Tag Archives: adulthood

The Search to Become and Stay a Native

The Search to Become and Stay a Native

Note: This is one of the essays I have written for AUB, and may very well be the last one written for the University itself.

 

The past four years in the American University of Beirut is an explanation on the differences found between here, and in the states. Prior to coming here, I was studying at the University of Massachusetts Amherst which doesn’t fluctuate much when it comes to the English use. But here is an all together different story, with three main languages weaving in and out of the discourse. While each of the courses remain primarily in English, you will find Arabic used in courses as an additional tool for translating information to students. Or for other courses with a French-heavy accent, the occasional use of French when a person becomes flustered with their speech. For a creative writing course, I remember a few years back seeing people introduce French words, a “Je ne sais pas” to explain their mood. And it would be passed, and nodded, as the student who wrote that came from a French schooling. But taking that in comparison to the states, where each student most likely has the same schooling as the next.

I’m speaking of French and Arabic here, but that doesn’t stop to say that no other languages are being used. Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, or Italian. And that does not mean that English itself is the sole language being used. In some classes, British English is primarily used, and in others American English. And sometimes both at the same time. Again, this is not to say that one is wrong and the other is right, but that the combination of languages here and how they borrow themselves with the English rules is akin to a different branch of English being accepted, a hybrid Lebanese English being born.

I was born and raised in the Bay Area of California. Both my parents spoke Arabic to me at home, but I always replied back in English. Technically, my first language was Arabic, but I have forgotten the rules and learned English instead. There were instances of when I was speaking to friends and I used Arabic words in my speech. An example I remember is talking to my friend about going to the pool to swim, and me telling him to not forget to bring his “mayo”. Mayo is Arabic for swimsuit, and after him saying what as a reply a few times, my mother interjected and said “he means swimsuit”. Later on I asked my father’s friends about the language they speak to each other, and they joking said “jonglish” for Jordanian English.

Growing up with this as the norm for the household, it developed problems for me until I began to distinguish the differences and correct myself before speaking. Yet it still sets me out as a foreigner, in my native California, or with the family located in Amman, Jordan. Things such as a heavy accent being developed, due to the pronunciation of Arabic syllables being combined with English letters, it became a prolonged journey where I sought out to find a culture that would accept my language without question.

A friend of mine suggested to me in Massachusetts that if I were to complete another major, that I would do it in Beirut, Lebanon. The explanation was that it was a mix of cultures, the Orient meeting Western and European influences. And it was here that I was not treated as a foreigner, but rather as a native due to my use of Arabic and English together. So what ended up clicking for me was the location, and communicating with my peers in my bastardized form of English. Though that brings back to the earlier point raised, that the mixture of languages and setting of Lebanon, or in specific Beirut, is important to creating a form of English that expresses the Lebanese identity.

The Lebanese identity based around language is affected primarily by the proficiency in languages spoken. The written literacy of language though is based around how the sounds of words are placed. Taking a walk around Hamra would support this argument, as you can see shops with signs such as “Suber” instead of “Super”. This is due to the lack of the “p” in Arabic, but in trying to set the word out in English, the second letter of the Arabic alphabet “ba” is used. In Jordan, an amendment was made to the language with a “p” introduced by creating a line with three dots underneath. This was done to translate English words to Arabic more fluidly.

So this is the end of four years in Lebanon, where I have been studying English Literature at AUB. When I speak to people about what I study, most people are shocked and reply with, “But you were in the States. Why didn’t you study that there?” The decision to study English Literature here is due to my experience with language. It has become more to study the other people taking the courses over the years, as a secondary focus. Each student would come in from a mix of French, Arabic, British or American English backgrounds, and how they each take part to interact with the texts. When it comes to the classroom utilization of English, there is a more-or-less unification of terminologies used. Jargon based on the family background is still used though. I remember being questioned on the validity of some words back in Freshman year here, and I was asked to explain the jargon terminology.

Outside of the classrooms though, especially with vocal literacy, the English usage breaks down as the grammatical rules are not followed per say. For instance, I have met several students who, coming from the French baccalaureate system, would use French grammatical rules with their English by accident. Or for the Jordanians, the English would be interjected into the Arabic as catch-phrases. These catch-phrases are commonly understood though. Some words would continue to be heard, for instance “bas” being used instead of “but”. Then there would be students like myself, who would use Arabic but based with English grammatical rules, and it would be understood as something native to Beirut. By being treated as a native in a foreign country, that is the single most beautiful thing I have ever experienced, and is the reason I have decided to stay in this country for a few more years.

Studying English Literature allowed me to see how the understanding of language changes between students, as it is not just the texts but also how the context changes here versus Massachusetts. The research hypothesis that I began with before coming to this country is coming close to fruition in this four year experiment and experience.

If the same English texts were to be read by a separate culture, then the perception of the context of the text would change because of the language, social-political, and grammatical background.

An example would be Edward S. Said’s “Orientalism”. I studied the text in Amherst 2008, with a classroom filled with American English speaking students. The war in Afghanistan was still present, the war in Iraq still in the process. That influenced the perception of the text, about the exotic land and became one of the books that my Marine friends would recommend to each other before being deployed.

Now reading that book a year ago again, but this time in Lebanon, the language base was mixed. The grammatical rules of how texts were understood are more varied. The political background of the French mandate is still present, with French remaining as one of the three languages commonly used here. The social background stems from that, and from the Westernization from Europe and the States. The text was taken differently by the two cultures. In America, it was popularized among my peers as one of the books you should read to get a better understanding of the Middle East. In Lebanon, it was taken as an example of how Western ideologies shaped the Middle East and how it could be reversed to make it their own.

That itself leads on to how the hybridization of the Lebanese English was most likely born. On the scale of language development though, this form of English can be said to still be towards the infancy. This is due to no rigid structure of grammar being placed that is shared with the vocal structure of the language. This ties in to the feeling of being a native due to how the mixture of Arabic, English and French is present without a clear cut rule. So in my case, my use of English pronounced Arabic, as well as the vocalization of some English terms with Arabic is seen as one of the many perceptions of the language use here. If the language rules were more defined though, then certainly that feeling of being a native would disappear. Thankfully at this stage they are not.

The languages used are not static, but ever changing to suit the social culture of a location. Earlier I mentioned about British and American English being used interchangeably in poems and essays. The word “colour” in one instance, and “motorcycle” in another. In Massachusetts, “take away” is called a “doggy bag”. From what I noticed, small colloquialisms are added up together to rules for the dialect. The dialect then is popularized and selected to become a language. So where does that leave me with the English Literature degree, when all is said and done?

Stories. Where the William Caxton solved the problem of the lack of a fixed form of English, I plan to be able to influence the hybridization of English in Lebanon by creating stories for games. Through hand-held applications the benefits outweigh the maluses. First off, it targets a larger audience than publishing a book, secondly it is more cost effective than printing hundreds of books, and thirdly if the game itself is popularized, then the language used can become a standard for the future in Lebanon. As to why though, the reason is entirely more selfish. It is to remain treated like a native, by creating the language rules based on my view of how Arabic, French, and English should be combined. In doing so, especially in a place where the rules are changing for the language use each day, I can influence the language itself to my liking. Audio cues, visual cues, the accent of the characters in the game, the method of speech, if Caxton was able to use this technology himself, would “The History of Troy” have influenced the accent we use today, and not just the rules for words? There is a lack of games targeted towards the Lebanese market itself, which raises the allure of being one of the first to create a distinctly Lebanese game based on English, Arabic, and French. And all this can be achieved for the desire to find and maintain a place where I am not called a foreigner. A place far from where I was born, and further from the place my roots are from. To find and maintain a place I can call home.

 

In the narrative, a few arguments were brought up regarding the orient and the hybridization of the English Language. Historically, California itself was named the great melting pot due to the amount of different cultures that are brought together post the Gold rush. Social occurrences such as the work camps with the Japanese during World War II intermixed the culture, with such things as Silicon Valley inviting entrepreneurs to live and work in the Bay Area.

For Lebanon, the country was under the French mandate until 1946, when France officially left Lebanon. After this, with the mixture of cultures and the civil war, a struggle to develop a Lebanese identity has been seen due to different religious groups. The reason this is brought up is in relationship to what has changed the protagonist over his years, and what is supporting the viability of helping to define the changes in language.

California can be argued to be at a latter stage of the hybridization of English in comparison to Lebanon. The stage is due to the massive influx of Mexicans to the south, which introduces the hybridization called “Spanglish”, in addition to the forms of English. This is due to the use of the two languages, English and Spanish primarily. Now in comparison to Lebanon, which has three main languages used, with a large variety of other languages due to the social-religious background, a main identity in terms of language is not concretely found. This is seen evident by the difference in spelling between Arabic, French, and English – through pronunciations and grammar. The protagonist pronounces on the diphtong that can be seen in Lebanon, which is then a necessary step on the formalization of the new version of English. By taking note of the grammatical rules for instance, it is important to come to the realization of the paradigms used in one language and set precedence to it in comparison to the other languages. This raises the issue of what language would be chosen to set the grammatical rules, but due to the argument against the orient it is best to select all three main languages instead of relying primarily on one.

In selecting the three languages, the grammatical rules would be placed on English, but for the ease of formalization between the languages the setting must insist on replacing words that are held more popular. For instance take the following phrase:

How are you baby?

And instead replace it with the Arabic phrase “habibti”, which is the endearing equivalent of baby to a the female:

How are you habibti?

With this, we can place the changes in the language form to fit the Arabic rules with the English ones. The sociolinguist Carver (1992) would argue on the similarities of this in comparison to the loanwords seen in the English language from the Native Americans. But this raises the importance that given the social-political climate of Lebanon, this has to become a true sharing of the cultures in question. So that would mean for the same amount of words that are placed into the context of the English language from Arabic and French, the same must be done to each of those with similar rules.

And there-in lies the problem. But to tie back to William Caxton’s solution with the printing press, he chose the best economic solution to his problem to release the best amount of sales, which overlapped in giving a cheaper solution to reading in comparison to other texts. With this, the protagonist’s point of creating games that can target a larger audience of impressionable children to adults would be a stronger bartering tool in the creation of a set language rule in comparison to others. Which as the end result would create change.

 

Works Referenced:

 

Carver, E.M. (1992) ‘The Mayflower to the Model-T: the development of American English’ in Machan, T.W. And Scott, C.T. (eds) English in its Social Contexts: Essays in historical Sociolinguistics, Oxford, Oxford University Press

Said, Edward W. Orientalism. New York: Pantheon, 1978. Print.

 

I’m the one with the cigarettes

Lighting the third cigarette in a row

Lit it, smoke it, wash it away with small puffs of smoke.

In Arabic they say ishrab il cigara.

To drink it away.

A community of rebellion or being a man.

That’s the thing about smoking though, always found it to be something in particular for traveling. Travel here, travel there, always have a pack of friends but you know that friendship will last five ten minutes until you have another one. And then you become that obnoxious asshole that people stare at in disgust. But that’s fine. It is much better than to stand around doing nothing and waiting for life to take you away. Give a cigarette away to those who would like it. There was a girl at a bus stop who asked me for one. I looked at her and asked how old she was. A curt 16, and a “are you gonna gimme one or not”

Too young to smoke, too young to smoke, I told her she’s too young to smoke, and to get insulted then and there for judging and it’s not my place and stuff.

And to look at her with a grin, bringing up the third cigarette to my lips and say,

– I’m the one with the cigarettes.

Everyone has a story

Foreword: Something I found from a while ago. There was an assignment that I expanded on, and it became a free write from two, three years back? I should probably see about doing a reply to this myself, but that will come at the end of my four year stay in Lebanon. But reading over this, I can safely say that I have changed. The drinking for instance was cut down. My brother matured into a better adult. I matured more myself I would say. Well, maturity, being an adult for me is being able to turn that button called maturity on and off. So that it isn’t permanently on, and isn’t permanently off. Anyways, here we go.

 

Everyone has a story. That story can begin with a word, an action, something random, crazy, unbelievable yet true. Things that can happen when you open the door to Pandora’s box and let the craziness that you call life to overflow you and enter and welcome you and look and work and feel and everything. This is the life we hold, the life we have and everyone doesn’t pay attention to it, nobody looks and feels and acts accordingly. You have life that is the subject and people work day in and day out and act like nothing is off place, nothing is different, nothing is the way to move against or for life, that the world, and it’s entirety is a demon that cannot be given, you have to live in a closed box and seal the world away from you and live alone and tired and waiting for what? This isn’t the life that people should ask for, this isn’t the world that we dream and live for. The closed mindset that plagues and kills the lives of others. The ones that look down on the women, that makes them into sex objects, that plague and strive for us, we aren’t doing the right thing, we aren’t working for the right thing. We are not using this information and changing things. Instead we allow this world to continue to move on because most people are not willing to let things change. For a chance.

Everyone has a story. My story last night was I took my brother out for a few drinks. I haven’t seen him in a few years, and wanted to show him off to the world. We went and ate food at this restaurant, Lord of the Wings. Made fun of how the place lacked Gollum, that the employee of the month got a chicken ring, and how the waiter looked like he was going jump off the building in a few more months. We started drinking at five pm and finished drinking at four am. Fucking a that was… enough. Enough so that we couldn’t think of drinking another thing today. And the stories we can tell. The things that have happened. J—– picking my nose while I was talking to R—-, and the waitress, cute chick, looking outside through the window and going what the fuck, and me responding I don’t know. For a man that wanted to get laid so much, he cock-blocked himself like a charm. It was just us four, did I say there was four? Me, my brother and his friend, and my friend. We went to the same bar three times that night, moving back and forth, starting there, leaving to Mono, then Hamra, then back to mono, then to Gemmazy, then to the end of Gemmazy, then back to the main street of Gemmazy, then Mono. One long crazy fucking night that was beer filled and fun. Leaving the first time, there were a couple of chicks ahead of us, and I told my brother, he’s younger than me, mind: That chick has a very cute ass. They turned and laughed and got into the car – and he looked at me and said, I think they heard us. That was 5 pm. The nose picking incident was at 2:30? am. We wanted to go to Name this Bar, around 2-2:30 am, and decided against it, Standing outside and suddenly a finger goes into my nostril and digs about. I looked at J—–, and continued to talk in a straight face to my brother as if nothing has happened in the world. The waitress just stared at me and raised her hands up in question, as if going – what the bloody fuck – and I just shrugged. Straight face mind. There were a couple of really hot chicks, ahead of us, and they walked on the street to pass by, and J—– turned and started to follow them, and they turned, saw him and walked faster. Just had us cracking up to that, pointing our fingers to him and laughing. Or going to mono, and to Hole in the Wall, and talking about the “fight” I saw a long time ago, grown men ripping off their shirts to slap each other. Yes. To slap. Forget everything, but all that came was slap slap slap, slap slap, rip off shirt to reveal puny body, slap. We heard a fight, were excited and walked out, and all there was is just slaps.

Then came the other stories, and we went to Hamra, and I toured my little brother around, showing him off to the different people I know and such. Passed out fliers, still have a few with me, and just looked about, passing them around. It was a fun-fledged night, it had to be, 11 hours of almost non-stop drinking. Waking up though, that was a bitch. Go see if my brother is awake, he was sleeping, call our dad, tell him that everything is ok, that my brother is fine, go see my brother to get called a Bastard of a Brother, and that my brother didn’t get this drunk in a very long time. He cursed the Tabasco shots I gave him. A flat liner with white sambuka, tequila, and Tabasco. Extra, mind. Stories, stories, stories. Everyone has a story. Slowly as I tell you mine, you can understand me better. You can understand my laughs, my tears, my moments of insanity. This is my life, and this is how you can understand me.

And eventually, you can tell me yours so I can understand you too.

Everyone has a story. My story, your story, holds different connotations, different things, we can both talk about the same thing and the different things, my life, your life, the connotations hed in between, my life I do’t know. If you are going to talk to someone, the correct first thing to ask is, what is your story? That story, and afterwards. Everyone has a story, and some stories may be more interesting than others. Then you have that common persona, where they would create a story that they think is interesting, because they are afraid that their own life is not as interesting. This basic lie, the lie that isn’t needed. Why do that in reality? My life is not so simple. I moved from here to there, I had my share of loves, had my share of dreams, goals, ambitions, everything. What was taken away and what was moved past and what was held without and forever. So everyone has a story. Remember that, that story can come through a prose, a poem, a song, a tear. It is when you start remembering those tears, those moments of sadness. I loved you first. The moments, the tears, the ages of mystery, everything was explained in the first few moments. And all that remains are tears. The tears that lead to nothing, to sadness, to whispers, to dreams. I don’t know why, or how, or when, or what , or dreams. I really wish everything would stop, would move away, would leave me alone, and separate myself and the goals, and the world, and the tears, and the regret. Every looked at something and regretted something you’ve done? I’ve had how many had of the moments I’ve had, the moments and everything and I regretted my actions and I wished that I could have changed and dreamed and moved, and did something different and did something new and different and when I tried to save the world but failed, and in my head I would recreate this situation until I could defeat it and no longer regret it. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know what happens next. I wish, well, I really do wish that a lot of things things I remembered, I looked at and remembered, and though of the regret I’ve done and wished I could have done better, or less, and did differently, and moved and done and wished, and moved, and prayed, but failed in praying for. My life was without religion, but it lacks completeness, just tears and more tears because I don’t know what is going to happen in the future. Just lies upon lies to myself, and so on. I wish I could know more, could understand more, could dream less and inhibit more, inhibit my.. everyone has a story

Absalom’s Dying Rite

I tend to write about something before I even attempt to paint or draw it. This way I tend to get what images I have in my head out, and construct the creation out of that. For the Absalom series: It is a story about how a young boy had to kill his imaginary friend to become an adult. The reason for this is simply that you usually are not seen as an adult if you have your imaginary friend. In offering Absalom his last request, the imaginary friend requested for stories about the adventures that the young boy underwent.

 

As such, these are the stories of Absalom’s Dying Rite:

 

———————

Absalom you’ve been hiding away

Staring at me and hiding behind the walls of black text.

In this dream you’re sitting across from me,

but masks are the only things I can see of you.

 

A heavy cloak of black,

Darkness, dark strides. Absalom, you’ve been bleeding.

Those tears from your eyes.

Crying heavily, you can tell me my love,

Absalom, what are you hiding?

 

Why are you hiding, when I am here across from you?

You can read me and I will tell you my stories,

Each one. Every little thing. It is alright my dear.

I would tell you the story of the world.

 

My world, my dear. My twisted eyes. Of ferns growing

in the middle of the street. Of how people walk around

them and do not notice. How lovers walk hand in hand

and release their hands. to walk around a tree stalk and

then come back together but do not notice. Have you ever

thought about the nature of the world?

 

Why is it that we each see different things and call it

one name? Absalom, you’re crying again. Don’t fret it

is okay. You’re going to die soon, and your eyes are

closed. So listen to me please Absalom. Death is not going

to make you free. This story is.

 

Absalom, we are home.

————————

Home

 

Absalom, remember the street where we grew up?

The street lights used to turn on and off flickering.

Small gusts of wind blowing them this way and that.

And then the lights would bend and tilt like branches

on the tree. And the lights would shimmer in front of

windows of our home.

 

And home was that small bedroom for us. Remember

how we used to draw on the walls? You were not there

yet. There to guide my hand. As we drew on the walls

stars and stars that would glow in the dark. And then I

would close my eyes and open them in pitch black, the

sheets covering the windows. I was so small then, inside

the bed. Covers over me, giving me warmth. There was

darkness on the outside, that would reach and cover and

overlap and scare me like waves and waves. You didn’t

come yet. But that was my home.

 

I used to be afraid of the dark. You were not there yet.

You didn’t understand. How when I was small I believed

that there were only two ways to protect your soul. One

way was to sacrifice a small bit of it and seal off the room.

That wouldn’t protect me from the things inside it. One of

those things was you.

 

The other thing was for me to seal off my body and protect

me, but that would not stop me from seeing things and I

would become so afraid. So so afraid. And I would close my

eyes and close my ears and cuddle up into a little ball and you

would be next to me and you would speak small words into my

ears. And I would let go and let go, and come back and cover

my ears and let go and let go and come back and cover my ears

and finally let go.

 

And then you came into me and covered my eyes and helped me

see other things. Illusions of grandeur, illusions of make believe

homes. And I would leave you during the day in the teddy bear

form. Home was bigger than that. There were friends, outside.

And inside I began to build another form. An alter ego to protect

me from the world. Not false lies Absalom. Not false worlds. But

to protect me and I left you alone. And I as I lost my old home,

I found new ones.

 

And you’re sitting across the table from me, sitting on those few

books. You are going to die Absalom, as I take back my soul.

But I introduced you to him. The alternate me. Remember Absalom?

It was on one of the king roads.

———————

King Roads

 

Have you visited the King’s Road

my Love? A journey through the mirrors.

Treacherous roads, darkest of shadows

creeping or receding like.

Small tides. Black Tides. A forgotten thing Absalom.

 

The first time I came there was by

mistake. I held your hand, a long

wispy black hand that stretched further

than what the mirror would allow you.

I clambered on the dresser and fell into

the world. Strange skies with strange

stars. Absalom we came back together

hand in hand. Explored your world

properly. Remember?

 

I went there more by myself. I left my dream

there Absalom. I left him there to

move and go. And he told me about

a beauty. Some unknown goal hidden

in the books and books in the language

of dreams. And the books were filled

with corruption. Of kingdoms and empires

burning to find this being. Absolute

and deadly Absalom. Don’t blame me

for leaving you to go on the quest.

 

I learned so much without you my

love. I hurt you and explored the

world without you. And let me tell

you a secret, my dream. You cannot find

her, only parts. And we combine the

facets to create the being. Our imagination

killed the empires and Kingdoms, Absalom.

 

And that is why this search is for imperfection.

The search for my Lotidia.

——————————–

Lotidia

 

I have never told you about Lotidia, Have I Absalom? I was scared before to do so. You have always been the jealous one. Just like a woman who you tell is not the one – but insist of dating her anyways.

Lotidia is that perfect woman. I mentioned that earlier right? She is as real as that flower. As real as the notion of perfection. I have met facets of her on my travels. Away from you Absalom. The sets of universes I have made in my mind. Setting off like a god a single spark of existence. And from there I would speed up the time and watch the forms blossom and grow with the probability that one form would come out. And then he would visit them, like Zeus and the swan.

He would take those forms, the battle ready men and women and draft them into his collection. But there was another woman who would do the same, Absalom. Inara and Tenebrae – each depicting a good and bad. They would join together to form me, Absalom. My id and ego. The third part is Lotidia, she would be the last remaining part.

Absalom, have you ever seen their battles? They would wage wars so huge it is beyond the limits of my imagination. I would create a new dimension just for them, and all the facets would fight and die. And there was that chance that she would birth, and I would see this beauty called Lotidia. But it would be an illusion and fade away like a mist.

Absalom, stay awake my friend. Keep looking at me with those beady eyes of yours. It is not the perfection that I need, my love. But it is to collect the facets that tell me “Imperfection!” Imperfection! Imperfection! And with that, my love I could finally find true beauty bit by bit. I would collect the facets myself, and keep the memories safe with me and move on. And these collections would form and become bigger and grow. But in going through this adventure, my love, you lose parts of yourself on the way. And lose them, and lose them some more. It is in becoming jagged and jaded that we are lost Absalom. And that’s why I need you to become whole.

———————————–

Absalom’s Dying Rite:

 

Absalom, you’ve been given the dying rite.

Words as unfriendly as the man at night.

Street lights awake, twinkling slowly,

Flickering to make the beggars believe they are stars.

Absalom, you’ve been moving so slowly.

Through the pages of dreams unsure.

Would you like to stop a bit and drink a cup of coffee?

Tell me of the stories you’ve heard?

Absalom, you stand before the gates to

a force fed destiny. The stands of people

above you hold. Why do you not cry? My

dear dear Absalom?

Why don’t you cry, as fleeting as your life?

The streetlight flickers, Absalom, so slowly.

I never noticed it before. It is night.

Absalom, the morning comes and you

will not be here with me.

Absalom, goodbye and goodnight.