Denial Is a River in Egypt

        As the child of immigrant parents, I've grown up struggling to grapple my cultural identity, as like most people in my position. Although having tried everything to fit in with those I aspired to be with, it seemed that nothing I did would ever result in finding and connecting with others around me. Of course, when I was younger, I had a very black and white view of the world and of finding my place. I just believed that if you wanted to befriend others, you were automatically part of their culture, but there's so many intricate levels and details to know before truly being able to appreciate everything about it.

        In Egyptian culture, food, family and education are all key factors, while in American culture, entertainment, politics and technology all reign supreme. These dramatic differences in these two ways of life often confused me. Which was I supposed to follow? A combination of the two would be easy, but it never really made sense to me. How could I combine them when they are both total opposites? I tried for a while to make the mixture work, but it didn't really help me with fitting in. With that, my inexperienced mind reasoned that because I was in America, I should act American. So that's what I did. I threw away everything my parents tried teaching me so that I could get along better with the other kids. Thankfully, this phase didn't last long because of how unnatural it all felt to me. How could I just get rid of such a big part of myself? The answer was I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried. The Egyptian ideals were instilled into me from the moment I was born, and there was just no way I could ever be different from my true self. The Arabic language was too beautiful, the food too good, and the warmth too comforting and accepting to push it all away. 

        While I didn't stray away from myself, it was still very difficult to fit in. No matter what, I was too Arab for the White kids and too White for the Arab kids, which is something that many children with immigrant parents struggled with as well. Even though I had a tiny grasp on the language, I could never properly communicate with my aunts and uncles when I was younger, and even though I completely understood their language, I was never able to truly relate to White kids. I could never be able to tell my parents this though, especially with how much they've done for me.

        My parents, both of whom Egyptian migrants who came to America to provide my siblings and me with a good upbringing and education, are probably some of the strongest people I know. My father, leaving to a new country despite the fact that he was the oldest son in his family, and therefore the man, and my mother, who left her family to be with her husband of 13 days to a country where she knew not the language, both sacrificed their lives for their children to thrive in a foreign country without the support of their families. This knowledge always makes me sad when they tell me about the beauty of Egypt and its people, of its culture and its food, its celebrations and its music, and of course, of their entertainment industry, because god forbid my parents forget to brag about how amazing the Egyptian entertainment industry every time they sit down to watch one of their overdramatic and over-acted shows (which my siblings and I pretend to enjoy). My parents never want to acknowledge the fact that some part of them, however small it may be, misses and regrets their decision to move to America.

        Although they may never realize it, it seems that I'm not the only one in denial. Denial of the fact that they lost out on a lot, whether it be celebrating with their families on Eid, visiting the Nile River on a long weekend, picking fresh ripe mangos from trees in their backyard, and more. But, as everyone knows, all good things come with a price.