Too Much Hair to Manage

Thanksgiving at the Beker home has never been traditional. One can say my family doesn't fall into the category of 'TRADITIONAL' in any sense of the word. For instance, mom likes to host Thanksgiving on Friday, instead of Thursday. This, she says, allows my relatives to fly in on Thursday when flights are cheaper and less packed. And what difference does it make anyway when it's all about the whole family together? But when my dad announces on this particular Friday morning that he needs to get his hair cut. Well this just isn't acceptable to mom. "Why are you always cutting your hair? No one cuts their hair more than you! Not even Sami!" "I have too much hair to manage!" he bellows back. Keep in mind this is an 80-year old man we're talking about. Not something you'd normally hear from this age group. He makes a point by mussing up his hair, which creates a nice, silver mohawk on top of his head. "You have no idea how hard it is to handle my hair. I put so much mousse in it and it is still unmanageable!" (.... umm yes, my dad uses mousse, It's why I never need to bring hair product with me when I visit) "Why didn't you take care of this yesterday?" she asks. "Well yesterday was Thanksgiving. Everything was closed.” he counters, with a self-satisfied nod. At this point, I'm thinking Mom might just bite that bullet and host Thanksgiving on its regular day, if only because my dad can't run off anywhere. "Oh and I'm going to the Post Office after to drop some letters, " he adds. ...Oh yeah, that's another hobby of my dad. Besides managing his hair, he LOVES mail. He loves to walk to the community mailbox at the end of the block. He loves to buy stamps. He even loves getting bills! "You and your mail! Why don't I fix you a plate that you can enjoy at the mailbox by yourself?" "Well that would be nice, I'm sure the mailman has not eaten yet today." "The mailman! You are worrying about the mailman?" At this point, I jump in with "Dad, the mailman's fine. I'm sure he ate yesterday when it was thanksgiving for him." Probably not the best thing to say at this point, but luckily she is too focused on my dad to care. They go back and forth, with their bickering until he informs her that the barber only has limited hours today due to the holiday and he really has to go. So he goes. And she simmers for a bit. But then she smiles and says; "Well at least he has hair to manage." I smile. She's right. Not traditional in the least. But I'm perfectly fine with that. Hope you are all having a great thanksgiving weekend with your families. Traditional or not.

Aloha means 'The sign' in Arabic

Recently Layth and I took my parents to Hawaii. It has always been my mother's dream to go there, ever since she was a child in Iraq. She and her siblings would watch two types of films. The first were Westerns and the second were Elvis Presley films. These pretty much informed her idea of America when she was young. In her mind, the country was one vast landscape where handsome, rugged cowboys fought bad guys, rescued beautiful but helpless women, and rode strong white horses into bars where they listened to the hip-shaking music of rockabilly guys wearing leather jackets. Just what you would expect a hybrid of those two genres to yield. She tells a story about how when she first arrived to the States. She and Dad drove cross country, stopping at Knott's Berry Farm in California, and seeing some guy dressed as a Native American (yes, yes I'm using the PC term here even though this took place forty years ago.) Anyway, it was just a costume, but Mom was so moved that she went up to him with tears of empathy about how his land was taken and he was subsequently displaced, and oh how she understood his situation. My dad had to firmly but gently pull her away from the 'Native' American. So she loved Westerns, but equally she was fascinated with Hawaii. It was a paradise you read about in books and saw in movies, such as those Elvis Presley films. In fact, to go back to her vision of America - you've got the cowboys fighting bad guys and saving the frontier. But if you went 20 miles West, you'd find Elvis Presley singing to Ann Margret on a beach blanket. So, this brings me back to my point. Hawaii. Maui. 2009. Many, many years after she'd decided she wanted to visit there she was. Mom was in heaven. The sounds of the ocean, the sun, the fresh air...Heaven. My dad, also enjoyed the trip. But for him it was more of a history and etymology lesson. Dad was convinced that the Hawaiian language had its roots in Arabic. Yep. We would drive by and every sign or name he saw, he would repeat out loud and explain how that word sounded EXACTLY like its Arabic counterpart. It reminded me of that film where the woman's father thinks the Greeks invented everything. For example. ALOHA. A - lo- ha. Well Dad decided that it was the equivalent of the Arabic way of saying AL - LOWHA (with a heavy H sound) which means The Sign. ..okay.... but Aloha in Hawaiian means Hello. And The Sign in Arabic has nothing to do with that. "Well when you tell someone hello, you are giving them a sign." Oh yeah, of what? "That you want to talk to them - that you want to greet them!" he would say calmly, but clearly not understanding why I wasn't grasping this simple concept. Riiiiight.... "Take also for example Makena Beach." Ooh yes, let's go there and watch the sunset! "...Makena comes from the Arabic word for 'place' which is MA-KAHN. See what I mean? When you say let us go to the beach, you are going to a place. Hence the name Makena." At this point I began to fear that dad had too much sun. We tried to bring him inside, but it only encouraged him. He found an Atlas at the hotel sundries store, and sat on the couch in the lobby with a frothy pineapple drink with an umbrella in it. He sipped away as he flipped through the pages, muttering to himself about this word and that. "See even Maui! MAH-WEE also means the color blue, and look at all the blue ocean around us! It is so perfect!" He paused, taking in the magnitude of this discovery. Then another sip of his drink and he resumed his flip, flip, flipping. "Rand McNally! The maker of this map!" What about it? Don't tell me they are-- "--Arabic. Yes!" Really, Dad? McNally? I think that might hail from a little further west...like Ireland... "No look here, it is plain as day. McNally is a shortened version of MA-KAHN ALI. Ali's Place!" ...umm "This fellow Rand must have gone to Ali's place to draw up these maps!" Head spinning, I looked around for Layth, but he'd gone back to the room with mom. I found them there later watching an old Western on television --which must be some sort of head trip for her. I announced to Layth that perhaps for next year's vacation we should go somewhere with less fodder for Dad's etymological Arab-ization. After a moment's thought, Layth suggested Spain. Yes! I nodded in oblivious agreement, Dad could not possibly find any Arabic connections there. ...and then it dawned on me... I'll let you know how it goes next year.

Much Making

So now you know - the concept of dating didn't exist when I was a teenager - at least not for my parents. Actually, it doesnt really exist in the Arabic culture. Not even for the purpose of finding a husband. "GAWD! NO DATING!" you might exclaim. "WELL HOW THE HELL ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO FIND A HUSBAND!? THROUGH SOME SORT OF ARCHAIC METHOD OF ARRANGED MARRIAGE WHERE THE WOMAN DOESN'T EVEN SEE THE MAN. LIKE IN THOSE PLACES WHERE PEOPLE STILL LIVE IN TENTS AND RIDE CAMELS?---OH SORRY.." No no. Don't apologize. There is a truth to that. At least what you may have seen on television. And though I'm sure there are still areas in the world where bride and groom don't see each other until the wedding, or marry someone they have chosen for them, without getting much say in the matter, for the most part it's not like that. It's more advanced. A screening process. (You know, like Match.com or eharmony) The suitors must fit certain criteria - good education, good family, no history of shenanigans involving goats which might plague him - and you - for years. That last thing doesn't happen very often, but it did happen to someone my mom knows back in Basra, so she always uses it as an example. In its simplest form, it's match making...or as my mother pronounces it 'MUCHMAKING,' (the way she says her long A sounds less like 'ah' and more like 'uh.') So yeah - matchmaking. You don't have to pick anyone you don't like. I'm not defending it- I'm just giving you the backstory. For the record, I'm not much of a fan of Much Making. But anyway... When I turned 19, Mom decided that it was time to explore the pool of eligible men in hopes of finding me a husband. It didn't matter that just a year ago, I was considered too young to date. Now suddenly I stood on the precipice of spinsterhood, unless I considered the list of ...ahem...eligible bachelors. Picture this: A photo of a man with thick glasses and uni-brow, stares at us - not even attempting to smile. My mother studies it with the scrutiny of a cartographer checking the accuracy of their work. "This one is studying to be a doctor. He is the brother of your cousin’s Podiatrist. Are you interested in meeting him?" I should tell you that at this point I am very busy doing what someone of my age typically does: lounging comfortably on my bed, flipping through People Magazine and listening to Nirvana on my walkman. I don't have energy for one more task. And I don't try to find the energy either. So I barely look up when my mother holds out the photo, from the huge stack she is flipping through. "No he's out. Too serious." she tosses the photo aside and continues flipping. She stops again. "This one is an engineer" Again, she holds the photo out to me. Again, I ignore it. And yet again, Mom yanks it back. "No...not enough hair on his head and too much coming out of his shirt collar..." Flip. Flip. Flip. "Oh! How about this one?" She shoves the photo on top of my magazine. I startle because I wasn't expecting to see a HUGE-- "he could get that mole removed. Or at least trim the hair in it." We both stare at the photo for a moment, mesmerized. Then finally Mom breaks the spell by tossing it aside. "No, probably too much work." I tolerated these sessions for the most part, by ignoring them. But after a while Mom crossed the line. Like the time I was in English Lit class just waiting for the lunch bell to ring. I opened my binder and a LARGE PHOTO fell at the feet of Misty McCallister, the schools's resident Perfect Blond. Misty picked it up. It was a picture of a nondescript Arab guy. Plain. Bland. Generic. On his face was a yellow post-it note. which read, "What do you think about this guy?" Misty, in her loudest voice turned to me and said."You dropped your mail-order boyfriend." This of course prompted jeers and laughter. And for the rest of the week - I was known as " Desperately Seeking" Or DS for short. Nevermind that it was not a particularly clever name - it got the point across. In my anger, I stuck that photo under the visor of my mom's car - and I drew devil's horns on him and in big block letters wrote "STOP RUINING MY LIFE!" The trouble was, it dropped into Mom's lap as she was backing out of the driveway and startled her so bad that she backed into my Dad's parked car. And I got grounded for a month. Which I guess is fair. Everyone's okay though. ...And the 'Much Making' attempts did end.

The Lunch Date

So my mother loves America. Everything about it. If not for her accent, she could be mistaken for an average Mid-Western American woman. She has her hair cut in a Jackie-O-type do. And though she usually dresses in slacks or skirts, she loves to throw on a denim jacket to make it more casual. Recently she's taken to using slang - actually both my parents are guilty of this. If you've ever met my mother you may have heard her say the following: CHECK THIS! (translation= Check this out!) I told you how she likes to add extra syllables to words. Well she makes up for it by sometimes removing words from phrases. And if she gets worked up about something and Dad wants her to relax, he'll tell her so in the following manner: CHILL UP! (translation = Chill Out) I give them leeway because they are trying to balance two cultures - even more than I am. It's hard to pick up as an adult and move to a new country. Look how it affected me, and I only had four years to worry about. They had 28 plus years. You can imagine the compromises and the struggle to maintain your tradition and culture, while at the same time living in a modern time and place. They did their best to assimilate and give me the life of a normal American girl. I had ballet lessons. I went to sleepaway camp. I was a girl scout. I delivered newspapers. I went to school dances (chaperoned, mind you.) As I got older I got to go to Rock Concerts. I went to parties (chaperoned...well most of them were) I hung out with boys in a group. I just couldn't hang out with them one on one. I was not allowed to date. Anything that resembled a one-on-one encounter with a member of the opposite sex was not allowed. When I was 16, I worked as a lifeguard at the neighborhood pool. Though my father wasn't too keen on the idea that I'd literally be up on a pedestal in my bathing suit so men could ogle me, the fact that I was potentially saving lives by preventing drownings resonated with him more. So he gave me his blessing. And I embarked on what still is now my favorite job. I got to hang out in the sun, get a tan, swim and I got paid for it! My dad also discovered he liked going to the pool. He would show up every day with a pharmacy textbook. Like my mother, he too was a pharmacist. So he'd bring his Principles of Pharmacokinetics tome, along with his purple beach towel and stake his claim - far enough from me so as not to embarrass me, but close enough to have a clear vantage point in case some male gave me too much attention. Luckily Dad's surveillance only lasted a couple of weeks. The sun started giving him headaches and he got bored. Anyway, that summer I met my first crush. Well my first teenage crush ( I had a crush on a boy named Theodore in 2nd grade, which I'll tell you about later...) His name was Kevin. Kevin Bartlett He was cute! He looked like a young Timothy Hutton. And he had the cutest mullet. He managed the concession stand at the pool and at first he didn't seem to notice I existed. He was quiet and smart - always reading books on historical figures. I think he wanted to work in the CIA or something. I wonder if he ever did.... I spent half the summer ordering nachos and pizzas and popcorn at the stand, trying to make conversation and look cute and whatever it took to get him to find me interesting. But still he didn't seem to bite. Until the last week of summer. All the kids had started school and so the pool was relatively empty. We amused ourselves by making water balloons and hurling them at each other and by throwing each other in the pool when that person least expected it. Well one day Kevin was part of the festivities. And without saying anything he picked me up and threw me into the pool. And I knew! He loved me! He absolutely loved me. I was in! We made small talk about nothing and everything. He went to a private high school across town but was staying with his mom for the summer (parents were divorced.) Blah, blah, blah - this stuff was interesting to me, but probably boring to you so I'll skip over it. Anyway, because I didn't have a car yet, I called my dad and told him that I was going to get a ride from a friend - which he was happy about because he was listening to some soccer game on the radio and didn't want to be interrupted. And then I asked Mike if he wouldn't mind dropping me off. Which he did - giving me 14 precious more minutes with him til he reached my house. I said goodbye as cute as I could and went inside. And I was walking on air. Not long after that, as I was taking a shower I heard the doorbell ring, and my father go to answer it. I heard him exchange a few words with whoever it was, and then he shut the door. I didn't think anything of it, until Dad told me who it was. I'll give you the script form of what happened so you can really live it. DOORBELL RINGS DAD opens it to reveal KEVIN standing there. KEVIN: Hi, Mr. Beker. Is Sami home? DAD (peering over his glasses) Yes. KEVIN: Well I was wondering if she wanted to go out for lunch or something. DAD: No, she doesn't. KEVIN: ..but can you ask her? DAD: No. Son, you go and enjoy your lunch, okay? She cannot join you. Dad turns and shuts the door, leaving Kevin standing shaken on the porch. Dejected he walks away. Two moments later, I, in sweatpants and wet hair, fling open the door to catch him, but it's too late. Dad told me later that he didn't like the idea of a the boy assuming he could just come over and that I be ready for him. I saw Kevin the pool the next day and tried to explain, but he seemed more interested in his book on the American Civil War. The next summer I was excited to see that Kevin was working at the pool again, this time as a lifeguard. I could redeem myself! But sadly, he decided a week before that to travel with his Dad to Brazil for the summer.

America, the wan dar fool

My mother loves America. Shortly after we arrived, she discovered something really 'wan -dar-fool.' Wan-dar-fool. (My mom has a strong accent and she tends to draw syllables out - and sometimes even add extra ones -- like when she says 'TEST-ID-A-TUBE" instead of TEST TUBE. And she's a pharmacist so she says that word alot... But anyway, back to WAN-DAR-FOOL.) She discovered the concept of dropping by your neighbor's house to borrow a cup of sugar. In case you're not familiar with this concept let me explain. It's when your neighbor --usually a woman --comes over with the purpose of borrowing a cup of sugar --or two eggs or whatever you might need for the recipe you were making -- whereupon the visit rapidly degenerates into a social call where you chit-chat about everything from macrame plant hangers - remember, it was the 70's - to your husband's snoring, to whether it was acceptable to fry up bologna and serve it on bread as dinner when you hadn't had time to grocery shop and needed a meal for the kids. (In the 70's the answer was yes.) In Iraq it was customary to talk for an hour at the front door when leaving someone's house. This after having spent several hours together over dinner and dessert, discussing politics, cooking, fashion - you name it. I think my mother saved the best part of her conversations to the very end. "Habeebty! Thank you very much for your hospitality! I hope to return it one day soon. By the way, did you hear about Jaffar's sisters's son's dentist? He's thinking about starting a construction business!" and the conversation would continue on. One time, we stayed so long on someone's porch, they invited us back inside for breakfast. In truth, it was Ramadan and parties tended to start late at night and go into the wee hours of the morning and the sun was starting to rise...but you get the point. So back here in Columbus, Ohio, a tradition was born. Whenever the ladies in the neighborhood wanted to get together, they'd do it under the guise of 'Dropping by for sugar.' Just for the record, my father never could understand why all the women of the neighborhood couldn't keep their pantries properly stocked. My mother never told him otherwise. Wan--dar-fool.

My trouble with men

My trouble with men began at an early age. Age 6 to be exact. Kindergarten. I know what you’re thinking… “Six years old and you’re only in kindergarten?!” Well, remember when I told you I came to the States when I was four years old? I only spoke Arabic, and had to learn English, which put me behind a bit. (It’s okay, later on I ended up skipping from Fourth to Fifth grade in the middle of the year, so it all evened out in the end.) But I started school later than most kids. It could also be due to the fact that I fainted at my kindergarten entrance exam and the counselor told my parents I wasn’t emotionally ready to attend. No joke! This ‘exam’ consisted of putting blocks of various shapes and sizes into their corresponding pegs. I think I took too long, or put the square into the circle peg, or drew too many birds in the sky on a piece of paper – which apparently is a sign of emotional disturbance in children… The point is, the counselor decided I had a problem (these days they call them ‘issues’, but back then they were good-old-fashioned problems) and she recommended that I wait a year before matriculating into kindergarten. CUT TO: KINDERGARTEN Here I am, Six years old and a bit taller than the other kids. I’m politely sitting at my desk, when this kid named Adam, with a big afro of curly red hair, rushes up to me. ADAM: Hi Sami. SAMI: Hi Adam. He awkwardly holds out a wad of paper. ADAM: I got you something. Uh...it's from my collection. It's brand new. He stands there long enough to see me unwrap the paper to find a GLEAMING SHINY QUARTER from that year. 1979. Did I mention it's really shiny? Adam looks as if he's about to say something, but decides against it and chooses instead to run away in the opposite direction from which he came. I spend the rest of the day admiring the quarter, which finds a prominent place on my desk. Then I go home and proudly show it to my mother.... MY MOTHER: You can not take this! Disgustedly, she holds the quarter between her thumb and forefinger as far away from her as she can. MY MOTHER: This is how it starts. Next thing he's going to think he owns you! My father walks in the room. MY MOTHER (still): Brahim, talk to your daughter. A boy gave her this! She shoves the quarter in his face. He puts on his glasses and studies it. MY FATHER: Does he think you're cheap? My mother looks at me satisfied. MY FATHER: He should have given you a silver dollar! She snatches the quarter out of his hand. MY MOTHER: That's a good way to set an example. She turns to me. MY MOTHER: Never ever let a man buy you with gifts, Samira. You give this back to him and tell him you are not for sale! That is how you get a man to respect you. The next day in Kindergarten, I see Adam. We are standing face-to-face...or in our case, his face to my 2nd shirt button. I can only imagine what disadvantage this puts him in as I deliver the following news: ME: Adam, I can't take this money from you because you're a boy and I'm not for sale! Once again Adam looks as if he's about to say something, but once again he decides against it, choosing instead to run away....but not before bursting into tears first. So now, nearly thirty years later - Can I say that my experience with men has improved all that much? Well, I still love a shiny new quarter...

Eh-French Eh-Fries

There's an inconvenience to hailing from a country which boasts a dictatorship regime. Especially for a kid. Just ask my brother and I -- Oh, I haven't introduced you to him yet. I have a brother named Layth, who's two years younger than me. When we were little we were the best of buds. He's cool. And very smart. He designs computer chips now. Anyway, back to my point. ...What was my point? Oh yeah. Dictatorship and how it can really be a drag. I'm not talking about the obvious reasons: That you live under an oppressive regime. That even when you leave the country, you may have relatives who still live under this oppressive regime. And that you have to think twice about pulling any shenanigans -- like speaking out against the oppressive regime, lest said regime takes an unwanted interest in any of your relatives who may still live there. Those are very important reasons, but when you're 8 and 10 years old you couldn't care less. Because when you're 8 and 10 years old, there's only one thing you take away from the whole 'being from a less-than-democratic country' scenario: YOU CAN'T EVER COMPLAIN TO YOUR PARENTS. ABOUT ANYTHING. Any discomfort you now feel doesn't even come close to what you would have experienced had you still been living in Iraq. Let me explain: Let's say you want to go to McDonalds. Mom says 'no.' You insist (whine) This is what you'll get:

"Mac-Do-Nalds! You want to go to Mac-Do-Nalds! And eat Eh-French Eh-fries?" (remember her tendency to add extra syllables to words..? "Don't you think your cousin Dahlia would love to eat Eh-french Eh-fries?!! But she can't, because they don't have Mac-Do-Nalds!! They don't even have Eh-French Eh-fries! They have one potato to share between the five of them! And they are happy!"

Fine - I didn't want Eh-french Eh-fries anyway... Or maybe you utter a version of the following phrase, which usually begins with:

"But all the other kids..."

It can be

"But all the other kids are going to Disneyland on their Christmas vacation!"

or

"But all the other kids get to stay up late and watch Knight Rider"

or in my case:

"But all the other kids get to sleep over at Mindy's house!"

No sooner than those words are out of your mouth than you better be prepared for the fallout.

"Other kids? The ones back home who wish they could just have enough money to go to the su-par-mar-ket!? Or maybe you mean the kids who don't have a television to watch. And have to listen to crickets at night for entertainment! And what do you mean you want to sleep at Mindy's house. You could be like your Aunt Nabeela who used to share a room with seven sisters. She dreamed of having her own bed. You have your own room! "

Should you then offer the reasonable rebuttal of,

"Well I didn't ask you bring me to this country."

Then you can expect an equally long diatribe about how UN-A-GRATE-FOOL you are.

" I can't believe I raised such an UN-A-GRATE-FOOL daughter. What did I do wrong?..."

God forbid she should ever hear you utter the words,

"I'm bored."

Then it's GAME OVER...

"Bored?! You better thanks God you have the luxury to be bored! Your cousin Hisham carries bags of rice on his back every day after school to help his parents make money. Last year he fainted in the street because of heat stroke and hit his head on a rock! I am sure he would be very happy to be bored. Bored!...."

This can go on and on, until not only have you given up from exhaustion, you are now pleading with her to stop. You're picking up your dad's Pharmacotherapy book and feigning interest in it in hopes that she would just forget you brought it up. Your brother meanwhile tries to hold his breath and be still, so she'll maybe forget she has a son. Just waiting for it to blow over.... So.... Yeah, those were not particularly fun days. Eventually, Layth and I got hip to the situation and came up with secret code words in order to communicate freely. So BORED became GRATEFUL "Hey, I'm so Grateful!" we would say to each other and fall down in peals of laughter at our little inside joke. We'd spend hours trying to come up with new words just in case our code got cracked. Our code-making proved to be so intricate that we ourselves got confused. Was HAPPY the code word for TIRED or STUPID? As in, "You're so happy!" or "I'm so happy" ??? Which is it? So we'd have to start over with a new system. We got so caught up in trying to come up with new code words that it left us little time to be bored. ....maybe mom was on to something...

An introduction...

I hate Leban. This puts me in the minority among most Arabs. Leban is yogurt - specifically, an Arabic yogurt drink. If you've ever eaten at an Indian restaurant, you're probably familiar with Lassi, which is like Leban. It's a salty, milky drink, which is apparently very refreshing on a hot desert day. I wouldn't know. I prefer lemonade. Leban also has other health benefits. But I'm not going to go into all that, lest you think this is some sort of foodie blog. It's not. (While we're on the subject of 'Lassi', it should be noted that if you type the word into Wikipedia you get a short italicized line directly below it which reads: "Not to be confused with Lassie." Just in case you were wondering.) Anyway back to the topic at hand. I'm also not that fond of dates -- another food which figures prominently in the Arab diet. I do however love dolmah --stuffed grape leaves. But again, let me get off the subject of food. I only bring it up as one example of how completely different I am from the bulk of the Middle-Eastern community. Most Arabs love the stuff. My father for one, credits his health and livelihood in recent years to Leban. I personally think it has to do with the fact that he stopped eating fried chicken around the same time, but you can't argue with the man. He loves his Leban. And so do many Arabs I know. See for yourself. The next time you encounter an Arab, ask them if how they feel about Leban. Their answer will usually give you a clue as to how 'Arabic' they are. I suppose I should tell you a bit about myself. My name is Samira Beker -- people call me Sami for short. I was born in Iraq and my family moved to the States when I was four years old. I want to believe that as a baby I drank Leban happily from my sippy-cup and that somehow during the move to the NEW WORLD, I lost that cup and it was replaced with a thermos of cherry kool-aid. But the sad reality is I don't like cherry kool-aid either. So there you go. Stuck in the middle. Sami Beker. It sounds pretty American. And with my green eyes, I look pretty American -- if you get past the thick eyebrows and SOMEWHAT prominent nose. I use the word SOMEWHAT because it is big. I can't lie. I'm an Iraqi, a race not generally known for our ski-slope noses. But I say SOMEWHAT because though my nose was the subject of light ridicule in grade school (You may be familiar with the taunt, "Big Nose, Big Nose. Don't suck all the air out of the room.") it still wasn't emotionally scarring enough for me to rush out and get rhinoplasty when I turned 18, like my best friend Laura Weisenstein. Like I said, I’m first generation Iraqi-American. I was born in Baghdad, and my parents came to the States in the 1970's, to get away from the oppressive regime back home and for the opportunities that could only be found in the United States. As dad would say, “Here we’ll have the best of the best.” And we did. I don’t think anyone loves America more than my father. He cries during the National Anthem. So that's a little introduction. You'll probably see more of it in future posts. My family is very...interesting and perhaps the reason for my lack of identity (but my therapist and I are currently working through this stuff.)