Mood Swings I am ready to go By Sherif Milad At 46, I consider the Atlantic Ocean to be just the right distance between my family and me. But all that is about to change. I will be visiting soon. And I must admit; the panic has started already. The preparation for the trip is both physical and psychological. Both are arduous tasks! The gift list inflates daily, my packing list diminishes accordingly. Endless choices make decisions harder. Will they like that, will they consider it fashionable enough, expressive enough of my affections... Of course you don't get any help from folks back home on what they really want or need. "Ah! Don't trouble yourself. All we want is just to see you, your presence is the greatest gift." Of course I know that, as well as they know that I won't come empty handed either. For a single man, endless rows of hanging merchandise are a nightmare, let alone trying to guess the right size, for growing children, and expanding adults. A trip back also means compromising your sense of adulthood, independence, and the most precious of all commodities: personal space. Two days ago, I started an argument with my mother to leave my hair alone; and not to make comments on the way I dress; or make appointments for me to see someone she thinks I should see before checking with me first; only to realise I was still here in New York, all by myself. It was good practice though! I left Egypt 28 million people ago. I am always flattered to see them all out on the streets cheering my return with jubilant loud voices and car horns. A fantastic display of affection that extends from the airport all the way to our apartment downtown. Family members take over from there, with hugs and kisses, and endless repeated Salamat. They look and stare to see what is different about me; did I gain weight, did I lose hair. "Let me look at you; I can't believe my eyes. It has been a long while you little puppy, miss you, miss you, miss you." Kisses, hugs, tears, and laughs. Before I face the light of the following day, I will be briefed on who died, who got married, who had kids, and the one or two engagements that broke up because of lack of naseeb. I am sure they will want to toast my return by cracking open a bottle of scotch, and munching on something "light" -- that is about a week's food supply by New York standards. I can't remember if I smoke in front of my father, or will I have to sneak out to the balcony again! More than any other struggle for independence or autonomy, independence from parents seems the hardest. We come out of them in nine months, but they stay inside of us for the rest of our lives. This seems to be a universal phenomenon that transcends culture and ethnicity. Crack a joke about your relationship with your parents at the General Assembly of the United Nations, and you finally get a unanimous agreement. Please, don't mistake for lack of love; there is plenty of that around. My parents would give up their life in a flash for me, and I would do the same for them. The problem lies though, in those less dramatic moments when the issue is not giving up life, but rather going through it. After years of rebellion, strange hair styles, alien-like costumes, music that can drive demons mad, language that makes them cringe, after choosing careers totally different from anything that preceded, even after moving to distant lands, there comes a moment when you do, or say, something and suddenly realise: Oh My God, I have turned into my parents! In a state of shock you look around to see if anyone saw you, but it doesn't matter, you know it happened. You close your eyes in disbelief, and see them grinning: "Got you!" Mother will probably raise the issue of settlement, ever so delicately. My settlement that is, with someone to 'take care of me'. Right! It seems tempting at times, to leave the enterprise of open market lifestyle, with all its volatility, and settle down. But with a divorce rate exceeding 50 per cent in Egypt, the point is very arguable. Ah... The torment of love! As a first-generation immigrant, I am 'torn between two lovers'. And I am about to face that old woman Egypt. That first love I left behind years ago. I know that after my initial shock at how much weight she gained, how many children she has, and that old housedress she wears, wet at the belly from leaning over the sink or the stove to feed them all, she and I will sit silently late one night on a bench by the Nile, and revisit our memories. I know that she will say something to make me laugh, and cook something she knows I love. I know that the moonlight of our last night will reveal love in her eyes, and bewilderment in mine. I know she will understand when I squeeze her hand, and slip away without saying a word. It would have been much easier if the blond I am cording here was a shallow fake airhead, but life is not like movies. It is not that easy. I can't dehumanise or ridicule either one to justify being with the other. And I must find my own path on this journey I chose to take, for to follow an old beaten track is to rob myself of the entire experience. All remains to be seen. This week's contributor is an Egyptian expatriate living in New York.
