Arab Past, American Present: My Family’s Invisible History
“The family legacy included silence as a way to belong.”
In the years my grandparents lived in their rambling, Spanish-style house in Southern California, they kept a Koran and a prayer rug in their bedroom hidden behind an ornate armchair. The chair, from Damascus, stood in one corner, grandly unused, its cushions upholstered in silk and the walnut frame set with mother-of-pearl. I never saw my grandparents use the Koran or the prayer rug. By the time I was born, they had fallen away from their practice of Islam.
Los Angeles TimesYears later, an apricot tree sprouted in the backyard, the result of my grandmother eating apricots and tossing the pits into the flower bed.
The house and its garden was all my grandparents seemed to need. Even when their sons left home and the days were gone when my uncles and their friends emptied my grandfather’s pantry, consuming elliptical loaves of bread and fat braids of fresh cheese, the pattern of life in the rambling house was the same.
Fiction and essays in Zyzzyva (notable BAE 2016), Alaska Quarterly Review, StoryQuarterly, Bellevue Literary Rev,iew The NW Rev of Books, The Rumpus, The Millions, and upcoming in the Southern Review . Prose editor at the museum of americana, staff contributor @LitStack. Blogs at http://captionandimage.tumblr.com/
More in this series
Each time I am lured by the mirage of progress, someone knocks at the door and I am reminded of being thirteen and having nightmares about ICE at our door.
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