gray day, the kind that never lives up
to its expectations. rain promised
in the pregnant clouds never comes.
look what America taught me:
i can measure your love
by the carat.
my father married my mother
on valentine's day
with the ring her mother gave her.
but you look at me across
the table, your hands turned
up, an offering.
20090214
.the.sound.of.hands.clapping.
If you ask my friend Gianna what her favourite memory of my youngest brother is, it might go something like this.
On a trip our families took to the various countries of the Levantine, her family and mine, as well as other family friends happened to all be in Lebanon. There was a day trip planned for Syria in the near future, as well, but my family didn't secure the visas in time, so we were on our own that day.
Or maybe we were still in Jordan when the story happened.
In any case, we were in motion. We had stopped at a hotel, and were in the process of checking out of it, and amid the hustle and bustle, we succeeded, launching ourselves out of the parking lot and further into the sands.
At some point, we stopped at a rest stop not too far down the road, and as everyone exited the cars, Gianna will give you a tremendous impression of my father yelling, "Where's Steven?"
We stuffed ourselves back into our cars like hot little peppers into olives and made our way back to the hotel. Sure enough, Steven was seated in the lobby, and upon seeing us arrive, leapt up vigourously, not towards my father, but away.
Gianna starts laughing uncontrollably at this point, joined in by her sisters, should they be present. They mimic the hands of my brother clapping over his ears as he runs around the family car apologizing with my dad in hot pursuit.
And just so you know, there is a precedent for this. Discipline in my family came in only a few ways, but they were generally effective at instilling us with a certain Pavlovian terror. My mother went through more wooden rulers than I can remember.
In any case, their favourite technique for use in public, faced with unarmed combat, would involve my father pinching our earlobes and tugging upwards, half dragging us and half leading us away.
I was no stranger to this, and I have my own memories of being on the alert for my dad's pincer grip. When I still lived in Texas, I must have been no older than three at the time, I was taken to a shopping mall with my parents. My brothers hadn't been born yet, and my parents had not yet assumed the role of shepherds of their offspring.
Predictably, at some point I became separated, and lost in the sauce of shops and shoppers. I don't remember how long I was lost for, but I know a few things: I never cried. I found either a mall guard or a police officer and somehow informed them of the situation. My parents were summoned over the intercom (as if it weren't bad enough that these coloured people were reproducing, but they were letting their brood run rampant as well!). One can imagine the officer flapping over the foreign consonants like an injured bird.
The true terror for me, though, shouldn't have been being lost, but being found. As my parents materialized, I ran over to them, relieved to be reunited, and more than a little proud of having recovered them on my own.
My ear were immediately between my father's pincher pincers. I was being told to not get lost again in the future. They had, I supposed, worked hard to fling themselves out of poverty and over the ocean to squeeze me out into America.
So maybe it is Pavlovian indeed that, today, the mere mention of having my own children sends my hands over my ears, filling my head with nothing more than the incessant ringing of the too many and too loud concerts of my teenage years.
On a trip our families took to the various countries of the Levantine, her family and mine, as well as other family friends happened to all be in Lebanon. There was a day trip planned for Syria in the near future, as well, but my family didn't secure the visas in time, so we were on our own that day.
Or maybe we were still in Jordan when the story happened.
In any case, we were in motion. We had stopped at a hotel, and were in the process of checking out of it, and amid the hustle and bustle, we succeeded, launching ourselves out of the parking lot and further into the sands.
At some point, we stopped at a rest stop not too far down the road, and as everyone exited the cars, Gianna will give you a tremendous impression of my father yelling, "Where's Steven?"
We stuffed ourselves back into our cars like hot little peppers into olives and made our way back to the hotel. Sure enough, Steven was seated in the lobby, and upon seeing us arrive, leapt up vigourously, not towards my father, but away.
Gianna starts laughing uncontrollably at this point, joined in by her sisters, should they be present. They mimic the hands of my brother clapping over his ears as he runs around the family car apologizing with my dad in hot pursuit.
And just so you know, there is a precedent for this. Discipline in my family came in only a few ways, but they were generally effective at instilling us with a certain Pavlovian terror. My mother went through more wooden rulers than I can remember.
In any case, their favourite technique for use in public, faced with unarmed combat, would involve my father pinching our earlobes and tugging upwards, half dragging us and half leading us away.
I was no stranger to this, and I have my own memories of being on the alert for my dad's pincer grip. When I still lived in Texas, I must have been no older than three at the time, I was taken to a shopping mall with my parents. My brothers hadn't been born yet, and my parents had not yet assumed the role of shepherds of their offspring.
Predictably, at some point I became separated, and lost in the sauce of shops and shoppers. I don't remember how long I was lost for, but I know a few things: I never cried. I found either a mall guard or a police officer and somehow informed them of the situation. My parents were summoned over the intercom (as if it weren't bad enough that these coloured people were reproducing, but they were letting their brood run rampant as well!). One can imagine the officer flapping over the foreign consonants like an injured bird.
The true terror for me, though, shouldn't have been being lost, but being found. As my parents materialized, I ran over to them, relieved to be reunited, and more than a little proud of having recovered them on my own.
My ear were immediately between my father's pincher pincers. I was being told to not get lost again in the future. They had, I supposed, worked hard to fling themselves out of poverty and over the ocean to squeeze me out into America.
So maybe it is Pavlovian indeed that, today, the mere mention of having my own children sends my hands over my ears, filling my head with nothing more than the incessant ringing of the too many and too loud concerts of my teenage years.
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