July 9, 2003
I've been thinking about changing my name to Wesley.
That's the most common way people try to Americanize my Arabic name. I've also gotten Ross, Bosley and Leslie Mudd. I'll admit, Wesley did grow on me for a while, but if it keeps up, I might forget my name, just like I forgot my language. That's what happens when you're the first generation in a country. You get a weird name, and you forget your language.
Culturization works both ways though. My mother, who is from Bangladesh, has adapted the traditional Thanksgiving meal into her culture, but not without adding her own touches.
Thanksgiving dinner with my family usually consists of the traditional American staples: turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes. It's supposed to be the best meal of the year, but in my house it's far from it.
I've never had the heart to tell my mother that whenever she tries to put Indian spices into the turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes, it just doesn't work. My mother takes my silence as tacit approval of her food, and before I leave Long Island for the trek back to Binghamton, she makes sure I have dozens of plastic containers of Thanksgiving leftovers to take back with me. I appreciate the thought, just not the food — something the little filter in my head stops my mouth from saying.
I'll make an attempt now and then to eat some of the leftovers, but they usually end up sitting in my refrigerator for a few months until one day I'll open up the fridge and start having an intelligent conversation with some of the mold developing on the food. I've named one of them Bob. That's a sign that I should be throwing things out, but it's so hard when your mother made it for you.
My mother's ideas of cultural preservation extend into the relationship realm. That means that there are no relationships in her world. Arranged marriages, while all the rage in Bangladesh, aren't really ideal here, but no one sent her the memo.
A cousin of mine figured out an interesting way to work around the whole arranged marriage thing. She secretly dated someone for four years before telling her parents that she was getting married. Her parents consented, but with one condition — make it look like an arranged marriage, so that in the eyes of God and in the eyes of their friends and family, all is right with the world.
That works if both parties are Muslim, as my cousin and her fiance are. I may have to think of something else.
Luckily, I can put off the question of marriage for a few more years. I think Bob might beat me to it, actually.
Maybe I shouldn't change my name. It does mean handsome, in Arabic. Now to work that into a pick-up line.
The genXchange column appears every other Wednesday. Today's writer is Wasim Ahmad, a reporter for the Press & Sun-Bulletin. E-mail him at wahmad@pressconnects.com.
© 2003 Press & Sun-Bulletin, Binghamton, N.Y.