the plastic chair

what about it?

across the atlantic, from home.

i muddle fresh mint leaves in a modest glass cup. my little brother picked them from the backyard, grunting as if he was not accustomed to his designated role in the family now. “one sugar or two?” i ask, like a broken record. arabic letters lay crooked yet comfortable on my tongue. it is an inviolable ritual to slow down and gossip (shout about politics, marriage, and education) among multiple generations, over black tea and a bowl of toasted pumpkin seeds. its a hot summer evening in the midwest. my father’s fingers are tapping to the faint hum of a fayrouz song, barely discernible behind multiple loud conversations. my cousin is cutting a watermelon and the kids throw pita bread to the geese, squealing with some sort of excited fear. i finally take a seat with my legs crossed. the scent of cracked cardamom and sweet cake rusk gently transports me to a home i have never known.

an array of unstacked plastic chairs behind the house is proof of life. proof of a delightful evening, spent with family and friends and neighbors. a red bath towel is a makeshift cushion, and literally anything can be a side table (most commonly the grass, often a bucket turned on its top or someone’s folded knee). empty coffee cups and a distinct smell in the air, from that one over-cologned uncle who will never quit no matter what the western cigarette boxes warn against. the men who fill these seats contradict headlines alike, in the immigrant family you might belong to. they take turns making stupid jokes, laughing, and coughing. they work hard and love harder. the women share recipes and discuss their racist encounters of the week.

“the soccer coach says that Osama is not fitting in well”

nobody wonders why.

we turn to look at him, 6 years old, kicking around a basketball with his cousin. inhale in, exhale the smoke. somber moments don’t last long (because we’re incredibly avoidant), but they never really cease to exist. they are always there. will we ever feel at home, again? can this be home, enough?

back to the music, the deck of cards, the fruit, the laughter. the plastic chairs. things that may have been the exact same, had we never left the homeland.

What a refreshing reminder of what America looks like behind the closed doors of who really lives in this country. From the falling power lines and crumbling roofs of the common folk, working in the fields and behind a street cart, it seems puerto rico is a window into intentional neglect by this country. I did not understand a word, but I saw the message just the same. The question of, who gets to be called an American?

This is not a pop-culture think piece about Benito, but I am referencing the show as a pipeline to talk about the state of the world. He reminded me of the plastic chairs and the absolute joy being human has the potential to be. That song and dance ultimately does not need a translation.

I would argue that we often forget how to be human, when differences are labeled negative. It is crucial to contrast one another. If every puzzle piece was shaped the same, they could never come together. It is an inherent truth of the universe that diversity is at the center of the human race and eurocentrism will be the death of us. we must not translate, dull down, and westernize. a reminder to myself first, that my name is Amal (not Emma). the missing piece is always, do you see your similarities enough to fight for someone else’s right to exist? In the same vein, how is it incomprehensible to listen to 15 minutes of Spanish at a football game but Taco Tuesday is tomorrow at the office? Alongside empathy and basic education on geography, it seems common sense has also escaped us. To be human we must be different, but to be American we must all be the same? That is the contradictory message received from the latter.

I have so many questions and I have a laundry list of concerns for the future. I argue, no matter where we come from, the plastic chair is the common denominator that matters. A universal symbol of leisure, of community, of embracing differences while discovering similarities, and creating a life worth living when the odds have never been in your favor.

Be the puzzle piece you are supposed to be, or we won’t ever get to see the bigger picture. and f*ck ICE just in case I haven’t said it enough yet.