I was born in fortunate circumstances. I am the youngest of eight siblings. A son to two exemplary parents. I had more than my fair share of role models, old and new. I had great moments and, more often, disappointing ones. My greatest achievement; the crown jewel in my life's portfolio; my pièce de résistance (pardon my french), is transplanting my life half the world away and coming back with a graduation hat on.
I would love nothing more than to swell with pride and look fondly at the past sixth of my life. To hold my head up high and take in my grand achievement. I would love nothing more than to dwell with glee upon my success, if it can be so called. I would even take a bittersweet feeling of the end of a great chapter of my life, yet I find it only bitter. I came to the United States perhaps a boy, perhaps a man. I now see myself a Man, undoubtedly. Yet, I still am not satisfied. Sure, the one before was practically an unconscious animation of a body. Is the one now much better? Perhaps, it is true. Most probably not. He does know how some proteins work, though.
I feel bewitched; eternally enchanted by life in the United States. It is not the universally toted Freedom(TM) or the right to bear arms. Nothing political or formal, even. There is something here that I will never find back home. A simplification of society, one can think of it. Your first name matters more than your last name. At least, as far as my demographic is concerned.
Boy, do I carry around some baggage... Perhaps I am exaggerating how much I carry, but I do carry more than a bachelor's share, I am sure. As ever, what tips the scales for me is my last name. Al-Khalili. During my second week in the United States I shared a room with a gentleman from my country. One that lived in a far away city, and has, as such, never met a fellow Khalili in his life. Yet, he had expectations of me even I did not. His protest of my behavior was immediate and unexpected, to say the least. His gaze cut through me like a gorgon, a disbelief silenced him for but a second. Then he uttered those words: "[He is] Khalili!" I was not particularly surprised by his reaction, rather by my actions. How can something so mild illicit such a response? What did he think I was? Not who, what... Did he think me an Angle? A higher being? I was and still am, for the most part, an idiot. Of that, there is never any shortage of certainty. Yet I was still in disbelief. He must have thought I was exalted or infallible. I am not... The crime for which this swift punishment was issued? I blew a raspberry.
In that sense, I feel limited; bound by peoples' expectations of me. Here I was, half the way across this ginormous, practically inexhaustible globe, living -temporarily- with a person from my country. Even within the Sultanate of Oman, we had over a thousand kilometers between our homes. Still persists this image of an imaginary Khalili. One that is exonerated from fault. One that speaks ill of no one. A perpetual role model and a living standard by which people set their lives. His view of a Khalili was shattered not a month after he met me for an act so trivial, I am writing about it four and a half years later. I can't begin to express how frustrating that is. I am not a role models. I am not an example. I am an idiot. I just want to be. If people expect what is expected from my last name, they are setting themselves up for disappointment. I will not bend.
That was a stream of consciousness tangent I just went on, if only to emphasize the importance of meeting social expectations. That is all well and good, but for the last four and a half years, people ask me where I am from out of curiosity, not to give their approval. A blithering buffoon from half way across the world? Why, tell me where are you from, buffoon? I answer that question with great glee. Nearly boiling over with a wicked grin and smug satisfaction at the sight of most Americans and people of other nationalities' attempt to glue together a reasonable, geographically viable response. I know something you probably don't! Some of them surprise me... What are you, a cartographer?! What business do you have knowing where my country is? Of course, I am being dramatic, but there is a part of me that knows I have accomplished something. I came to the United States from a place most people don't know. I have attuned a level of language so masterful that some people think I am American myself. I live here by their rules; their doctrine, while keeping my own intact and unsullied. I merged seamlessly without melting into the pot, and that is not trivial. Now, I must return to my country, apparently a victor. In doing so, I will lose much of what I value. The individual adds and affects the group, not the other way around.
This notion is not a happy one. Far from a discussion of desirable or undesirable, right or wrong, this is lost to me. I will live the rest of my life swimming against the current, or disappointed that I didn't. Neither is appealing to me. Either try to turn the whole world, practically speaking, to my own perspective or be a coward. I know which of these options I want to choose, but I fear being a coward. Will I be Atlas and bear the burden of the entirety of my society when going back home? Will it be a naive, Sisyphean undertaking that lacks fruitful outcomes? Will it be a waste to come out the other side without a result? Does it matter if it works or not when I think it is the right thing to do? What if this worldly burden I so foolishly choose to bear is the wrong thing to do even if every inkling of my being believes it is not so? The nail that sticks out will be hammered down. Is it foolish to hope- to aspire- to long to be the nail that breaks the hammer?
Shall I take the coward's way out? It would be easier. It would be simpler. It would not cause others toil. It would not put strain on my social relationships... It persistently seems to me to be the wrong thing to do. Now, nearly 23 years after I was born; 23 years entirely laid out before me. 23 years through which I was on rails. It ends soon, and the paths diverge.
Will the blumbering, lumbering lunatic from Oman go down the easy path or the hard one?
He does not know.