Yesterday I took a friend out to lunch. I had an ulterior motive — I’ve been homesick and I wanted to go to my favorite Palestinian restaurant. I could have gone alone, but part of what makes Palestinian food feel like home is sharing it with people.
My friend and his three year old picked me up, and we feasted on a platter of shish tawook, shish kafta, chicken kafta, grape leaves, falafel and fattoush. We ate so much I didn’t think I could move. His son, who insists on being called Spiderman, raced around the restaurant begging me to chase him while he shot pretend webs out of his hands.
Anywhere else that wouldn’t fly, but this place is a tiny piece of home in an oasis of forced individualism.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with being an individual. I’ve always been an odd one, even for my own culture. While I run a household and fit the traditional female roles of healer, caregiver, judge, and storyteller, I also grew up doing the jobs the men did: I was always a protector, I did search and rescue work, and I argued and settled business disputes, drank and played cards and provided financially for my family. Individuality is golden, and it is important, but so is community.
At home, kids are raised by a community. No parent is meant to do it all alone. There is always an Auntie around to help out. That’s not true here, and the pressure on parents to do it all without any support is overwhelming, especially when we add in that asking for help is considered a failure.
Our culture is riddled with proverbs like it takes a village and it really does take a village — but we begrudge each other these villages when we need them, and we shame each other for needing them.
It’s really unnecessary.
I enjoyed chasing a three year old Spiderman around a restaurant today. I enjoyed taking my friend out for lunch. I enjoy when my friends come over with their children, when our hordes run off and play together, and when we can hang out and talk. I love when kids indiscriminately come find me and ask for food. I love making extra sandwiches and doling out extra goldfish. I don’t mind cleaning up the mess. I would much rather know that my friends aren’t doing it alone, aren’t trying to meet these impossible standards of individualist parenting that do neither them nor their children any favors. I want that village, and I want that community.
That’s my real ulterior motive. I can never go home, my home is the mouth of a shark, to quote Warsan Shire, but I can share the beautiful and wonderful parts of my home with my friends here, even if it’s just a couple hours with Spiderman at my favorite restaurant.
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