the memorial service was tough
i've never seen the contradictions of my dad's arab/american-ness in the same way. i'm working on writing something about this, but the piece that i wrote on the day of the service is too personal to put up here right now. i'd be glad to talk to you about it, though if you want to email me. in the mean time, here's something that i sent out to my queer arab women friends a couple of days after the funeral...

a couple of days after
i'm much more calm than i was a few days ago, and i feel a little sheepish for sending that rather hysterical post. still, i'm glad i did, because i'm glad of the responses i got.

as i've had time to think about the funeral a bit more, i realized that the arabs who upset me were people i didn't know--on the other hand, my family's arab friends who i've known for ages were all very sweet. A's comments, M's comments, and my mom's response made me start drawing sharp arab/white lines that i think weren't actually called for. that black and white thinking creeps back when i don't get enough sleep...

i think the memorial service was quite lovely. i know it was complicated to arrange, and complicated in its execution. people with complicated lives have complicated funerals. when i die, there will not only be arabs and non-arabs, there will be pierced leatherfolk next to some pretty conservative people. there will be people who know me for my pornography, activism, and by birth. my ex-boyfriends will get to encounter my ex-girlfriends, and my family will have to deal with everybody. my father's funeral made me speak explicitly with my mother about my own. hopefully i will outlive her--but if not, i do not want my family-of-origin sweeping down and taking me away from my family-of-choice. both are important to me. i don't want to be another fag with a closeted funeral that my ex-lovers aren't allowed to attend.

my father lived with his different cultures gracefully, and i honor him more as i discover more about his life. speaking to his friends and protoges from work at the funeral and during his illness has showed me another side of him--now i know how he struggled in his job to make a difference despite bureaucracy, and how kind he was to the young idealists who came to him for support.

our memorial service was not as graceful as my father's life, but it was done with love. and i think most of the people who attended it viewed it that way.

i told two stories at the memorial service: one was about my parents' new kitten. she is wild and my father loved her fierceness. he said she behaved exactly as the lions he saw in africa did. but jessie would let my father pet her, and be calm for him when none of the rest of us could touch her. it's the same patient, intelligent love that he showed my family, showered on his tomato garden, and gave to his friends and to what he loved at work.

the other is from the last time he travelled for his job. i went to my parents' house on the day he was due back, and waited for him with my mother. when the cab let him out of the driveway he had trouble walking to the door. we rushed out and helped him in, fussing about how terrible that he got sick on such a difficult journey. but he told us how cool it was--they had given him a wheelchair at the airport, and he got to rush through it while everybody had to get out of his way. he put his whole body into telling the story, how much fun he had in that wheelchair. he became a little kid, and i was appalled by his sickness but delighted with his pleasure.

thank you all very much for your support in my hysteria, i will thank you all individually over the next week or so. i knew that i could turn to you with my confusion and frustration,and am very glad i did. you all are my angels on white horses this evening.