The General's Got My Back

"I’m also troubled by, not what Senator McCain says, but what members of the party say. And it is permitted to be said such things as, 'Well, you know that Mr. Obama is a Muslim.'

Well, the correct answer is, he is not a Muslim; he’s a Christian. He’s always been a Christian.

But the really right answer is, what if he is? Is there something wrong with being a Muslim in this country? The answer’s no, that’s not America. "

--General Colin Powell (Ret.) at Meet the Press

This whole "Isn't Obama a Muslim" issue has really started to upset me.  And not upset in the sense of, "That-makes-me-so-mad," but upset in the sense of  "if-I-hear-one-more-person-say-that-I'm-going- to- start-sobbing."

That question really, really hurts my feelings.  People are certainly entitled to their opinions. Still, to intimate that the status of Muslim precludes a person from being American enough to be President of the United States equates to the suggestion that I am not American enough, in general.  

I believe that Gov. McCain isn't a prejudiced man, but I do fault him for not addressing this issue in the "really right" way.  

And just to be fair, I understand the need for political expediency, but Sen. Obama's repeated focus on the fact that he's Christian instead of saying something to the effect of "you would be better served by asking yourself why that is important to you" hurt my feelings, too.  

A few weeks ago, I wrote the campaign an e-mail about it.  

I got a form letter directing me to a page on his site which enumerated all the ways that he was Christian as well as the many ways in which he supported the American Jewish community.  And that's great, good for him and all the Christians and Jews in this country.  But, really, all I wanted was one measly sentence that said, "Hey, back off,  you narrow minded bigots, Americans can be Muslim, too."   

This whole thing made me feel victimized.  

Yes, that's a strong word.  But, it's in response to a strong accusation.   When people assume that a Muslim president automatically translates to a president aligned with terrorists, they assume that Muslim Americans don't take the responsibilities of American citizenship as strongly as others.  I don't presume that all Muslims in this country take their citizenship as seriously as myself, but I'm sure that the same can be said of any religious group in this country.    

I have an argument that is well reasoned, in my opinion, regarding how my faith doesn't at all preclude me from fulfilling every obligation incumbent upon American citizens.  

But, you know what?  Until I see Christians, Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, Scientologists, or any other religious group having to defend their religious choices in the context of their obligations as American citizens, I don't think I should have to share my defense with anyone else.

That said, I would like to end this post thanking General Colin Powell (Ret.) for his statements made on "Meet the Press."  

Thank you, General, for giving the "really right" answer.

Thank you for sticking up for me when no other politician would willingly do so.  I know you don't have an election to win, but it still made me feel better to see someone do the right thing.

Thank you for reminding everyone that I, the soldier who gave his life for his country, and that seven year old boy have a right to all of the privileges, honors and aspirations that any other American in this country does.

Watch Powell's interview here and admire how a real American stands up to injustice.

Points of Reference

This year's topic for Blog Action Day? Poverty.

Some people approach defining poverty within the context of material goods. Do you have enough to eat, drink, and a roof over your head? Yes? Then, you, according to some Americans, are not impoverished.

In an attempt to understand "American Poverty," I did what any Internets junkie would do, I googled the phrase "american poverty." This took me to a site called The Heritage Foundation, a self described think-tank, whose mission is to

formulate and promote conservative public policies based on the principles of free enterprise, limited government, individual freedom, traditional American values, and a strong national defense.

This foundation takes issue with recent statistics from the Census Bureau which suggest that 14% of Americans live at or below the poverty line. "Poverty," writes an author on the site, "means destitution...[lack of] nutritious food, adequate clothing, and reasonable shelter."

Based on this definition of poverty, only about 2% of this nation's population are actually impoverished. There's more in this article suggesting that the poorest people in our nation live much better than the majority of the world's middle class.

So, this is our new paradigm? Am I to understand that this position suggests that as long as the bottom 14% of this nation lives better than the middle class in, say, Sierra Leone that poverty is just not an issue in our nation?

Personally, I believe that American's should examine poverty as a function of disparity and access rather than material goods.

What do you think? Do you think American poverty should be defined relative to the rest of the world? Or do you think that it should be evaluated within the context of America itself?

***BTW, I'm doing a guest post at Avitable's blog on Thursday, October 16. If you're interested in reading a "NSGA (not suitable for general audiences) Faiqa", check it out!

Family Photo

This photo of my dad's family (I wrote about them in the last post) predates the partition of India and was taken in Malerkotla, a Punjabi state that my family, ahem, er, this is awkward, ruled for about three centuries.

Far right, my grandfather. Grandmother in the middle and the two ladies on the far left are my father's half sisters. My grandfather's first wife died of TB, I think. The child on the far right is my dad, far left is his brother.

My father is the only person in this photo who is still alive. I wonder how that must feel for him.

I feel lucky to even have it. You know, maybe since I have it and others like it, the quest to instill a little sense of family history in my progeny won't be a total failure? Heh, I know you love how I worked the word progeny in there.

Incidentally, Eid ul-Fitr is on Tuesday or Wednesday and marks the end of Ramadhan.

So, go wish all your Muslim friends "Eid Mubarek."

What do you mean you don't have any Muslim friends?

Why I'm Not Going To Pakistan on Tuesday

We got the plane tickets and travel visas in order, a process which spanned over four months. I could've gotten liposuction at a celebrity spa clinic for the money we spent.

Then, the border firings in Waziristan started. Unfazed, we kept to our plans. I mean what's a little gunfire between shaky allies? In fact, we were so unfazed that we booked additional tickets to go to Saudi where Tariq's family currently lives.

I jokingly started calling our travel plans the "Department of Homeland Security Terror Tour."

A week later, a bomb exploded in the Marriott Hotel in Pakistan's capital, Islamabad. I watched the flames pouring out of the windows of that hotel and the sinking realization came to me that the danger was real. Followed by the sinking feeling that everything had changed.

Again.

Last time I felt that way was after 9/11. Obviously, I'm not equating the Marriott Hotel bombing with the Twin Towers, I'm just saying that the way I felt was the same.

Before 9/11, I had a very specific construction of who I was and how I fit into the world. I knew that construction would be dramatically challenged and irrevocably changed when the identity of those terrorists became public knowledge. Same thought, everything has changed.

I'm aware that a lot has happened in Pakistan before and even since that bombing. But, for some inexplicable reason, all this nonsense started feeling real for me on that day. My family and I still didn't cancel our tickets, though. We talked, and talked, and talked about canceling, but we couldn't do it.

I know now that the root cause of our indecision was based wholly on denial.

We wanted to believe that we could go to Pakistan and be safe this time, too. We desperately clung to the hope that we would travel to Pakistan during this time of unrest and find, as we had in the past, that the media had blown things way out of proportion. We'd get off the plane and find that everyone was carrying on business as usual.

But, this time, everything was shaking us. The question was, should we act on these doubts or not?

I remember being at a dinner party last Saturday and talking to a friend's mother, who is visiting from Pakistan, about the situation. I asked her what I should do, what did she think?

She couldn't give me a straight answer. We live with this, we're used to it. It's harder for you, you're not used to these things, she said.

She's right. If we went through with our plans, we would be in a constant state of fear. Every moment would be spent looking out for suspicious cars, suspicious packages and shifty characters.

I called my cousin in Pakistan at 3a.m. on Monday morning and asked him what he thought. I expected him to laugh at me. He would say I was acting paranoid, and to get a grip and just calm down. He ended up confirming the worst of my suspicions. We're always looking over our shoulders these days. And we're used to this.

How sad. To have to live in a country where you become used to bombings. I felt sorry for them.

Then, I felt sorry for me. I was done being in denial and I knew I had to cancel those tickets.

Last year, I canceled my trip because of Benazir Bhutto's assassination. So, in December, it will have been four years since I last set foot in Pakistan. I'm starting to forget about that place that has always been so important to me.

I always visited in the summer, and the nights in Lahore were and, I imagine still are, amazing.

My favorite place to be was a garden designed by my grandfather who had died years before I was born. Jasmine, guava, roses, mangoes and fruits that I don't even know the English names of perfumed the air. My cousins and I would lay on the grass and breathe in that sweet air as we listened to my grandmother tell us stories about our grandfather and our parents when they were children. As the night slowly passed, my grandmother would go to bed, but we would stay there, laying on the grass and quietly staring at the stars.

I saw so many shooting stars during those summers in Pakistan. More than I had ever seen in America in all of my life. Probably because I never really look at the stars here.

One of my cousins told me that whenever the devil tried to sneak back into heaven, the angels threw stars at him. And that's why there were shooting stars. I guess even the devil, though he chose the place he calls home, sometimes misses the place where he came from.

I have opinions on the politics of Pakistan and its relationship with America. But, today, I don't care about them.

Today, four days after I canceled my tickets, I mourn, no, I weep, for the memories I have not touched with my hands for four long years. Another year will pass and I won't touch the guava trees that my grandfather planted in his garden over fifty years ago. Touching those trees was the closest I have ever come to touching him, and, in many ways, to knowing that he was a real person.

I just want my daughter to touch those guava trees, too. I want her to touch our past and know that it is real. That it is part of her. I want so badly for that to happen, and I'm so afraid that canceling these tickets means that she will never experience that.

Because it will become easier and easier to slip into fear, to rationalize the distance, the time away... until a few years will become decades and my daughter will file Pakistan away in her mind with places like Wonderland and stories of my grandfather with people like Aladdin.

Fictional people and fictional places that exist only in the imagination.

That same mother of a friend said something else that has been echoing in my ears for the past week. What a shame, she said, what a shame that we worked so hard to build a country that our children are afraid to come home to.

From the outside, I just look like a paranoid American who canceled a ticket. On the inside, I feel like the child that's afraid to go home. Or maybe, I've just become someone whose gotten tired of dodging stars just so I can see the place that I came from.

Buying Time

I'm trying to catch up on my blog and write something meaningful. In the meantime, here's a gratuitous post meant to bide my time.





I love laughing at other brown people.

Ugggh.

I hate Taco Bell. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Hate it.

Which is why I cannot begin to wrap my mind around why I ate a Nachos Belle Grande and a bean burrito two days ago from there.  

Actually, I have a theory.  Somewhere in my crazy little brain, I seek out new and interesting ways to punish myself.  I like pain because it absolves me of guilt.  

And punish myself I did.  I have heard of this disease called dysentery.  Without going into the nasty details of it, I'm pretty sure I have it.

In other news, I've decided not to postpone my Pakistancation, despite the following:

U.S. Falls Out With Key Ally Pakistan

Awesome.  If my three year old wasn't tagging along, the prospect of visiting a country on the brink of international and civil war might have actually been fun.

I would love to blog about why I'm going forward with the trip, but you'll have to wait on that. I have to use the bathroom.  

Dysentery is fun.

     

Rocked Me Like A Hurricane

Running a refugee camp is pretty easy. Oops, I didn't mean refugee, I meant evacuee camp.

The earlier part of this week, my home served as shelter to four wayward New Orleanians fleeing from Gustav. My evacuees were my brother, his very lovely wife (let's call them Jack and Jill since they're painfully old fashioned and think someone will stalk them to death if I put their names on the Internet) and their two very crazy dogs.

It was awesome!! We watched CNN all day. When they weren't trying to pretend to stay calm as water pushed over levee walls, we founded a country called "Liberalistan" in my living room and proceeded to reenact the perfect Democratic National Convention.

Jill pretended she was Hillary, Jack pretended to be Obama, and they had a wrestling match where Hil won and Obama cried like a little girl. Tariq pretended he was Bobby Jindal announcing that he had finally decided to become a Democrat, and I got to be Soledad O'Brien.

My daughter watched us intently and I'm pretty sure I saw the realization wash over her three year old face that she didn't have a fighting chance at a normal life.

Last time, Jack and Jill evacuated New Orleans, though, we didn't have so much fun.

Three years ago, with a week old baby in my arms, a father in the hospital from a triple bypass surgery, and a house full of in-laws, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a little hurricane named Katrina was tap dancing her way through the Atlantic.

I was raised in Florida, so hurricanes don't really inspire much fear in me. In fact, my general feelings about hurricanes center around disappointment. Here's how almost every single hurricane from my childhood played out:

Everyone: A hurricane is coming, a hurricane is coming. Sandbags, water, peanut butter, oh my!

Me: Sweet. I don't have to go to school. No Algebra (which should really have been called, "Let's tear Faiqa's self esteem down by making her feel like the biggest idiot in the world")?

Everyone: Oh, thank goodness, the hurricane turned. It's going to North Carolina instead.

Me: Kids in North Carolina are so lucky.

As Katrina edged its way towards New Orleans, though, Jill called and told me that she was evacuating the city. Jack would not be accompanying her immediately because he's a doctor and his hospital wouldn't let him to leave.

The hurricane finally hit and you're well aware of what happened to the city after that.

No phones, electricity or a way to leave the city translated into days that rolled by where we didn't hear from Jack. Twenty four hour news stations, also known as crack rock for the anxious, did nothing to assure anyone in my family of his safety.

Bodies floated through the streets of New Orleans and I pushed the worst thoughts about Jack's situation out of my head. For days, all that would come out of my mouth was, "This is America. This isn't supposed to happen here." But, it did happen here.

I will never really know the details of what happened in New Orleans that August. And I still can't imagine how it must have felt to lose your home, your pet or even your family to something as seemingly innocuous as weather.

But, I know what I felt. I felt angry because I had watched over my younger brother all my life. Now, the people "in charge" had failed me, Jill, my parents and everyone who loved him so much. Worse, I felt humiliated because I had arrogantly thought that we were better than this. That we were better than them over there.

About a week later, I watched my brother sleep off his Katrina hangover on my sofa, with my daughter sleeping peacefully upon his chest. I had never loved him more than I did at that moment. He was home, he was safe, and it was over.

I don't think it will ever be over for Jack and Jill, though. I remember them having a lot more faith in people before Katrina. Sometimes, when we talk of politics or society, I'll hear them say something that reminds me that a great deal of their faith in the goodness of people probably drowned in the flooded streets of New Orleans three years ago.

Now, if you ask Jack how he likes New Orleans, I swear you could see a shadow flit across his face before he answers. I suppose he's experiencing a sense of pain, loss or despair in that moment. The truth is, I don't know what lives in that shadow, and I can only make far reaching guesses.

The shadow does show me how Katrina still bears heavy upon the hearts of the people who lived it. And that it's not going to lighten up anytime soon.

** My sister-in-law, seven year resident of New Orleans, a former Katrina and Gustav evacuee, and all around awesome person will be guest posting on this topic on Monday, so be sure to come back!!

Familiar Faces

Let's face it, for many of us who grew up in America, television and movies represented integral teaching devices.

My TV taught me about the simple truths in life. For example, I learned that liberal hippie parents can actually produce Republican offspring, that alien life forms actually had normal human names and that a rich white guy adopting two orphaned kids from Harlem is just really, really funny because it would probably never happen.

But, you know, while TV and movies taught me a lot about other people, they didn't always teach me about myself.

At least, not the part of myself that had parents that believed that children who didn't agree with them were inherently evil and had no respect for "their elders" because said children were too "Americanized." Or that being a doctor, lawyer or engineer was not part of a cultural identity, it was the only cultural identity you had.

What I mean to say is that Asian Americans, particularly those from the subcontinent, were few and far between in movies and TV.

So, when I did see that occasional brown face on the tube or silver screen, my immature little mind clawed at a deeper truth. Surely, these characters could teach me about myself, the way Alex P. Keaton taught me that Republicans, too, can be kind of hot in a money grubbing, if not completely self absorbed, way.

Here's some of the stuff I learned:

If you walk around India in a white sheet and get a lot accomplished, maybe you will be lucky enough to have a very talented white actor play your role in fifty years.

Religious tolerance is critically important in America. Do not offer people's gods peanuts.


















If someone says you have an "exotic" look, retain your humility and think about how they mean it.



















Fake Indian accents are about as funny as Steve Guttenberg. Which is to say that they are not. At all.

On a side note, all of these characters were Indian in their origin. Even on that level, I had to compromise because I'm actually Pakistani-American. I would've posted a few people hijacking airplanes, but it would have been too depressing.

Be assured, I have a very good sense of humor about these things (or is it that I have simply given up?), so this wasn't some subtle diatribe about how racist American TV was when I was growing up.

I get that I wasn't a big priority in terms of advertising revenue in the 80s. I also appreciate the evolution represented in my own daughter's favorite TV shows which are about a little Chinese-American girl and a little Hispanic boy. (Where, exactly, does Diego come from?)

I'm curious about what other people thought of these characters and others like them, and how TV and movies might have affected the general perception about other cultures.

So, tell me how did television or movies affect your perception of cultures, whether that of your own or others?

Can I Get You A Slurpie with This Post?

That's it, I'm going to start working on my accent, move to Delaware and get into the ultra-successful career choices offered in the wide world of mini-markets and morning donuts. This almost made me think about possibly, maybe, potentially switching my vote.

Almost. (Yess, to answer your impending question, Karmy, go to town.)

My favorite part is how he thinks he just gave someone a compliment. How about you?




Thanks to www.ultrabrown.com for the heads up.

P.S. I've entered this post in a ProBlogger contest in a shameless bid to get more readers. Not that you aren't enough for me. You are.

Faiqa on Faye

Did you know the difference between a flood watch and a flood advisory? An advisory means that we might have floods. A watch means that we are either having floods or that they are imminent. Does anyone else wish that they would just say, "It's going to flood, go buy sandbags."

This whole Faye thing reminds me of this guy I knew in high school that told me I should change my name to Faye because it was way easier to pronounce than Faiqa. His name was Muhammad and he had started telling people to call him "Mo." I told him that he could shove it and if people thought my name was too hard to pronounce they didn't have to talk to me. True story.

Anyway, I cannot believe they've been interrupting Young and the Restless for this crap. I don't watch Y&R, per se, but if I did, I'd be damned upset. (On a different note, is it strange that the opportunity to use the phrase "per se" literally makes my day?)

Interesting to note that Florida's weather has the ability to turn the most easygoing individuals into anxiety ridden neurotics. When I met my husband ten years ago, he told me that the most significant difference between America and the other places that he had lived was that Americans worried too much, even though they had the least amount of things to worry about.

Yesterday, he went outside in the middle of a torrential downpour to drain the pool two inches because he was afraid our lanai might flood and bought 50 gallons of water for two and a half people after hearing that we might have a tropical storm warning in effect. My contribution? I pretended not to watch reruns of Oprah.

I'm just saying, whose the anxiety neurotic, now?

Arranged Marriages

Phone call, last Tuesday.  It's my husband, "[Here is the part of the conversation you don't give a damn about].  Oh, and by the way," he says in a suspiciously casual tone, "I got a call from X, and he said he might be getting married on Saturday, so you should probably reschedule dinner with [our friends who most likely wish to remain anonymous]."  

"Might be getting married?"  

It turns out that Mr. X has been e-mailing a young lady in Dubai for the past few months, she had accompanied her parents to Florida this past week, and this young lady and Mr. X went out for coffee.  Before the frozen frappuccinos they ordered at Barnes and Noble could get all slushy, they were engaged to be married for the day after tomorrow.  

Welcome to the world of arranged marriages, kindly leave your notions regarding prolonged courtship at the door.

Truth be told, I'm no stranger to arranged marriages, at least if one counts my experience as one of association.  My parents' marriage was arranged, as was my sister's (sort of), many of my aunts and uncles, cousins, and, of course, friends.  So, the fact that Mr. X's nuptials were of the arranged persuasion was not what floored me.  I was more surprised by the speed.  Coffee on Tuesday, wedding on Saturday.

Interestingly, this express train to marital bliss is actually not entirely unusual in the world of arranged marriages.  I suppose having grown up in the West, I'm supposed to take the position that this sort of arrangement is archaic and perhaps a little oppressive, but I don't.

I've thought long and hard about the issue of arranged marriages, and, in all truth, it's fine by me.  (Yes, dear friends, you may go forth now in the world and happily engage in arranged marriages now that you have the coveted "Faiqa's seal of approval"!).  

The courtship phase between my husband and I lasted almost four years.  Nothing that I learned in those four years prepared me for the arguments, letdowns or blind rages that are intrinsic in any marriage.  In fact, I would go so far as to argue that the longer the courtship, the more pronounced the lie becomes that you actually know the person you are going to marry. Our prolonged courtship did, of course, afford us the advantage of being friends long before we were husband and wife.  And, I suppose, that the adamant pursuit to preserve that friendship certainly preserved our marriage on some certainly rough occasions.  

But back to arranged marriages and my pithy defense of them.  Some people argue that marriage is just a piece of paper.  I don't agree that it is just that.  Marriage is a contract, a legally binding one at that. When two people enter into this legal contract, they are, consciously or not, authenticating the superculture which has, in fact, imposed this contract upon them.  They are accepting that being someone's wife or someone's husband is defined by entities outside of the two of them.  This overtly extends to financial obligations, but insidiously refers to other BS such as who is supposed to do the dishes and who takes out the trash.  (Everyone knows husbands are supposed to take out the trash.)  

The problematic nature of a marriage that is not arranged, then, rears itself when legally married people exhibit an unwillingness to adhere to their superculture's definition of marriage.  (Why does my Mac keep underlining superculture as a typo?  Did I just make up that word?).  

Those of us who do not have arranged marriages often want to redefine what it means to be a husband or a wife.  Everything is negotiable: is it, in fact, until death do us part, and in sickness and in health?  Do I have to call your parents mom and dad?  What do you mean you're not changing your last name?  I'm not implying that this renegotiation should not be done, all I am saying is that it is potentially problematic.  (Personally, Faiqa Khan is all for renegotiation).

In the most perfect sense, an arranged marriage, in which both parties are willing participants, fully acknowledges the cultural parameters of marital definitions.  Everybody knows their part in this play, and there is likely to be little improvisation.  

Some people actually like that.  Some people like to know exactly where they stand, what is expected of them and that they can hold others accountable to a prescribed set of obligations and behaviors.  Furthermore, while those of us who did not have arranged marriages have the friendship created before our marriage to save us from our incessant bickering, individuals who have opted for arranged marriage have entire families devoted to the preservation of their marriage.  Why should we raise our unarranged marriage eyebrows at that?

As a disclaimer, I have to mention that I am firmly opposed to the arranged marriage of children and unwilling participants.  But then again, I am firmly opposed to the unarranged marriages of the same parties.  

And another thing... a lot of people like to catch hold of the idea that arranged marriages bear particularly oppressive upon the women involved in those marriages.  I'd like to counter that, barring a "forced" marriage, which is an entirely different entity than an arranged marriage, I don't think arranged marriages are any more oppressive than plain old marriages.  I'm sure that any married woman who gets her legs waxed would be inclined to agree with me.

Catching Up with Canada's Capital

It's been a busy month.  In-laws flew in (not on their broomsticks, ha ha) about three weeks ago, left to spend a weekend in New York with some friends the following week, and then went to Toronto to see my brother-in-law's adorable newborn son.  So, between all that traveling, my mind is pretty much spent.  Forgive me for the lack of depth in this post.

I tend to be one of those people who try to rebuff all that others deem awesome, but I just really do love New York City.  I can't believe I don't live there.  Oh, yeah, I just remembered.  If I tried to buy a place there with the same square footage I have in Florida, I would have to be Bill Gates.  But, I wonder, what is square footage when compared with the prospect of going to the Met every single day of the week.

Visiting New York did make me play, however, the "what if" game in my head.   You know, what if I had gone to university in New York instead of staying in Florida, what if I had moved there after getting married, etc.  

About halfway through that thought pattern, I got bored and moved on.

I know some people find the "what if" game interesting, but I just don't get the point.  The same is true of Sudoku (or however you spell it).  Remind me, why would I want to play with all these numbers unless I am balancing a checkbook or doing Algebra homework? 

Anyway, New York was awesome and in some indescribable way, it was empowering.  Until I tried to hail a cab in Times Square.  Then, it was just demoralizing.  Oh, by the by, a shot out to the wonderful husbands of the ladies in the preceding photo who tirelessly and selflessly took care of our kids while we acted like high school students on Spring Break for three days in New York.   

Three days later, left for a five day stint in the Toronto area.  O.K., Canada has amazing foliage, their side of the Falls are waaay better than ours and the citizenry are just super nice. Other than that, not so impressed with Canada thus far.  Something about every building in Toronto just screamed, "I've been built by the lowest bidder for a government contract."  The suburban areas where I stayed was nice, but the city itself was just kind of shabby.  I just wasn't feeling the majesty that one expects when visiting the capital of a country. 

Wait, Toronto is the capital of Canada, right? Oh, crap, it's not the capital, after all.  I just googled it and it turns out Ottawa is the capital of Canada.  I can't believe I didn't know the capital of Canada.  Talk about demoralizing.  

P.S. Amreen, I hope you're happy now.

Where I'm From...Originally.

Most of the time, the hyphen is a generally useless symbol of punctuation. A few years ago, though, the hyphen made big news with those of us in the American citizenry who have a decidedly "ethnic" flair. I'm specifically referring to the debate of whether to include a hyphen in the phrases used to describe those of us who were born on U.S. soil, but don't look like we were born here. For example, does one write "Arab American" or "Arab-American"?

The great debate centered on the appropriateness of whether to include this hyphen or not. Some people said that when you write "Arab-American" (hyphen included), you are implying that the status of "Arab," because it is a descriptor, in the term "Arab-American" is somehow secondary or substandard to the "American" status.

Before you file this information in the "I Have No Idea Why This is Important" category of your brain, some feel that both of these identities (in this particular example, "Arab" and "American") are equally important to their individual identity. In other words, one of them is not more important than the other, and the hyphenated expression somehow diminishes that point .

People (and by "people," I mean individuals who read too many books and have too much time on their hands) got tired about making such a fuss over this teeny, tiny little punctuation mark and decided to do away with it all together. As a result, the correct and "modern" way to describe a citizen of the United States with Arab origins is "Arab American." No hyphen.

I, personally, find this all very confusing. Since my parents came here from Pakistan in the 70s, and I was born here, I am a Pakistani American. But, their parents migrated from India almost seven years after the partition of India and Pakistan. So, I guess that makes me Indian Pakistani American. Oh, and I almost forgot, my parents were born before the partition of India and Pakistan, while India was under British rule, and were thus born as British subjects. Does that mean I am actually British Indian Pakistani American? And what about my daughter whose father is Indian? Is she British Indian Pakistani American Indian American?

Truth be told, I've never really accepted this label of "Pakistani American" with any real seriousness. (Oh, by the way, since I just used both "Pakistan" and "Arab" in this blog post, I just want to give a shout out to the Homeland Security intern who got saddled with the fruitless task of monitoring my blog for the next few months.)

Don't get me wrong, when I was living under a fairly strict dress code or threatened with death if I even thought about dating a boy in high school, I was very aware of my status as a "Pakistani American." And when I got married to an Indian, I became even more aware of it. And, I pretty much prefer to dress in Pakistani clothes and eat Pakistani food. Still, if I were about to die in five minutes and someone handed me an indestructible scrap of paper that would thousands of years later reveal the very core of my existence to future generations, I am certain the term "Pakistani American" would not be written on it.

I was forced, though, to examine this status of "Pakistani American" with a more keen eye when a friend, who happens to be an immigrant, turned to me and innocently said, "You know, when most Americans that don't know you look at you, I don't think they think of you as an American."

I still gasp at the utter horror of the implication, given that I have resided every minute of my life in this country. I said the pledge of allegiance every day in elementary school, junior high and until we weren't allowed to say it anymore because it wasn't politically correct. I watch baseball and football (which is a different sport than soccer). Additionally, I vehemently deride the false athleticism of table tennis and badminton as well as the utter stodginess of cricket. I even shop at Wal-Mart from time to time, just to assert my God given right as an American to pay extra low prices for cheap crap I don't need.

The truth is, though, that most Americans might not think I'm an American at first glance, but, then again, most Pakistanis might not think I'm very Pakistani after they get to know me. I figure that I have been asked "Where are you from, originally?" over 2,304 times. I just did the math on a Post-It, so I could be off by couple of hundred. Still, that's a lot of times to have to assert you are an American and a Pakistani.

Let me just say this question does not, in any way, offend me. I'm proud of my heritage. I'm proud that the possibility exists that my difference might actually expand someone's awareness regarding the amazing diversity of this country. I do have to admit, though, that this question and my friend's comment do bring to light a topic that I personally am sick of talking about. Apparently, it still begs clarification, so let me clarify. Here's where I am from, originally.

• I come from the place where my authenticity is always questioned. When I'm with certain Americans, I'm not American enough. When I'm with certain Pakistanis, I'm not Pakistani enough. The truth is, I am more authentic than most people I know because every cultural, political and even linguistic choice I make is both conscious and deliberate. Most of the world just inherits its preferences from their superculture, but I am incredibly lucky because I was offered a variety of choices.
• I come from the place where people call me names like "ABCD" (American Born Confused Desi) when, in reality, I know exactly who I am. Actually, the people who use that term are the ones who are confused by my superhuman ability to fit in and not fit in simultaneously all in a single bound.
• I come from a place where my nationality is something that is written in my passport. This has no bearing on the clothes I choose to wear, whether I choose to eat spicy food or sweet potato casserole, or how and to whom I pray.
• I come from the place where my compatriots are individuals with whom I identify politically and intellectually. I am thankful that I am among the few people blessed with the means to actually make those choices for myself.

In case you haven't figured it out, I'm the new global citizen, originally from the 21st century.

Nationality is paperwork, culture is negotiable, affinities and alliances exist in the mind. Leave your hyphens at the door.