Growing up First Gen

I grew up feeling confused: why don’t I get days off for Eid? Why does my mother wear a hijab? Why do my parents have an accent? Why am I being called a ‘terrorist’? Why do people make fun of the names of my family? Why am I looked at strangely for bringing grape leaves to lunch? Why am I not like my classmates? Why, why, why. Who was I, who did I want to become? I was torn between two different worlds, ideologies, morals, and cultures. How was I expected to feel comfortable in my own skin living in the Western world where people (up for debate) don’t like Muslims, let alone minorities themselves?

Growing up, I used to hate the side of me that was Middle Eastern and Muslim. Having grown up in a predominantly white school, being different was something I hated. So, I tried my best to fit in so people wouldn’t think that I wasn’t like them. My parents sacrificed their life to move to this country, and little me couldn’t understand the hardships faced to get here. My life was split during childhood: I spent my weekends going to Arabic Saturday school, my weekdays in regular school, my school year in America, and my summers in Syria. Being first-gen is just like being Hannah Montana, living a double life where not many people really know both sides of you.

“You look white”
“My parents thought you were white”
“You don’t eat pork!?”
“What did you get for Christmas?”
“Do you speak Islam at home?”
“What are you giving up for Lent?”
The list goes on, but my response was always blank. What was I supposed to say? I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed that my family came from a different country, that my extended family didn’t even know English, that I didn’t celebrate Christmas, nor Easter, and that I wasn’t like the people around me.

I was surrounded by people in school who didn’t really know the real me, always masking my identity and pushing my roots and culture to the side for fear of not being accepted. I feared that if I embraced who I was, my peers and classmates would be embarrassed to be friends with me, and I wasn’t able to fully accept that until my 20s.

My friends in school were predominantly white, while I had family friends at home. I want to preface by saying I don’t blame anyone I grew up with for the way I felt; how were they supposed to know when I shut down that part of me to them? Navigating school was difficult. I was always afraid people would see my mother with her hijab and find out who I was. Notice how I say “who I was,” because why did Western culture make me believe that I wasn’t worthy the same way others were?

Getting into high school, going to a Catholic school as an Arab-American Muslim was one hell of an experience. To be honest, I don’t even know if people knew I was Muslim because I did a great job at hiding it. For those who did, I got the occasional “terrorist” comment from immature boys in my class and others who probably didn’t know what Islam was. The beauty from that experience was meeting the first non-Arab person I genuinely felt like I could be my full, authentic self around, my best friend Ben. Ben was a friend that allowed me to see myself for who I am in all my flaws, insecurities, and struggles. Ben was the friend who was curious about all parts of me, fasting with me during Ramadan, and ears open to listen to anything I felt. I never felt judged, never felt like he would leave me if he knew where I came from or what I believed in; I hadn’t felt this kind of security in a relationship with someone who didn’t necessarily share the same background. He loved me for me, and if it wasn’t for Ben, I am not sure I’d start to gain the confidence to embrace all parts of me.

Although grateful for friendships like those with Ben, I faced struggles in my relationships with quite a few of my peers. It wasn’t what they did that made me feel that way; it was a voice in my head that told me “they won’t like that other part of you,” which in some cases, was true. I faced people who would make fun of my background, crack jokes, and I’d laugh with them. I was scared... who I was was a laughing matter. Why did I believe that to be? I get frustrated knowing I enabled the behavior around me because I never stood up for myself and said something to stop it.

College was the biggest culture shock for me and a time where I felt like I truly lost a part of who I was: my core values, beliefs, morals, and identity. I walked into a scene of partying, relationships, sororities, frats, all of it, which I was never told about before. I didn’t have parents that went to university in the States, and that was a silent struggle for me mostly all of college. The first two years were a whirlwind of figuring out how the system works; navigating friendships, school clubs, relationships, education, social circles was all really tough to balance. Social life was one of the most difficult aspects for me; I wanted to go out and party like the people around me, but at the same time, I really didn’t. I wanted to do the things they were doing, but at the same time, I didn’t. I think a hard disconnect between my peers in college and me is that none of this was the norm for me; I am Muslim, so I lost myself. I was silently disappointing myself and my family just to fit into something that wasn’t me; it was like a desperation for the people around me to think I am “cool,” that I “can hang.” I did things in college that I have really reflected about my post-grad life that I regret, that I have to take full responsibility for, that I have to live with. Reading this you might not think this is a big deal, “it’s college,” they say. But, it is a big deal for me; I became a person that I disliked, just for the approval of others. I began involving myself a lot in my studies, my extracurriculars, and began to stray away from the scene. For others, I was “doing too much,” for me, I was escaping something I didn’t want to be a part of. This cycle was exhausting; why couldn’t I just hold my morals and be vocal to those around me? I still don’t have an answer to that, but I do know as I approached my final year it began to get better. I am so appreciative of the people I met in college; everyone I met taught me a lesson that I carry into the person I want to become today. My senior year I met classmates that impacted me deeply in beginning to love and embrace my cultural identity and background. People who made me want to love these parts of myself because they had admired them themselves, just like Ben. People who let me open up about these struggles and listened to me, fully listened to what I had to say, and for that, I am grateful. I understand those around me might not fully understand the depth of my struggles, and I don’t blame them for that which was something very difficult for me to accept. As I navigate my life now, I appreciate the experiences I've had because I believe they are shaping me into the person I want to be. I am now more connected to my culture, family friends at home, religion, and self than ever before. I wish the past me could see the beauty of who I am and where I come from. Who cares if somebody doesn’t want to be friends with me, who cares if they make fun of my background—I am unapologetically me, proudly a First Generation Arab-American Muslim. If you've taken the time to read this, thank you. I know it might come as a shock to those close to me; this is a very vulnerable subject for me, and I am glad I have the confidence to express my thoughts. I appreciate you all, thank you.