Chapter 1: An Introduction
My name’s Mira, and I’m an anomaly.
Let me explain. First of all, my full name is actually Sa-mira, but I shortened it to Mira when I was 8 so I could tell if I was being called by my friends or by my family more easily. Samira is an Arabic name because I’m half-Arab, or half-Lebanese to be exact, thanks to my mom. She moved to the US when she was a little younger than I am now, and eventually met and married my dad. Contrasting her foreign upbringing, he was born in Texas — though he hates to admit it — and was raised throughout the southwest before settling in the good old Golden State, which is where I’ve been almost my entire life.
But anyways — Samira. Since my childhood was surrounded by my cousins, aunts, and uncles from my mom’s side of family, I’ve heard Arabic my whole life. When I was in trouble with my mom or when my aunt was calling me to come help at some family gathering, I could always tell just by how they pronounced my name. Mira is what I was to my friends, Mira (with a slightly rolled “r”) is what I was to my mom at my aunt’s house, and Samira with the emphasized “r” was reserved for both trouble or me being cute, depending on the context. You can see why I dropped the Sa- in the third grade.
Growing up in a heavily Arab-infused household was fun for me as a child. You see, I have pretty fair skin, which I attribute to both parents. Looking at them, a person on the street wouldn’t have any clue one of them was from the Middle East until she started speaking fluent Arabic on the phone. This light-skinned transfer to me allowed me to lay claim to the white-American persona while still knowing and participating in all kinds of Arabic culture — facets of which my elementary-school self never understood why it was so hard for my friends to grasp. Thus my anomalist personality: I live wholly within the confines of a culture that I’ve followed blindly at times, while taking my heritage for granted. Not that this was entirely on purpose, mind you. When I was old enough to realize how different I was, I was curious to find out what happened that made my mom and grandmother come to the States, and I asked many times over the years. Yet all those times my questions were either deflected or downright ignored, which of course made me more curious. Well, fine I might be seeming a bit harsh there. The truth is they came over during loads of heavy fighting during the Lebanese Civil War, and both my mom and grandmother recount seeing soldiers in the streets all the time, and hiding in certain buildings to avoid the falling bombs. Of course that’s a legitimate reason for leaving, but that’s not why I’m curious. All I know is the same story that’s been repeated, in which the fighting became worse and, based on connections my grandfather — الله ير حمه — had in California, left the country via Cyprus and eventually made it out West. This is all true, but it’s when I ask for specifics on this that I don’t get an answer. It’s annoying at best, but I’ve learned to deal with it.
A little bit more about myself. I’m in my fourth and final year at the University of California and study a mix of biology and anthropology. Or rather, as my Arabic teacher (أستاذة) would make me write,
“أنا في السنة الثالثة في جامعة كاليفورنيا و أدرس الطبيعة و دراسة الناس.”
…or something like that. In addition to being an anomaly in society, my brother and I make up the same kind of anomaly at home, as neither of us is fluent in Arabic. According to my mom, when I was younger I simply “wouldn’t listen” and by the time my brother came around “there was no use.” Right. She continues to deny her faux pas but I have long pledged to myself that come the time when I have kids, you can bet the sun that they will be brought up with more than one language if I have any say in it. Thus, on the side of my normal classes I’ve been taking Arabic language and literature, so you’ll have to excuse me if I go on Arabic tangents once in a while, because it is such a beautiful language. You know the feeling when you first became old enough to drive a car, and you finally got to experience the freedom and independence that comes with it? That’s me with this tongue. I’ve heard it my entire life and never understood what was going on, but I now have the keys, and even three years on I’m still slowly discovering new places that I never knew existed before. Trust me. They’re beautiful.