a bit, then leave, no questions asked, and no drama. I guess I use sex to cover my discomfort with myself and my past. I am a loner…I prefer the company of my pets than people. I like to sit in the sun with my dogs, reading a book, texting, or chatting with people online. I don’t like the way I look. I think I am too skinny, and my ass is too small. I actually hate people seeing me naked. I like having sex in the dark, or when the light is really dim. That is the only way I can be comfortable. I love the bathhouse because the light is dim, and you don’t actually have to talk to anyone. Just get in, get off, go home. What else should I say? Let’s see….I love my job, I guess. I like to travel, and I like watching movies. I guess I don’t see a problem with how I am. That’s just how it is! I don’t like to talk to people, and I plug that hole in my life with having sex. It makes me feel good and validates my life. So, I guess sex is how I deal with my insecurities. It blocks me from connecting with people. It keeps me safe inside my head.  

Moderator: Thank you Todd for sharing your thoughts. Les, I see you’re practically sitting on your hands and biting your tongue. Maybe you want to go next?

Les: Oh sure…finally!! Hello, my name is Les, and I am an insecure. I am extroverted and I like to talk and mingle with people over drinks, hooking up, or talking about my life, and my art work. As you may have heard, I am a graphic artist. I am really good actually, and my work has been used by several organizations. I love telling people about the great work that I produce. I mean, it makes me feel good for me to be contributing to all these causes that I care so much about. I love it when I get to talk on stage about the amazing work I do to help these causes. It makes me feel so fulfilled. But, I guess, deep down I am so insecure about myself, and want to be validated. If I am going to be honest, I think I deal with my insecurities by bashing other people. While I don’t do it maliciously, I do find it is easier to just criticize how people do things, or what they say, than to quietly reflect, or to look at my own life. I don’t want to think about the issues I have in my life. I am almost forty years old, but I feel like my life hasn’t been very fulfilling. I am resentful about a lot of things, but I hate to just sit there and talk about them, or analyze them. It’s just so much easier to talk shit about other people. I mean, look at all of you here. Jesus fucking Christ, you all are just yappy and bitching about sex. I have sex all the time. In fact, I love to take pictures of myself having sex with guys, and showing them to my friends. If they don’t like it, fuck ‘em…I probably already did. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m not so perfect…but I think I’m pretty close. My insecurity is just part of me being the artist and great designer that I am. I don’t see much of a problem with it though. Aren’t we all insecure? If you are so insecure and upset about me talking shit about you, then stay home!

Moderator: Wow, well, thank you for that Les. That was, well, very insightful. So, Ahmad, do you want to go next?

Ahmad: Oh, alright, sure. Thank you everyone for speaking and sharing your feelings. It makes me feel better actually hearing everyone’s thoughts. Oh, I guess, I should start by saying, hello, I am Ahmad, and I am an insecure. Wow, it does make me feel better admitting it in public like this. I guess I would describe myself as an extrovert. I love being around people, and I love listening to people talk, and share their thoughts and feelings. I am insecure I guess, because I usually prefer that people talk about themselves than for me to talk about myself. Growing up I aspired to be like my older, and only sister, and to prove myself worthy of my parents’ love and affection. My father is a very driven man, and instilled in me the idea that my life has to mean something, and that I must contribute something to others. So, I guess I am always struggling with the feeling that I am not good enough. I am never satisfied with my accomplishments, and never happy with my work. I can always do better! I think I identify a little bit with each and every one of you. I went through my sexual rampage too. Actually, I think Josh and I met before. I’ve seen you play out in the bar, I think! I used sex to make myself feel better, valued, and desired. I also post pictures of myself on Facebook…but in spurts I guess. But then again, I don’t have a body like yours, Andy!! I like to write, and may be even think I am a creative person, but I don’t think I am that good. I hate what I write, and generally cannot take a compliment. I don’t know!! I guess the older I get, the more comfortable I feel about who I am becoming as a person…but I am still unsure about that level of comfort. I am insecure about my worthiness of love, and of affection. I want to be better, but I am afraid to piss people off in the process of bettering myself. I think I deal with it by putting barriers around myself and making it difficult for people to know me. I protect myself from being hurt by other people, or being vulnerable with others. I am afraid to disappoint those around me, and therefore put up barriers that prevent them from knowing who I truly am. That is how I deal with my insecurities.

Moderator: Thank you, Ahmad! Thank you all for sharing your thoughts as well. I invite you to continue this dialogue amongst yourselves, and to invite your friends who may feel insecure to join us and share their stories too.

Not So Perfect Love Story...and It Doesn't Have to Be!!

I stood in the doorway looking at him, angry, naked, throwing pillows and bedding against the wall, and yelling, "what do you want from me asshole?! I went through all this shit and you dare get self righteous with me? Mother Fucker!!"

I walked in the room, blurry eyed from the tears welling up in my eyes, slowly stepping forward with trembling legs, and sat on the side of the bed. He said, now on his knees, on the floor and punching the wall, "my life was supposed to get better, and it has just gotten worse. When is it supposed to get better?!"

He turned and looked at me, and I said, "I don't know! All I know is that I love you, and I can't imagine my life without you. I don't want to lose you!" He looked at me with tears in his eyes, and said "I love you so much, I love you so much...I only know that I love you. That’s all I know!"

We sat there crying and embracing, rocking back and forth. I held him, and felt him pressing against my body, as I closed my eyes and my mind raced back to when we first met, and I played it all back in my mind.

...how did we get here?

You know that feeling when you first meet someone, get swept off your feet and fall madly in love? Neither did I; and I never thought I would experience that kind of love. I mean, we’ve all seen it in a movie, or read it in a book, but how many of us can say we have truly experienced it? The kind of stupid, ridiculous love that Stephanie Meyer writes about, that exists between exotic pale sparkly vampires, and brooding dumbass teenagers is supposed to be the stuff of fiction. The kind of love that makes it seem like nothing else matters in the world. After all, love is a chemical reaction and is not supposed to defy logic and make grown men act like complete buffoons.  

When I first met him, I was volunteering in a leather contest, and he was one of many contestants vying for a title. In all honesty, neither of us noticed each other, and I didn’t even interact with him until the second day. We talked when he asked me if I had a blue sharpie to cover a scuff on his blue leather jock. I spent a good amount of time convincing him that no one would even notice it on stage. However, in what I know is his true style now, I noticed him talking to the bootblack a few minutes later and trying to buff out the scuff anyway. He was attractive, but disconnected, flirtatious, yet guarded. There was an invisible fortress surrounding him, and I was too busy and distracted to try to scale it, or explore why it was there in the first place.

The contest ended, and I went about my life and work. However, in the world of social media, I decided to reach out to all the contestants that gave me their cards. I friended many on Facebook, and also sent him a note telling him it was a pleasure helping him during the contest. I forgot all about him, and never gave it a second thought, until out of the blue he sent me a message back, and we started chatting, and flirting online. It was the same old online flirting that most gay, and particularly leather men do. But with him, the conversation took a turn, and we started discussing our lives and relationships. We would chat for hours, and eventually progressed to talking on the phone. Where was this going? What was this all about? It was the beginning of a friendship I thought. He was a nice guy, and he needed someone to talk to, confide in, to be his friend, and to listen to him. We decided that I would go visit him, and we would play and just have fun. I would meet his husband, and just enjoy a weekend with them.

The moment I laid eyes on him I felt an instant connection, and a desire to hold him, and tell him that everything is going to be okay. There was sadness in his beautiful eyes that was very poignant, and captivating. The invisible fortress was there, but I could reach right through it, and I could feel his soul struggling, and his heart heavy with anger and fear.

I also met his husband! A short, stocky man, with beady eyes and not an ounce of sincerity or authenticity about him. We went out to dinner, and then to the local bar where both men proceeded to argue and threaten each other with violence. There was so much anger and hatred surrounding them that all I wanted was to walk away and go back home. Yet, I looked at him and I could not move; my legs were frozen, and all I wanted to do was to shelter him, and give him as much strength as I could muster so he can fight back, speak up, and be the person that I know he hungered and starved to be for so many years. The night ended soon after, and we went to their home to bed.

I call it the Day the Earth Stood Still. Yes, I know it is not a very creative name, and it evokes images of aliens taking over the world. But, it is also the day that he emancipated himself, and took the reins of his own life. I remember the afternoon as vividly as if it just happened a few hours ago. We were standing in the bathroom, and I could sense his energy shift. I could sense that something was wrong, but I could not decipher what it was. Later that night he told me that at that moment he was looking around and had an epiphany. At that point in time he realized that his marriage was over and that he did not want to be in the place he called home. It was no longer his home, and he had to move on.

He made this revelation a few hours after he decided to leave his husband, and I helped him. We were laying on a hard bed, in a dated and crummy hotel room, with blinking florescent lighting, and kitsch art on the walls. We were laying there contemplating the events that happened that day, and holding each other. Thinking about that night brings tears to my eyes, and makes my heart beat faster. I remember telling him “you are beautiful, you are beautiful, you are beautiful” and making him repeat it over, and over, and over again. We slept holding each other, exhausted, and wondering what the next day will bring.

I left the next day after I made sure he had a place to stay, and friends to support him. I left, but I could not stay away. I drove back the following day…460 miles roundtrip to have dinner with him and see him again. I knew then that I loved him, and that my life would never be the same again!

This happened exactly four months ago, today. Both his world, and mine has changed. He is divorced now, and I have recently broken up with my boyfriend of almost 9 years. We do not know what the future will bring; but despite all the struggles, and all the turmoil, all I know is that I love him more than I have ever loved anyone…and that he loves me with the same intensity.


"My life was supposed to get better, and it has just gotten worse. When is it supposed to get better?!"


It has gotten better...my life is so much richer since I have met him. I used to think that love alone was not enough, but I have been proven wrong. It is not a perfect love story, but it is my love story. He is the man I love, and the only one I see. He is my perfect love story!!

Egyptians Are African Too!!

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.

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.”

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