From ramen noodles, to oreos, carrots, to halloumi the Arab equivalent of feta , Baba tried it all on me. I devoured my portion every morning without giving it my usual second health-nut thought. Nope, not here. Looks like Margot finally found the hot sauce, promptly ending my moment of nostalgia.
My dad always told me I had a chip on my shoulder. It was probably a combination of the lingering baby fat, remedial English classes and feeling like I never fit in. Being French meant that I got weird looks whenever my mom addressed me in a public space.
Ironically, these were all blessings. What I failed to understand as a child was the invaluable exposure I received, and the privilege I had in my ability to claim more than one identity. As a child though, it felt like I had no sense of belonging.
The chips on my shoulder would gnaw at my brain like a faulty pipe constantly dripping, but my mother told me I needed to find a way to move forward. I envisioned going step by step, the movement inspiring some sort of emotion, and it stuck. Why walk to class when you can ice skate instead, right?
You hate this. My mom bursts into laughter, eager to share her newfound knowledge. Naturally, a female wanderer who walks back and forth on the street proposes a different connotation. But, by the looks of my empty wallet and clumsy winter movements, I am veritably not a prostitute. I wonder if this is how the Jordanian men perceived me when I had the audacity to do the exact same thing that they were.
