I’d been coming to the cancer treatment center for over a year, and only had three more infusions to go. Having already placed my belongings next to my chair in front of the large window wall, I had a few more creature comforts to finalize before settling in for the morning. As I walked by two women sitting together, I made sure to nod after locking eyes with one of them, carefully holding my coffee with two hands so it wouldn’t spill. She smiled and when I smiled back, she asked the other, “Don’t she look like Daddy cousin?”
To which I quickly replied, “I hope you like her.”
She chuckled and admitted, “Oh, she cool. Even though I don’t usually mess with no light skinned women.”
“I’m actually Arab. My parents are from Egypt,” I quickly clarified.
“Girl, you still Black,” she insisted.
She laughed, unaware that I was fake laughing along. This was not the time to lead a cultural competency training. I was off the clock and here for healing. The nurses were about to inject me with Herceptin again to prevent breast cancer from returning.
As I landed in my chair, I looked around the large room of patients and thought about a different kind of healing: healing from the wounds of being othered. On the opposite end of the spectrum of belonging lies othering with their cousins - integrating, suspecting, neglecting, segregating, erasing, and excluding - hanging out in the spaces between.
Other. It’s the box I check when given the option, because I don’t identify as White, Black, Asian, Latina, American Indian, or Pacific Islander.
Other. It’s the place I find myself in every time an Arab I’ve just met feels the need to translate something from Arabic to English, not knowing that my mother has spoken to me almost exclusively in Arabic for 45 years.
Othered. It’s the experience that happens when a new Egyptian immigrant to the U.S. explains to me that molokhiya is an Egyptian delicacy, unaware that it’s one of my favorite Egyptian dishes ranking after koshary and macarona bil béchamel.
Othered. It’s the automatic feeling that churns in my stomach when someone asks me how old I was when I came to America, forgetting that I was born here.
Neglected. Having my childhood abuse ignored by my teachers because they attributed it to my parents’ foreign culture and religion.
Suspected. Being randomly searched at the airport when traveling anywhere domestically or internationally with my ex-husband who was born in Saudi Arabia to Egyptian parents.
Suspected. After leading a training on “Overcoming Islamophobia in America,” and reading these words on an exit slip: “What is their agenda? Not meant to be hateful. I am suspicious. They have totally invaded Minneapolis and taken over the Senate and ABC. In America. Live as Americans. I am suspicious.”
Excluded. I put my headphones in and began listening to choral music in preparation for rehearsal later that night. It occurred to me that I’ve sung choral pieces in English, Latin, Spanish, German, French, Italian, Russian, Swahili, and Hebrew. Never Arabic. I’ve been a choral musician for over 30 years, and have never sung a song in Arabic. Why might the music of my heritage be excluded from the Western canon?
Erased. A Jewish colleague of mine once asked me how I have the courage to be “out” as a Muslim on social media. “We live in the Bible belt. I would never let them know I’m a Jew. There’s a church on every corner, and if we don’t go to one, they see us as evil – or even worse – someone to save.”
Erased. “Girl, you still Black.” How can I ask you to see me when the aperture of your lens is so narrowly focused? Why must you diminish my identity while affirming your own self-concept? Isn’t it incumbent upon you as another person of color to open your eyes, too?
Unfortunately, the prescription for healing from this treatment isn’t as clear as my oncologist’s plan. We can’t shrink these belonging wounds with chemotherapy or eradicate them with radiation.
Included. My future father-in-law, an 80-year-old deacon in his church who grew up in Fountain Inn, South Carolina, shared with me his understanding of the rituals of Ramadan. When I asked him how he knew, he replied, “I read about it. You know, when you love somebody, you have to learn.”
Rx for this treatment: Mend the gap with curiosity, learning, and love.
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Mona Elleithee is an Egyptian-American educator and founder of Renewed Harmony. She is the proud mother of Omar & Dina Gabr and soon-to-be wife of Dale Sullivan.
National Arab Heritage Month is an annual event during the month of April. This blog post is part of the #30DaysArabVoices Blog Series, a month-long movement to feature the voices of Arabs as writers and scholars. Please CLICK HERE to read yesterday’s blog post by Nadia Abu-Elreish.
