Expat: Part 1: Growing Up

CHAPTERS

1)    Exile

2)    Land Of Opportunity

3)    Politics And Religion

4)    Daniel Boone

5)    Imagination Is More Important

6)    Church And Government

7)    Some Of Life’s Curves

8)    Ignorance Is Bliss?

9)    Land Of The Midnight Sun

10)  The Parwell Theory Of Light

11)  We Can Work It Out

12)  The Braided Cross

13)  Rosanne

14)  Rock On

15)  Make Love, Not War

16)  Young Rebels

17)  Run

18)  Girls, Girls, Girls

19)  Fufu

20)  A Change Of Plans

21)  Homecoming Blues

22)  Straight But Narrow

Chapter 1 – Exile

In 1948, nearly one million Palestinians were forced to their leave their country and their land of a hundred generations. They were called refugees. My father was allowed to work in Kuwait, while my mother’s family fled to Beirut. Of course, they weren’t my parents quite yet. I didn’t come along until 1956. I was born in the desert city of Kuwait and I’ll be a desert boy until I die.

Remarkably, my earliest memories are from when I was two years old. They are worth mentioning at this juncture for various reasons. The first thing I can ever remember is abruptly waking up in the middle of the night in my parent’s bed. I had been sleeping in between them, and I distinctly recall my newborn sister, Randa, in the crib near the bed making little baby noises. I was unable to go back to sleep. My parents were both fast asleep and there was no one to watch over them and the baby. I cannot describe the overwhelming sense of responsibility which kept me awake for several hours guarding my family. That insidious trait was borne that night and has plagued me ever since.

Then there was the night we were leaving my mother’s family in Beirut to return to Kuwait. Teta, my maternal grandmother, woke me up to prepare for our flight. I had accumulated a mouthful of saliva and went to spit it out – I’m not sure why. She proceeded to lecture me on the necessity of swallowing one’s saliva and not spitting it out. It is both unnatural and improper, she said. My sister was still in swaddling clothes, which meant that I wasn’t yet three.

It was late at night when we arrived at our home in Kuwait. The house had been unoccupied for several days in our absence. When my father unlocked the door and pushed it open, I was the first to step in. The lights were still out and I could feel a presence in the room. That was my only recollection ever of that room. It was a large room. When my father finally turned on the lights, I was horrified by the sight of a hundred cockroaches scurrying in different directions! I’m sure I’d seen roaches before, but never that many at once. They were huge! They were ugly! And in a matter of seconds, as we all watched in awe, they were gone.

Christmas 1959 was the first I recall. My folks purchased a miniature accordion for me. It was bright red, like my tricycle. I was so excited! I could not conceive of such happiness – that is, not until I learned how to flush foreign objects down the toilet. Yes, in this case, we’ll consider piss and shit as domestic objects. It was innocent enough, really. When I crumpled up pages of the magazine, they protested slightly, but eventually succumbed to the vortex. How exciting! By then, my sister could walk, even run to keep up with me. This one day, I was feeling quite enterprising and I had convinced my sister that we could successfully dispose of the whole magazine. We started with one page at a time, of course. But then, my mother started calling for us from the kitchen. She left me no choice! I was forced to get rid of the evidence. Imagine my chagrin when the magazine wouldn’t cooperate. The water flowed everywhere. Failure was not easy to accept that day. It was harder on my pride than on my bottom. I would have to wait for another day to perfect my technique.

A few months later in Beirut, my cousin and I were playing hide and seek in the house. I did well for awhile hiding under the breakfast table until my cousin began to catch on. So in a quick move, I sneaked into the bathroom. I opened the door, jumped in, and spinning to face the door, quickly closed it. Though it happened in a flash and my back was to the commode, my mind’s eye caught a glimpse of my aunt sitting on the pot. I remained frozen in place for a few moments until she finally told me to scat. When she spoke, I felt myself relax a bit. I explained that I was hiding and promised not to peek. She put up a little fuss, but soon gave up. I sat crouched, unmoving. I can see it now as from an aerial camera view. It must have seemed ludicrous to God looking on. It is difficult to recompose all my thoughts at that moment – after all, I was only about three. I remember thinking how pretty my aunt was and there must have been something to see under those clothes since grownups made such a bother about it. She wasn’t like my mother or anything, so I was anticipating a victory of a sort.

Well I didn’t keep my promise. As soon as I heard the flush, I looked. I’m not exactly sure, but I believe I caught a glance of Auntie’s thigh. I was too busy making a speedy exit to escape the impending wrath. I don’t recall being punished by Mom or Auntie. However later that day, I fell down a short flight of stairs while playing. It left a handsome gash on my chin which became a permanent scar. So you see, I received my penalty after all and learned a sweet lesson:

Be clever and don’t get caught.

… … .

We caught you red-handed! yelled the Algerian official and shoved me up against the wall.

Caught us doing what? I yelled back.

See – they’re Egyptian, said the other official, listen to his accent. They were both policemen. The first guy seemed to be the night sergeant. They were also both idiots and had been testing my patience since they arrested the four of us – I, my wife, my sister, and the American tanker security chief. Their rough treatment of us, coupled with the physical and verbal abuse, was insulting to maximum degrees. Todd, the security chief was no brain surgeon either, but he didn’t deserve to be slapped around. And yet, I continued to caution all of us to remain civil. But this last accusation was unbearable – an Egyptian!#?

We’re Palestinian! I insisted. They knew it, I’m sure. Any moron who spoke Arabic could distinguish between the two accents. But you see – Palestinians were respected in Algeria, so these morons could never let on that they knew our true origin. They would have had to back off, maybe even believe us and release us. Egyptians, on the other hand, were considered the scum of the Arab world in Algeria. They had presumed to call themselves The United Arab Republic and attempt to make peace with Israel on their own, irrespective of their Arab neighbors. In Algeria, Egyptians could be grossly mistreated and with great honor. Besides, Palestinians were honorable Muslims and would never wear pigs on their heads or associate with intoxicated American slime. Shut up, you Egyptian liar! he continued.

You donkeys! I’m not sure who said it first – Shereen or I – it may have been simultaneous.

Shereen was my wife. I believe she still loved me then. She looked ridiculous – half her face painted white, the other half black. She was wearing some skin tight outfit, like a leotard. She was supposed to be The Joker as in a card deck. At least, I had on sophisticated attire – my judo outfit, given to me by my Filipino friends, and the Arkansas Razorback hard hat. It was an oversized, bright red, head of a razorback – basically, a large pig. The Algerian officials – Muslims, of course – must have greatly appreciated it.

We had been partying at the Halloween celebration inside our camp. Todd was drunk and needed someone to drive him back to his ship, so we were doing our civic duty – well, sort of. He did offer to sell us a lid – an ounce of marijuana – he had stashed in his bunk if we gave him a ride. We’d been smoking the best hashish in the world, but we hadn’t seen marijuana in months, so what the hay? My sister, Randa, who was totally straight, was visiting us from the States. She, Todd, Shereen, and I all jumped in our red Mirafiori and headed for the Mediterranean. I don’t remember what Todd and Randa were wearing for Halloween, but I guarantee we were collectively a marvelous sight. I remember distinctly that we went through three security posts, each checking for our authorization papers. Todd proudly flashed his U.S. tanker security ID at each checkpoint. Je suis securité Americain, was probably the only French this guy knew. Anyway, they waved us on at each station, including the boarding ramp of the ship.

As we climbed the long incline up to the boat, we noticed three rowdies making plenty of noise, dancing their way down the ramp, still swigging from a whiskey bottle. After clearing the ramp, we distinctly heard the bottle break at the bottom of the ramp. This only invoked more laughter from the goons. We thought it was odd, shook our heads, and continued on board. We passed through several galleys on our way to Todd’s room. We just settled in and since I was the expert, I inspected the goods as Shereen paid Todd his money. Suddenly, without any warning, Todd’s door opened to a gloomy ship officer trying to hold back several Algerian policemen! Astonished, we were all quickly herded out the door. I don’t know how I found the wherewithal to stash the ounce of pot under the bunk sheets amidst the chaos. Fortunately, the gendarmes were less interested in searching than in seizing. They seemed incensed about something and couldn’t wait to get us onto their territory to begin chastisement. The American officer who escorted them to Todd’s room was also shocked. Listening to his broken French, I gathered that someone had complained about some troublemakers who were wreaking havoc and breaking whiskey bottles. Obviously, we had been confused for the wild bunch we encountered on our way up.

The policemen’s error was, of course, insignificant. Our protests only further upset them. I’d call them pigs, but I don’t want to confuse them with the higher order of beings represented by my cranial apparel. Things became physical as they horded us into patrol cars. Randa was terrified! She had never experienced anything like this before. Shereen was enraged – nobody could treat her like this without combat and retaliation! Todd became frantic. He could not – no – would not comprehend that someone was usurping his authority aboard the ship. He was the head security officer! This was his ship! Who the hell did these imbeciles think they were? Me – I have the biggest mouth of all. I abhor injustice. Even worse, I detest asininity. These cops were the epitome of both.

Well, things got bad and things got worse. I guess you know the tune. CCR would recount our dilemma accurately.

In Arabic, you donkeys is a great insult – it was the first of many. The head hee-haw sergeant did not take kindly to the biologically accurate reference. At this point, they separated the women from the men. They took their wrath out on us – the men. Poor Todd got the worst of the beating. He kept trying to retaliate which made it worse for him. I got mine because I continued yelling to my sister in the other room. The police had typed out – in official French – the alleged offense in first person, and were attempting to coerce a signature from my wife and sister. Shereen could take care of herself – in fact, I felt sorry for the poor slob who had to deal with her. Randa, on the other hand, became confused. That was their intention, of course – to coax a confession from the weakest link of the bunch. So with every ounce of strength I could muster, I repeatedly shouted out instructions for everyone to NOT sign anything. Since my reproaches were in English, it only further infuriated the bluecoats.

This went on all night and then some. Sometime during the entertainment portion of the program, a plain-clothed official entered the station. I recognized him from a previous dealing with our company’s Personnel department. I simply gestured with my eyes, nothing more, and hoped for the best. About midmorning, the cavalry came to our rescue. I was grateful that the Algerian official got word to our headquarters. Kadour, who would save my ass many a time, showed up bearing paperwork for the sergeant and a grin for yours truly. He was a local who held the position of Corporate Liaison to the Algerian government on behalf of our company, Pullman Kellogg Algeria Inc. He began by inquiring as to the health of the sergeant’s relatives – by name. The beggars knew that I understood everything they said, so they transferred me to a rear cell where I could no longer eavesdrop.

An hour later, we were shuffled into a conference room upstairs by a guard. Todd was nowhere in sight – we never saw him again! Our savior, Kadour, and our company’s personnel rep, Ray – a Canadian – now sat at the table drinking tea with the sergeant like old friends. The guard pulled me away from the girls towards the table.

The conversation was in French. Well, we’ve spent a pleasant evening together, haven’t we? began Hee-haw. "Although you have committed a grave offense, Monsieur Kadour has informed me that you are a very valuable employee of PKAI. Monsieur Ray has apologized on behalf of your corporation. And with a simple apology from all of you, we can dispense with the charges and go on with our productive lives. I looked at Ray and Kadour. To say there was disbelief in my eyes would be an understatement. After our wonderful" evening and Hee-haw’s brief essay, I wanted to pounce on him instantly and rid the world of his diseased existence.

But I am a pacifist and a Christian, I told myself.

Ray! Kadour! It wasn’t us who broke the whiskey bottle. It was these three guys from the American ship, I implored. Kadour answered, Yes. We know. They caught those gentlemen last night. I held back my rage. "Then what’s the problem? What is this grave offense?"

Now Hee-haw spoke, Well, you cannot cross the Algerian border without an exit visa, of course. Although my French was excellent, it was my third language, so I was certain that I had I misunderstood.

Finally, Ray explained, When you got on board the ship, you officially crossed the border. You need a visa for that.

I was exhausted. We all were. I wasn’t thinking clearly, so it took me an extra minute to digest that last piece of information. The expletives compiled much quicker than the comprehension. "But they let us on! The police at the ramp allowed us to board! No one asked us for any visa."

Kadour could sense that I was on the verge of losing it. He intervened, this time in English. "We’ve already covered that. The sergeant says that his men would have never allowed you on board. So, you must be mistaken. The look on his face reinforced his next remark. Just apologize to the SOB so we can all get out of here." Ray just looked away.

Hee-haw looked at Kadour for a translation. Oh, I was merely explaining the law so there would be no confusion, he smiled.

The situation was preposterous! I looked behind me at the girls. Even Shereen was ready to give up. Here’s what transpired in my mind. There’s no way I’m going to accept this travesty! I’ll apologize for now and I’ll expose this injustice after we all recover. I’ll put Hee-haw in his place and reform the whole bloody system. Justice will be served.

Of course, we never saw Hee-haw again and I never overcame the indignity of apologizing to him when he should have been apologizing to us. But it wasn’t the last time in my life. And I was to be further educated in the Algerian judicial system. However, that’s a story for another time.

… … .

Chapter 2 – Land Of Opportunity

In 1960, my father was invited to the United States with an offer of an academic scholarship to Oklahoma State University. They were called Aggies at that time. He had made quite a reputation in Kuwait building schools and hospitals. Though the Kuwaitis relied on my father and many other professionals to modernize their desert wilderness, they treated them as second class citizens. My father had two things going against him – he was Palestinian and he was Christian.

The rest of the family was opposed to our moving to America. Relatively speaking, he had it made in Kuwait. Everyone else like him was third class. His accomplishments and reputation had at least ranked him one level higher. Going to America meant selling all he had and starting over. Plus, he would be on his own. I’m sure the fact that the relatives would miss out on the family’s development adversely affected their opinion.

So I must give my father credit. It took great courage to make that bold step towards the West. In his viewpoint, however, it was the beginning of his demise. Depending on the perspective, I am inclined to agree.

Before traveling to the States, we spent some time in Lebanon. I remember taking a trip into the mountains. It was beautiful. We passed through someone’s chicken farm. That was the first time I’d seen a chicken butchered. They cut the chicken’s head off and it ran around headless – for a long time. Many people use the adage having never witnessed the reality.

In our last couple of days in Beirut, we walked a lot. I can recall the beaches, the tourists, and the smell of the ocean. It was summertime. There was an incident where we were strolling down some boulevard when I noticed that the pedestrian in front of us threw trash on the ground. Without hesitation, I picked up the rubbish and ran up to the man and pulled on his pant leg before my parents could react. I scolded him, Didn’t your mother teach you manners? and handed him the rubbish. He was dumbfounded. He looked at me, then my parents, then back at me. My mother made some excuse for me and we continued on.

I’ve seldom been able to repress the need to reprove others when they do wrong.

My maternal grandmother saw us off at the airport. She was so strong, so encouraging. It was a happy parting.

The next thing I knew, we were in New York on a boat with some cousins. They all called me Jack. I never knew why, but it stuck. I was proud when I later learned that everyone called the American president by the same nickname. He was supposed to be a good guy and everyone seemed to love him.

We settled in Stillwater, Oklahoma for about a year. There was snow, there was nursery school, there was English, and there was the new song we learned – Jesus Loves Me. Then there was the neighbor’s kid with the bleeding head – blurs and images of Oklahoma.

My name evolved into Roger. Raji became Roger – pronounced row-zhay’ in French, then Roger – pronounced row’-jir by my parents. But somehow, kids overcome confusion, and so I adapted.

There was a new addition to our family. I got to name him. I chose Richard because of Richard Widmark. He and Dean Martin were my favorite celebrities at the time.

We owned a green, 1954 Ford which always overheated. I’ve hated Fords ever since.

My dad’s scholarship fell through, so we moved to Houston, Texas. He enrolled at the University of Houston. There were a lot of Arab students from different countries at UH. They loved our family. Most were much younger, of course. The word spread quickly that my mom was the best cook in the world. My dad made everyone laugh. He was extremely witty and quite knowledgeable. I loved hearing people laugh. I tried to make them laugh, as well. When our friend, Hassan, would say, good night in Arabic, it sounded like he was saying good swimming with his Syrian accent. I milked it for what it was worth and they laughed. The highlight of my childhood was putting my head on my father’s chest while he spoke. The reverberation filled me with a – I can’t find a better word – a satisfaction. I loved that sound! I loved that feeling! I felt guilty to submit him to it too often. It was a special pleasure that I infrequently allowed myself. Was I neurotically paranoid at age five?

During our first month in Houston, we were welcomed by a category four hurricane. Carla was her name, destruction was her game. The apartment we were renting and whatever meager furnishings we owned were completely destroyed. We were duly warned of the storm, so we stayed at the Windsor Plaza Hotel the night it hit town. When we returned to our apartment in the morning, we found the ceiling completely collapsed. Almost everything inside was completely ruined.

It took us several days to re-situate in an unpretentious area of town known as Third Ward. There, I completed kindergarten and began my true journeys. One memorable event worthy of recall was being pumped on the back of a friend’s bike and getting my foot caught in the spokes while moving full speed. The skin was scraped completely off revealing the bone. When it healed several weeks afterwards, I learned to ride a bike. During that year, I discovered Hercules and Tarzan and perfected the patent jungle yell.

We were poor, but we didn’t know we were poor. One year later, I attended St. Peter’s Apostolic School where we also went to church. My father made sure we ate healthy and dressed decently. That’s when he began incurring his debt.

Come. Bring me your homeless and poor. Here they will find opportunity to acquire material wealth. I will introduce them to the credit game. They shall have certain freedoms at the price of a shackled existence, paying interest out of their yings and their yangs.

My father learned that lesson the hardest way possible – by living miserably in debt. Nearly five decades later, he remained in debt. His education included learning the difference between the way of the old country and the way of the West. That is – in the old country, food, clothing, shelter, and education were an affordable necessity, while freedom of speech and religion were an unaffordable luxury. In the West, the reverse is true.

Life is tough. But just tell me, how can I help?

Chapter 3 – Politics And Religion

Our lives and futures revolved around Dad’s life at the university. In retrospect, I must commend my parents on how socially active they were. We met with the Arab groups for beach outings and cultural events. Mom participated in an organization – the I.I.E. – which concentrated on cooking, partying, and charitable affairs. It seemed like she received an award for cooking and originality just about every month.

My father worked hard at the university. A proud man, he probably knew more than all of his professors. He was trained and experienced in European, Asian, and Middle Eastern