okay

I guess there comes a time in every foreign-kid-growing-up-in-America’s life when they are forced to confront their identity. I was and constantly still am always reminded of the fact that I am not and will never be, an American. I only lived there, grew up there, made friends and went to school there. I only spoke the language and I only for the most part, adopted the mindset. But I was not American, I was Libyan. With these constant reminders, I spent the entirety of my life accepting that fact. There was no use hiding it, I was who I was. My parents didn't belong to America and neither did I. If America wanted, they could have kicked us out at any moment, but Libya, Libya was where I belonged, where I would always be welcome.

From my short three month visits when I was younger, I never saw Libya as much. It was just a place where I reconnected with my family and when I say ‘reconnect’, I actually mean sit around a table with my family while my sisters and I exchanged awkward glances. Then the revolution happened and I was suddenly welcome to live in Libya more than ever. I was supposed to find it to be my home, as cheesy as that sounds. I had a citizenship and centuries of ancestors that could prove my background to be identical to those around me.

Once I got here, I was more confused than ever. Sure I got better at speaking the language and I slowly began to talk to my cousins instead of clinging to my sisters and whispering jokes in English. I even began to dress like them and caring about things that I never cared about before. I brought out tea and cookies on a silver tray with napkins folded just right to old women who were always somehow related to me. I practiced the customs and I did what I supposed to do in a sense, but after a while I just got so tired. Whenever people talk, I always find something to disagree with. I pretend like I actually did say something in response and make up the whole argument in my head, and by the time that I am done getting my fake last word in, my time to talk has passed. I don’t like a lot of the principles and the traditions that everyone here bases their entire lives upon. I don’t feel Libyan. I know I should and I know that being Libyan isn't’ all about the way that the few people I talk to live their lives. It isn't about a group of people’s disgust at something that I believe in. But for the most part, I can’t really identify myself as Libyan here.

It was so easy to say it in America. The second that someone made their two eyebrows one by furrowing them and asking, “so what are you?” the answer would already have already glided out of my mouth. When I’m here, the people notice that I don’t speak with the accent and they ask the exact same question, but this time, the answer doesn't come out so easily.

I don’t feel Libyan in the same sense that I never felt American. All I know is that I am still learning, but for now I will take comfort in the fact that the house that my mom grew up in is ten minutes away and the grave where my dad buried his own father is within walking distance. The fish market where my dad played soccer at age ten and the college where my mom studied are all here. I still don’t know what I am, but I’m doing okay.