Community Essay / ‘An American I Will Become’ : An immigrant wants to “feel it, to sound it, to know exactly, in any situation, how to behave.”

“Three things you must learn to truly become American,” my Western-wise father instructed his five immigrant children on the airplane headed to San Francisco 16 years ago. “You must learn to wait in lines and master the freeway system,” he said and pointed meaningfully at the minuscule maze of streets barely visible from the window of the airplane. “And you will still not fit in if you don’t lose your accent,” this he says to his Lebanese children who have yet to learn English.

Immediately, we all developed a terrifying fear of freeways. We scrambled to find etiquette books on the correct ways to wait in line but found none. We tried so desperately to lose the accent that we all sound now like Indians raised in England.

It was not my father’s fault. His only foray into the Western world, prior to leaving Lebanon, had been in xenophobic France, where an Arab loose in its cultured midst was wished back in his castaway land. Lebanon was a French colony. We spoke their language, learned their history and gratefully spent our scarce liras for the privilege of admiring their scenery.

But the United States is the land my family chose to pursue our happiness and our liberty. I want to be an American: To feel it, to sound it, to know exactly, in any situation, how to behave so that I offend no one with my presence.

I am tongue-tied at parties. I look around and can see my nose slowly following my gaze, a reminder of a heritage I cannot hide. A couple of drinks only seem to improve my French. I join in a conversation. They are discussing cross-country driving. No, I mumble, I prefer to fly.

The buffet line is forming. A knot tightens in my stomach. My father’s kindly voice bellows in my head about waiting in line. I stand at the end of it, behind the kids. By the time I start to eat, it is time to leave.

I am not friendless in this country.

“I cannot visit you,” my Arabic friend is telling me, “you live two freeways away.”

“I understand,” I reply.

“Your English is really good,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say in broken Arabic.

“I hate waiting in lines, don’t you?” she inquires.

More than you will ever know, my fellow ethnic friend.

I still don’t understand why forty is missing the U; I can’t pronounce Junipero Serra Boulevard without sounding fresh off the boat, and I am intimidated by blond waitresses. But at least the French in this country have nothing over me.

As Allah is my witness, an American I will become!