Poems by Alexandria poet laureate, Zeina Azzam

I Am an Arab American

Because I tend the fig tree as earnestly as the dogwood and the pine

Because cinnamon and anise, cumin and cardamom inhabit my shelves and senses

Because I bake both baklawa and blueberry pie for my family

Because poems by Mahmoud Darwish and Lucille Clifton are my daily bread

Because both Ibn Khaldun and Howard Zinn explain the world to me

Because I am awed by the blueness of the Atlantic Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea

I am an Arab American

Because I see Gaza when a protester raises a fist in Ferguson

Because Abu al-Qassim al-Shabbi and Angela Davis inspire me to act

Because I treasure coffee from Yemen, dates from Iraq, pistachios from Syria,

as well as pecans and corn and apples from Georgia, Iowa, New York

Because I write in languages that flow in opposite directions

Because Arabic and English are my archetypes of sanctuary

Because my name is unfamiliar to some and a comforting word for others to carry

I am an Arab American

Because I grow jasmine in Virginia to conjure the fragrance of my my first home

Because melodies of the oud and guitar dwell in my ears

Because I listen to Umm Kulthum, Fairouz, Ella Fitzgerald, and Joni Mitchell in one sitting

Because to me, the olive tree is an ancestor, a food source, a healer

Because I am the daughter of Palestinian refugees and we are all immigrants

Because I’ve touched the splendor of a brown child in my womb

Because my children see more than one world, inherit stories that astonish and bloom

I am an Arab American

Because I want to protect the purple mountains and shining seas everywhere

Because I embrace Hiawatha’s Seventh Generation Principle: to live knowing that all our decisions will affect the world for hundreds of years

Because I learned early on that karam, the Arabic word for generosity and kindness, is the most important belief to hold dear

*****

Write My Name

“Some parents in Gaza have resorted to writing their children's names on their legs to help identify them should either they or the children be killed.”

—CNN, 10/22/2023

Write my name on my leg, Mama

Use the black permanent marker

with the ink that doesn’t bleed

if it gets wet, the one that doesn’t melt

if it’s exposed to heat

Write my name on my leg, Mama

Make the lines thick and clear

and add your special flourishes

so I can take comfort in seeing

my mama’s handwriting when I go to sleep

Write my name on my leg, Mama

and on the legs of my sisters and brothers

This way we will belong together

This way we will be known

as your children

Write my name on my leg, Mama

and please write your name

and Baba’s name on your legs, too

so we will be remembered

as a family

Write my name on my leg, Mama

Don’t add any numbers

like when I was born or the address of our home

I don’t want the world to list me as a number

I have a name and I am not a number

Write my name on my leg, Mama

When the bomb hits our house

When the walls crush our skulls and bones

our legs will tell our story, how

there was nowhere for us to run

*****

Immigrant

I grew up eating cheese with bitter olives,

sesame and thyme-infused olive oil

on warm bread.

Names in my family all meant something,

like lifelong challenges:

beautiful, splendid, victorious, forgiving.

In my childhood books

words flowed from right to left,

direction didn’t matter then.

At ten we traveled east to west

against time. I gained seven hours

of youth, lost my compass:

in New York, no sea

to swallow the sun each day.

Foods were sweet in America.

People spoke as fast as they walked.

Everything was large: washing machines,

supermarkets, even bananas and red grapes.

We settled in this vast, cold place

with neither boots nor a sense of

how to be warm.

Snowfalls were beautiful and cruel,

the freezing air slapped our faces

each morning.

Inside there was the smell of garlic and onions

on the stove, loud talking over the phone

with relatives overseas.

My family inhaled and exhaled

politics like cigarettes, all the time.

We blamed the British, the Americans,

Arab leaders, Zionists, communists,

or a history that was simply unkind.

The TV in the background reported news

in a language we spoke

but did not really understand.

All this over a good meal, always,

as if the hunger was in our bellies

and not in our hearts.