CLASHES OF CULTURES

Coming straight to northwest Arkansas was a shocking experience due to the culture difference, but also due to the unique environment, setting, and upbringing of the people of Arkansas. At the time of my arrival, the state motto was the “Land of opportunity,” which is recently changed to the “Natural State.” I like both mottos, but the first one is a better fit for my situation and circumstances. I took advantage of the excellent prospects that were available in the state. I met my wife, had my first child, and earned an excellent education through my Ph.D. program and training. Seeing stores with so many varieties and quantities of goods was astonishing, remarkable, and incredible sight. I enjoyed going to the grocery stores just to look at, scrutinize, and inspect all kind of commodities. My wife used to describe me whenever I went shopping with her as a “Bedouin in a City.”

Things appeared to be normal on the surface so long as we stayed on the campus of the University of Arkansas, since many of us were international students where the ethnicity, traditions, customs, and way of life were very predictable and conventional. I recall my first encounter with the locals when a group of students invited me to attend an evening auction for used cars at a nearby town. The first unforgettable, memorable, and impressive sight was a large pot full of cooked ground beef that was offered free on paper plates to the auction attendees. The first argument started between the students was whether the meat was beef or pork, since it is sin for many Muslim students to eat pork. An opinionated student decided to taste the meat and wrongly informed us that it was indeed pork. So we conceded a very good free meal; something does not happen very often in the Middle East. Later on I found out that pork is too expensive to pass as a free meal at auctions.

Men with large bellies started to arrive from all direction and the auctioneer began his fast talking, which was amusing, hilarious, and entertaining at the same time. Even though I liked the auctioneer tune, I could not figure out a word he said except “ sold. ” Watching men wearing odd and peculiar clothes, boots, and hats walking in every direction and arguing with a language that was difficult to understand made me curious about how the United State is able to built jet fighters, large warships, and all kind of cars and machineries. This cannot be true and in no way these men would be able to put two and two together, I murmured. In contrast, I could not figure out why intelligent men and women in the Middle East cannot make a single needle or any other simple tools, such as a screw driver as an example. May be this is due to recent political leaders who made the Middle East a posterior cavity of the world and the armpit of civilizations.

My wife grew up in Indianola, Mississippi, a small city located in the delta region. In the Fall of 1982, I traveled with her to meet my father-in-law, which was the first trip ever to Mississippi. He was farming cotton or soy beans and occasionally raising cattle. As we entered the delta region, I noted the populace was driving their cars in a very erratic and unpredictable way. When they park their cars, they took at least two parking spaces. Light indicators were seldom used and occasionally were used the wrong way. When I looked ahead and saw almost every car in front of us with the drivers sitting in the middle of the front seat instead on the left side of the car, I asked my wife whether the steering wheel and pedals were made in the middle of the cars for those who live in Mississippi. She replied no, they are normal cars like any other cars in the country. I said then perhaps the drivers are leaning to the middle to balance their cars. She looked at me with a big laugh. That reminded me with a new practice I noted among Arab students who crammed themselves in the front seats of their cars; four or five of them sitting in the front seat while the back seat is empty. It appears to me they were after a status and standing more than anything else. To them sitting in the back seat is a sign of a lower caste.

We finally arrived at the house of my father-in-law. I was somewhat nervous, anxious, and tense of being afraid that he would not like me. From the first look at his face he appeared to be pleased by meeting his son-in-law. The first thing he announced is that he never met an Arab before seeing me and the way he pronounced the word “Arab” is by stretching and putting an accent on the first letter. During this first visit, he could not understand me and I had hard time figuring out the points of his stories. He was white southern guy with a prejudice against the African Americans, who he called “ colored people .” The first story I heard from him, which was further clarified to me by my wife is that during World War II, a friend of his, who lived a few miles to the north, used prisoners of war to work in his fields. All the prisoners of war were German soldiers except one Arab who would work all day long just for receiving a candy bar. Since that story was told, my wife used to tease me by saying give an Arab a candy bar and he will work the whole day long.

I got used to my father-in-law and I started calling him Grandpa after my first daughter was born. He was very generous and quite sensitive. The most remarkable thing I noted about Grandpa is that he was still grieving the death of his wife who died about a year after my wife was born. In that regard, he was inconsolable, anguished, sorrowful, and brokenhearted man. Occasionally, he was playful and joyful. He used to tell me wicked jokes and stories and always had an answer or a remedy to every question and every occasion. I recalled him telling some gossip about how Jimmy Carter was not a Carter, but a Kennedy, because his jaws resemble those of the Kennedy men. On one occasion, he was complaining about the sparsely populated bayous with snapping turtles because Harry Truman used to hunt, collect, and made soup out of them. The most wicked story I ever heard from him was that African Americans do not eat catfish because this kind of fish menstruate just like human. From that time on, the menstruation always pops into my mind every time I hear the word catfish.

Grandpa and many others who live in Indianola are simple but very nice, pleasant, and polite. Sometimes they exaggerate their greetings to the point one may think that he is known by them for ages and centuries. Occasionally, they pretend to know more than what one thinks. The first time I met one of my wife’s aunts she talked to me about how the Palestinians suffered so much and they preserve and uphold the right to “self-determination.” I thought that was a deep-thought statement from someone who probably never left the delta region. The “self-determination” was a Palestinian slogan during the seventies and eighties of the last century. I admired my aunt-in-law and I gave her a big hug for siding with me against all evil powers in the world.

In spite of how nice the people in Indianola were, I had this bizarre feeling that I was a stranger in a strange land. My heavy accent did not quite fit or qualify me to be from the south. Even my own daughters thought I spoke funny and hilarious English. My younger daughter refused to attend her girl scout troop (brownies) meetings. This was because during one of the meeting, she was proud to tell everybody that her father is from another country. None of the other children believed her story. Since that incident, whenever she introduced me to her friends, she always says “and this is my father, but he is from a different country.” It is kind of embarrassing, awkward, and discomforting to be introduced as an alien and from another country. But I know deep in my heart that she does not mean to alienate or distance herself from me. Now she considers herself more of a Palestinian than anything else. The clashes of the cultures do not seem to bother her anymore.

Omar Manasreh
9 June 2008