What’s so Great about Being Arabic… Weird Memories of a Time Past Long Ago

Our flight plans changed last minute, not that I really minded. Originally we were going to take a redeye to New York and from there make our way toward Iraq. Right before we were to leave Scotty received a call and was informed that we had one more addition to our team, a native Iraqi whom would help us integrate with the natives, hopefully. “Jay” lived in California, but was in Washington, D.C. for business. I was happy to have him aboard, as it would mean we would have one more person who would be able to speak Arabic. That definitely took some of the pressure off me.

Still, I couldn’t help but wonder how he would view me. Scotty insisted that Jay was Americanized, but that did nothing to assuage my fears. I know all too well how Iraq men look upon women, especially Jewish women. Jay and I could have our own little war going on between us, which would not help nor be beneficial in any shape or form to this trip. Drama was not something I wanted to deal with on a personal level; I could deal with it over seas while working, but having to put up with some guys crap on my own team did not sound all that alluring.

At the age of 38, Jay immigrated over to America. The Gulf War would start soon after. The company he worked for relocated him to Virginia where a new plant would soon open. Coming from Baghdad, Jay was surprised at the southern lifestyle and the people that occupied the area; it wasn't the best fit. After 5 years, and after gaining quite the nest egg, Jay was able to move onwards and upwards. He now owns his own company and resides in California, but was in Washington D.C. for a conference.

America is also his new home.

For a while Jay moved about, living in Europe, China, and even Canada where a majority of his business took place. But nothing compared to California and the freedom he felt America gave him.

Upon arriving in D.C. we decided to do some sight seeing as Jay would not be able to leave until later in the afternoon after his conference. We met him for breakfast. He seemed nice, and for the most part he did not seem to hold any type of grudge toward me, even when he found out I was Jewish. However his reaction to finding out that I was studying mechanical engineering did little to forge a friendship between us. His belittling comment of, “Well, aren’t you liberated,” caused my temper to flare, as well as my glass of water to accidentally fall into his lap.

Oops.


Having been born in Russia and moving to America, and more specifically the east coast, at such a young age, I really identified to the area. I remembered spending time in D.C., seeing all the main tourist attractions and learning as much as my tiny brain would allow. My parents let my brother and I roam about at our leisure. To some this might sound as though my parents neglected my brother and I, but looking back at the wealth of information that was made available to us, I can’t help but thank my parents for their lacks daisy approach to parenting. I feel my brother and I learned far more than most children ever do; it was we who sought out the museums and memorials instead of the parents dragging their children to said places. As a result my brother and I were granted an unparalled education that to this day has stuck with us.

Scotty, Mickel and Brandon relied on my memory to get us around D.C. Mickel wanted to see the Lincoln memorial. While a tourist trap and definitely not the most important thing to see, I relented and saved my catty, sardonic remarks, opting instead to lead the way and grant Mickel his wish to see the memorial. After all, this very well could be our last time in the US and who was I to stop these men from seeing such great structures.

It was muggy out, as could be expected of most summer days back east. As I looked around I smiled to myself, internally laughing at what I saw before me. The tourists looked tired, weighed down by the sweat that clung to their bodies; the heavy heat and humidity causing many to seek shelter in any buildings that offered air conditioning. But I thrived. I could already feel my skin clearing up as it cherished the feel of the excess moisture. This was my home, my element.

A storm was brewing and soon thunder and lightening would illuminate the sky as the afternoon shower drenched the area.

As we approached the monument I noticed, with little enthusiasm, the advocates of the armed forces sitting in tiny booths and covered by even tinier umbrellas. Their voices clamored loudly over the general din of the area, offering the sale of buttons, bumper stickers, even shirts, so as to show your support for the troops, support for Bush.

I was not about to go near them.

“Fucking lunatics.” I smiled over at Brandon. Obviously I wasn’t the only one to harbor such feelings.

As the guys climbed the stairs to the monument I continued past the booths, the crying people, and the general hustle and bustle. I made my way onto the concrete platform that gave me a wonderful view of America’s greatest conceptions, the strip mall. A laugh bubbled from deep within me as I sadly shook my head. Just in the distance stood the Washington monument.

My mind flooded with images and sound blurbs.

Planes. Fire. Bombs. Death.

It all played out in my mind in slow motion. A hijacked airplane diving toward the monument at speeds that were unstoppable. Since 9/11 I often thought of such things. I guess you could call it a syndrome, of sorts. Anytime I see a plane I wonder what it would look like if it suddenly just exploded; would I be able to deal with seeing something so horrible? Would I cope? How did so many others do it when I surely believed I would not?

I heard the guys behind me and suddenly the images in my brain changed. I now saw Martin Luther King Jr. The crowd of hundreds of thousands bellowed and cheered as he sang out the poetic words of “I have a dream…” words that never seemed so true.

I do have a dream, as so many others do. But what price will I pay to achieve it?

His words rang loudly in my mind, far louder than Lincoln’s famed “Four score and seven years ago…” speech that so desperately whispered from behind me within the memorial.

I always did identify with black people, despite my cracker status.

Turning, the four of us walked back toward the Lincoln memorial. Mickel wanted me to tell him about it; he insisted that I must have some insider info as I did come from these parts. I laughed.

“Well, over on the side, there is a little machine that you can insert a quarter in,” I started as I pointed off to the side of the monstrous statue of Lincoln. “Anyway, when you feed the machine, Lincoln will pick his nose.”

Obviously I spoke a little too loudly, as a second later I over heard a small boy asking his parents for a quarter.

God bless our youth.

Scotty laughed. Brandon frowned; how dare I say such tasteless things.

Making our way through the site, I noted the pungent stench of the stagnant air within the memorial. It was one reason I wanted to stay away. That, and staring at fat men in sweaty t-shirts did not seem all that appealing. I watched as families posed in front of the monument, my mind once again wandering back to my childhood. We never took pictures like that; it was always separate.

Maybe I did miss out on some things.

As we started to depart I overheard a man telling a group of children how Lincoln had single handedly liberated the slaves.

Bull hockey.

Yet another lie that the west coast was telling their students. Travel to any school within the east coast and you hear a completely different story.

One of the children raised his hands and asked what a slave was, and why they needed to be freed. This is when I really got a good laugh, for the man turned and smiled up at the statue, then returned his gaze to the children before telling them that slaves were black people who once had to work without pay( he failed to mention the fact that white people also owned them) and that they were freed for the same reason the US was helping to free the Iraqi people.

Give me a break.