Borderlands, Homelands and Flatlands

Borderlands, Homelands and Flatlands Steven Salaita Brown contours adorned the off-campus café in Norman, Oklahoma. Glossy oak tables lined the hardwood floor. Oval mirrors, large enough for perhaps two human heads, hung from the chestnut walls. "Let's meet at the Café Plaid," Professor Ragep had suggested the day before. "They serve excellent tabbouli." I sat anxiously at the table nearest the door. Arriving early is a habit I inherited from my father, who even as a child, the story goes, always began the day before the mu'adhdhin called the dawn prayer in Madaba, Jordan. He went on to become the youngest Salaita ever to emigrate to America. I had never seen Professor Ragep. But I knew I wouldn't have trouble. I would identify him from thirty feet away. Such was neither instinct nor luck, but a particular keenness one develops from growing into a community that is overlooked, misunderstood and, at times, reviled in the United States. It is in the sensibilities of nearly all Arab Americans to identify their brethren, either by appearance, attitude, or name, especially in areas with a small Arab population. Two days before, I was thrilled at the prospect of this meeting. The name Jamil Ragep had appeared in my inbox with the mysterious subject line, Arab things. I immediately identified the last name as Lebanese, and scrambled to open it, hoping these "things" were local. Professor Ragep explained that his field is History of Science, but he takes great interest in Middle Eastern artistic production. He had seen in the campus paper my letters in support of Palestinians and decided to seek my help in putting together an Arab film series on campus. I had been coveting this sort of opportunity. After nearly two years in Oklahoma, I was both homesick and disappointed at the lack of Arab-American activity on campus. The few who attended the University of Oklahoma were graduate students like myself and had little time for extracurricular work. I had more close friends in Palestine than in the United States. My concentration in the English Department is Native American Studies, so I had been much more connected with local Native events than with Arab-American activism. Professor Ragep's message provided the impetus to engage in something meaningful without having to travel hundreds of miles. I wiped my hands on my pants as a portly, middle-aged man approached the café. He recognized me from the sidewalk and greeted me in English upon entering. His hair was silver, with thin shoots of black streaking horizontally above his ears. His face, burnt tan like Spanish stucco, had the familiar pattern of wrinkles I have always admired in older Arab men. Huge black eyes peered eagerly at me once we were seated, and I knew he was assessing my own features, remembering that not too long ago they were also his. "So, Steven," he began, no trace of an immigrant's accent in his voice, "are you from Oklahoma?" "No, sir," I replied, trying to determine whether I was required to continue and disclose my home state, a task that usually required lengthy explanation. "You're Palestinian, right?" "Well, just half, on my mother's side. My father is Jordanian. I'm American, though. First-generation." "Me, too, but Lebanese. Where did you say you came from?" I gave him the short version: "West Virginia." "West Virginia? You're kidding." I cringed and waited for what I was so used to hearing next: Well, you don't, you know, look like a West Virginian. "I'm from West Virginia, as well," he continued excitedly. "You're kidding. What part?" "This tiny town called War, in—" "War! Of course," I interrupted. "I know where that's at. I'm from Bluefield." "Huh. Small world indeed," he chuckled. "Ours sure as hell is." It is a rarity to meet a West Virginian in the middle of the plains. To meet one who is also Arab seemed more than coincidence. Such instances can only result in possibility, for at that moment, as the surprise reflected from wall to wall, a different, but no less powerful bond was instantly formed. Borderlands I...