The trials and tribulations of being an Arab-American woman
Recently, I read a blog post by fellow NAAP member, Eman Ahmed, on the pitfalls of being an Arab-American woman. (Click here to read more). In that post, Eman writes, “If being a wife and mother is considered the ultimate goal for an Arab woman, and being educated makes that goal harder to obtain, you’re left with a whole assembly of educated Arab women who are made to feel as failures within their own community for being unable to achieve that goal. For every sense of accomplishment she achieves with her career, the Arab woman is made to feel a sense of inadequacy for being that much further from her ultimate goal. It’s a double-edged sword that slowly stabs at the soul of each Arab woman.– she is restricted to living in her family home, only to leave when entering her husband’s home.”
Now, I don’t know if I agree with Eman entirely. I do, however, agree with her assertion that Arab-American women, especially recent immigrants and first generation, are held to a much different standard than their American counterparts. I know that my marriage was celebrated much more than my educational accomplishments. And that my mother is more interested in when I am planning to have children than how well my career is going.
What really fascinates me though is the role women themselves play in this state of affairs. After all, if my mother is asking me about children, didn’t her mother do the same? And what can I do as a future mother to break the cycle?
As I have grown older (and supposedly wiser), I recognize that my mother’s action do not revolve solely around perpetuating the culture she grew up in. They stem from her desire to see me connected to my heritage. She understood that my acceptance into this community hinged on adhering to its norms and felt it to be her responsibility to teach me those norms.
I don’t know if I have really lived up to my mother’s standards. The truth is that I did as many things as I could my own way. And doing so has opened my eyes to the price my mother knew I would pay. I wouldn’t have done it differently though.
The question is – will I tell that to my daughter?
