As a boy growing up in an Arabic-speaking country,
I was called many names, all feminine.
“Nua’em” – soft, “Risha” – feathery,
“Banoteh”– girly, “Dalo’ah” – flamboyant.
Let’s not forget “Tant” – sissy!
Words made up the teeth of a blade.
I cried, felt left out, believed I deserved to die.
I hated the feminine adjective.
They forced me to abhor it, to fear it,
a jittering blade.
How could a whole gender be a weapon?
I ran into boys’ sports to fit in,
but the difference in me couldn’t be tamed.
A world obsessed with the binary made me go mad.
I was stuck in between,
my dad’s reputation always at stake,
because his eldest son is not of the same make.
A burden I shoulder till today.
“You are not like him, you are his eldest?”
They would remark in disbelief,
expecting a man – tall, strong, muscular.
These are their words, their vision,
a blade that left a cut in my veins
but no scars, because scars mean healing!
I am far from healed.
Their vocabulary made me recoil into the shadows.
I couldn’t belong, not even in grief.
I remember at the funeral house
being told to go to the women’s side,
they said “girly stuff” belongs there.
Bullies, my dear bullies,
I could tell you now your words made me stronger,
but that’s a big fat lie!
Even today, when I go back to my hometown,
I have to butch up the act.
Words that are masculine must be utilised.
Objectifying women, that macho practice I try to avoid,
but when you do it, I have to smile.
Even today I have to hide.
We grew up, and you would think we moved on,
but you, now, with age, with families now made,
how manly of you,
how well you fit in a society
that will never be mine.
A longer distance between us is forged.
I see you and pray to Allah,
please don’t bully me again,
please don’t embarrass me in front of the friend I brought from abroad,
or my mom, or my dad…
please don’t call me “Banoteh”,
please don’t ask me why I’m not married with a child
please don’t take out the blade.
My accent is not rough enough, they said
very characteristic of the boy that I am not.
I had to police the choice of words, the accent that is roughed up.
They told me to say “Ghahbeh” – whore,
with the “gh” sound, not “Ahbeh”
when you catcall a girl who doesn’t comply.
How could letters be a ground for a whole identity?
Now I’m running around in my 30s,
throwing band-aids on the “not scars” of your blade.
Arabic, the language you bullied me in,
became something I fear.
I couldn’t belong.
So I moved abroad,
Imbibing the culture, seeking jobs, yearning to fit in,
Hoping to heal in a
a foreign language.
Foreign words to reconcile the identity
you centrifuged to conformity.
Therapy gave me a dictionary.
In this dictionary, I try to find myself,
collecting words to describe who I am.
What am I?
To only realise this is a blade
that also spoke English.
No matter where you are,
humans find a way to discriminate.
Sharpen the blade, get a confession –
he is a brown sissy boy!
“Not scars” caused by carved letters
on my skin remain,
and I find myself still
shying away,
avoiding the acid rain
that you bullies, all of you contain.
Cover image by Igor bispo on Unsplash
