Flickering
The Library
A young man drags his forty-five-pound black, hard-shelled suitcase over crooked stairs, cement, and dirt alike until he reaches the all-too-familiar grassy pastures of the university’s academic quad. He settles near a spot just under the protective shade of the large, leafy trees and plops himself down in front of the university’s library. He stretches his arms out high and wide, rotating his shoulders back, carefully placing each hand on the ground behind him. Letting out a sharp exhale, the young man shifts his gaze towards the noble landmark, admiring it in all its pseudo-antiquity. His eyes gently trace over the names of great Western philosophers that line the upper brim of the building’s exterior. He glosses over every cut, carving, and edge, taking one last good look.
He did not have a particularly life-changing experience at university. In fact, he felt contrary to all the ceremonies, parties, and mawkish social media posts oversaturated with nostalgia. He was happily ready to move on to the next adventure, but like everyone else, felt unsettled at the precarious future, the uncharted terrain, the Wild that awaited him on the other side. After much of his time spent flailing in panic, the young man believed he was finally in a place to fully embrace the inevitability of ambiguity. But can one ever truly accept it? Is there not instead a fear that remains just as constant, quietly mounted in the back of our minds and ready to burst at a moment’s notice?
The Hills
“Wast Al-Balad, loh same7t,” I tell the taxi driver. “U mumkin nru7 3la sfara amerikia?”
“Inshallah,” he mumbles in bewilderment.
I quickly glance to see if the meter is set to 25 piasters, breathe out a small sigh of relief, and shift my gaze towards the window. The road through the US embassy intersection was a longer, more expensive way, but the scenery was worth it. My body jolts back and forth with the car as we inch forward into Amman’s terrible rush hour traffic. Frustrated drivers beep in unison, while others differentiate themselves will all sorts of creative beeping rhythms. My taxi driver turns on some classic Fairuz, breaks out a pack of cigarettes and turns around holding the opening of the box towards me. “Ah, la shukran,” I politely decline. He turns back and takes a long drag as he stares blankly at the endless stream of vehicles ahead of us. We sit together in silence as beads of sweat creep down the sides of our faces. Fairuz sang:
Li ajel man dafa3 wa ustush’hida fi al madakhel
wa ustush’hid al salam fi watan Al salam
W saqat al 7aqu 3ala al madakhel
7ina hawat madinatu al Qudsi
Taraja3u al 7oubbu wa fi qouloub al dounia istawtanat al 7arb
For those who resisted and were martyred at the gates
And the peace was martyred in the homeland of the peace
And the law tumbled at the gates of the city
When Jerusalem city fell
Love left and in the heart of the world the war was settled
After about five minutes stagnant amongst the chaotic traffic, we begin to move again. The driver hits the pedal to 90km/hr and zips by the US Embassy, swerving left and right through another one of Amman’s many large hills. Amman’s cityscape of aged, compact, cream-colored buildings exposes itself to us. Fairuz continues to mourn for Jerusalem, her voice drifting from the taxi’s speakers, adding a touch of melancholy echo to the miscellaneous screeching cars, shouts of fruit stand owners, and grainy gas truck tunes of Amman’s bustling soundscape.
The Village
I take a seat at the table, nervously smiling at all the women around me and trying to decipher what they were saying. One woman hands me some pretzel-looking thing to eat our breakfast with. I stare limp at the grand spread of handmade cheeses, fresh olives, fruits, dips, jams, meats and piping hot Turkish tea before me, unsure of how to eat or where to start. Seeing that I was being politely reluctant, G. eventually grabs my plate and starts dumping a few of everything on it. “Teşekkürler, teşekkürler” I repeat shyly. It was one of the only four Turkish words I knew so far. The food was starting to pile high. How do I tell her to stop? I frantically put my hand over the plate and pointed to my stomach, a somewhat universal sign for pleading not to make me fat. She understands completely yet continued to pile it on.
Curious villagers pass by on their way to work, giving me a warm smile and asking the women about me (I assumed this anyway, by the gestures they were making). “Hoşgeldiniz!” some villagers said to me, and then a string of other words I couldn't understand. Still, I smile and thank them over and over again. I could not feel any more welcomed.
Towers
Completely clueless as to what traditional Chinese marriage customs are, I sit in the corner of the family living room playing the dumb, young, Chinese-American card. It seems like my uncle and his soon-to-be wife were not familiar with the traditions either. I watch as they fumble around with the incense delicately held between their fingers, standing awkwardly in front of the shrine of my great-great grandparents as Suk Paw guided them in the process. Suk Gung sat beside me, donning some freshly purchased jeans, light orange flannel button-up, and a grey blazer. All he needed was a bolo tie to have the quintessential “wild west” look.
Usually I find myself politely trying to inch away from Suk Gung’s long-winded repetitions of the only English words that he knows from the two years that he studied it in his youth. Yet this time, he sat silent, his gaze fixated at the scene before us, yet beyond it as well, in the same way that one looks out to the distant horizon.
“Suk Gung!” I called to him. “Lei gum ding…hoi-m-hoisum-a?”
He didn’t move. I was about to repeat myself again, until he quietly murmured, “Geng hai hoisum-a.” There was something so sad about his voice, the way that it trembled and quivered, as if he was trying with all his strength to cap the overwhelming waves of emotions that washed over him. I had often thought of Suk Gung as strong and resilient despite his age, but at this moment his figure seemed small and exposed. His jovial exterior put aside, his vulnerabilities revealing themselves.
His last son was finally getting married. Yes, of course he was happy. But reflected off his glassy, sullen eyes I could almost see memories of his children's upbringing flashing across, flickering from year to year, like the projection of an old film reel. Time passes by too quickly.
