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Entry One To: NemoFrom: Beyrouthawit Subject: My Short, discrete but weighty Life Diary. Introduction Nemo, how could I possibly make the account of my life seem unbearably exciting so that you will hang on to my every word and wish you were ME? Well, lets see where to start. I was conceived in Lebanon (hence my name "Beyrouthawit" which was somehow derived from "Beirut", the capital of Lebanon). Maybe I'm giving you too much detail and I'll fast forward to more current times. I'm presently your uncommon and yet average 21 year-old senior in college. My school is painfully pre-professional and your personal worth is measured by the potential income you will eventually earn. Thus, I spend most of my days wondering if I should be busy looking for a husband with a high earning potential, or if I'm destined to ride the wave and become a workaholic investment banker like most of my beloved in peers in the rat-race. As for my living conditions, I live in a city where, if you are feeling suicidal, no need for razor blades- you just need to take a walk by yourself after 10p.m. and someone will more than happily murder you for a dollar. But I have to admit that I have become attached to America and the options that have opened up for me here, the great land of exploration. College has been a wonderful ride on the learning curve of life. I've come out a much wiser, selfish and confused person than I was when I first came here. But definitely a better person because, wouldn't you agree Nemo, that it is better to be confused about relevant issues than to be so completely oblivious to them? I heard through the grapevine that the foggy period ends when you hit thirty. I figure you probably realize by then that all your options are really variations of the same theme i.e. how do you gamble your way out? A little History My recollections of leaving Ethiopia are really figments of imagination because, at the time of our departure, I was too young to remember anything concretely. At times I wonder if it is my separation from the homeland at the tender age of two or a predisposition to not "fit in" that has created such a disjunction between what defines me as a person and the mechanics of the Ethiopian community. A discussion of the infamous debate of "nature versus nurture" would be appropriate, but this would not be the forum for such a topic. I do not flatter myself in believing that I have the ability to lead a socio-biology discussion (although I don't hesitate in holding stubbornly opinionated views). My travels with my family led us to a small and endearing European country that would become my home for the next 17 years of my life. I grew up pretty much following the normal rituals of life. I attended a high school where there were only two other Ethiopians, and, for some reason or another, were never my friends. I dutifully followed all the norms and smoked when smoking became the trend, drank when it was deemed necessary to drink, all according to our adolescent rules of behavior. I never really thought much about what I was doing and it was almost as if I was storing these items (or as I tenderly call them, "life experiences") in a luggage for future reference. As I was growing up, the dichotomy that I now realize will probably prevail throughout my life became increasingly apparent. I was living in two separate worlds and I had expertly and rather unconsciously geared my behavior, thoughts and attitudes into two separate accounts: one for all occasions that dealt with my Ethiopianness and the other for all other occasions that had to do with my non-Ethiopianness. This disjunction was somewhat bridged at home because although my parents are dedicated abeshas and my mom was especially involved in certain monthly and yearly rituals such as "mehaber" and "enQutatash", they never pressured me into internalizing these imported customs. I was a passive viewer and never gave much thought to my mom affectionately calling me "yenay ferenge". When I was younger, I viewed our regular trips to Ethiopia from a very western point of view. In my mind, they represented "vacations" to a distant land to which I had some kind of fuzzy connection. I was happy to go and sad to leave. But the reason for my sadness was that the vacation was over, not because I was yet again being separated from my roots. And I never went back home changed or altered, or a little bit more Ethiopian. What defines me as a person is constantly changing, and my "life experiences" are what contribute the most to shaping my perspectives and cognitive horizons. Furthermore, the context in which I evolved has had a very strong influence and this context has very much been outside the realms of anything linked to Ethiopia. Further revelations came to me in college. Going away to college was both a difficult and rewarding experience. The relevant and unsurprising discovery I made during my four years of university is that I will never really become a full-fledged abesha. These years away from home have actually contributed in widening the gap between my Ethiopianity and me, leading me to place greater emphasis on my non-Ethiopian account. The amazing variety of people I met throughout my college years and the friendships I formed with people that have radically different views and histories from me all contributed to the impression that I was a global citizen and not an advocate of one nationality. However, my short analysis should not be perceived as an attempt by me to reject or discard my heritage. Although at times I have attempted to completely disassociate myself both mentally and physically from the Ethiopian community because I felt so irrevocably removed from it all, I have realized that I can not deny something that is so inherently part of me. It is not pure coincidence that I feel a little tingle of comfort when I hear Ethiopian music, or the need to approach someone that distinctly looks Ethiopian. These unconditioned responses were not learnt. They are natural and innate. However, they have been eroded and altered by the fact that I spent the most crucial years of my development outside of Ethiopia and with non-Ethiopians. Furthermore, something strange happened when I was in Ethiopia last summer. I was standing to cross the street, and for a moment I felt this overwhelming feeling of belonging and association with each and every person surrounding me. I felt like I was part of the air, that I had a share of the land, a page in the history, an interest in the future of this country that represented my origins (home). It was bizarre that this should have happened then-that revelation should dawn on me when I was in the processing of doing such a banal thing as crossing the road. But I interpret it as crossing to another side of my identity-my acknowledging and acceptance of my origins and how they defined me as a person. Now came the tricky part: how to amalgamate this newfound love of my country with my old self and habits? I strongly believe that peace of mind comes from realizing that a choice does not have to be made, but rather, that a new hybrid generation of Ethiopians will become an accepted trend. Because the question for many of us is how to amalgamate the customs of a culture which are radically incongruent with the norms of the particular society we live in? And this issue is faced not only by Ethiopians, but also by all nationalities in a country foreign to their own culture. Often, the children grow up with the impression that they have to make a choice between these two very different and often clashing worlds. Well, Nemo, I feel like I've just played a very loaded game of monopoly and someone cheated me and I am back to the starting point. In other words, my issues are still somewhat unresolved. I almost feel like you are my incognito therapist and I am forcing you to hear me out for free. Well, nothing is free and I guess your turn to spill the beans will also come around. How did we get involved in this reciprocal torture? I was blackmailed. And you? Berry.
To: Berry Dear Berry: Like you, I was blackmailed into doing this by shameless editors. So, I was planning to coast through this with a couple of superficial late-night ramblings, and then sit back and bask in the anonymous yet warm glow of Seledabrity. I didn't plan on touching on anything actually meaningful, just have fun with verbal gymnastics and maybe get acquainted with someone... In short, I expected this to be the web equivalent of a cocktail party. Your "short, discrete but weighty Life Diary" demolished those expectations. You dove right into a very non-superficial subject. You leave me no choice but to get personal, and serious [crack my knuckles]. I spent only one fifth of my life in the homeland (so now you're wondering whether I left at a young age like you, or if I am very old... suspense, suspense). Funnily though, for years, I didn't really struggle with exile, at least not on a personal level. I believed that I was as Ethiopian as anyone, that you can add to your identity (or add identities to your self) without subtracting. After all, you can learn a new language without forgetting your mother tongue, and what are culture, identity etc., but games of language. After a while, you start thinking in the new language, some of the time. Say at some point in your life, your mind is studying in one language all day, playing or being entertained in another after school, and being raised in another at home. You have no problem coping, you can deal with all these environments. The different departments do their jobs and somehow, they know enough of each other's tongues to get along. "You" becomes a coalition of three "I"s, getting along in the same mind. Is consciousness itself an instance of language, like music is an instance of sound? Is there a conductor, Berry, in this orchestra of consciousness, and if so, what language does she think in? Here's a puzzle: do you ever remember what language you dream in? I just realized, I am not sure... surely if I dream of specific people then I talk to them in the same language as I would in real life. But the narrator of the dream, the one that is remembering, what language does he use? I don't know.... And if you were expecting an answer, then I have a bridge to sell you. Anyway, you've expanded your mind, you could say to yourself, which can only be good. But, as your letter so eloquently showed, we are conscious of some kind of trade-off, a Faustian bargain. Are we, exiles, surviving, and even thriving, thanks to some kind of pact with the Devil? He gives us life, if not eternal, at least multiple lives in parallel, citizenship in the global village, incredibly privileged and fortunate by the standards of our native land, and multi-culturally "with it" by the standards of globalization. So what do we owe him in return, and when is the bill coming? Maybe we're already paying, maybe the struggles with identity are the wages. The flip side of growing up with plural identities is that you never really belong (now I'm sounding like Oprah!) I always felt that I could deal with all of them: schoolmates and teachers, colleagues, social circles, my family and relatives and family friends, even though for the most part these were very different cultures. But then, I realize that I am always holding myself just outside the circle, the many circles. I may become very close, in a way that transcends culture, to a few specific individuals (and the funny thing is they have no common trait that I can discern), but I remain detached from any group or anything that has even the remotest hint of conformity or uniformity. I'll get involved in activities or organizations to achieve certain shared goals, but I don't think I can really belong to something that pre-supposes or is focused around an "identity". Because I have several, or maybe because I have sold my identity to the Devil in exchange for the illusion of having several. The Devil can issue you many passports for example... How appropriate, for what is more evil than the notion of a passport and it's partner, the border? Maybe that's the deal. The real cost we are paying for multi-culturality (if you'll forgive the word), the real cost is the painful awareness of how hopelessly divided this world this is. I tried to go to Germany once, my visa application was rejected for no other reason than my nationality. Then a year later, I have another passport, and they wave me in, no visa, no stamp, "have a nice stay, sir!" "But I'm the same person your country chased away like the plague last year!!", I feel like screaming. But I don't, I just smile at the irony and slip into the country. It makes us cynical. I'll just accumulate all the passports in the world, and then I'll really show them how stupid all this is! But is that selfish? Have I no soul? Of course not, the Devil has it! Or maybe the Devil is more like a publisher -- you give the original and the copyright, and he gives you volume, the numbers, the hope for a bestseller, which is fame (second time I'm touching on fame -- no, it's not an unhealthy obsession of mine, it's... well that's another story): the more people know you, the more identities you possess, one in the mind of each. But in your own, who are you? What's the point even if you get there? Will the conductor overseeing all these instruments please stand up? Standing on a corner in Addis that day, about to cross the street...actually, you never said corner, and in Addis Ababa as in New York, you don't have to be at a corner to cross the street...Anyway, at that moment, you had a strange and beautiful experience, an "overwhelming feeling of belonging and association", you felt your "share of the land"... You didn't quite fall off the tightrope between identities, but you had a glimpse of the depths on one side, your roots. Who you are really is your DNA, and that is your ancestors. You are just a vehicle for genes that have mixed and matched and evolved for eons, and through one of many accidents of history, this particularly vehicle ended-up bouncing from one land to another. It doesn't really matter, the genes will, in time, split-off join others and launch new vehicles. How do you, the vehicle, find meaning? I think we just have to survive, rely on an unexplainable sense of right and wrong, and act accordingly. You heard through the grapevine, Berry, that the foggy period ends when you hit thirty. "I figure you probably realize by then that all your options are really variations of the same theme i.e. how do you gamble your way out?" How prescient of you, I am amazed! That is exactly what I ended up saying, and I am 29 years and 10 months old (end of suspense). In a few weeks, I'll let you know if the foggy period ended, or if it's really just the beginning. Who am I? These SELEDA editors have a way of making the toughest questions sound so innocent, as if they are asking "would you like fries with that?" Well, speaking of fries, they say you are what you eat, in which case, right now, I'm room service - burger and fries to be exact, from the kitchen of a California hotel. But seriously, I finished school a few months ago (finally! That's not what I think, I could have stayed in grad school for a couple of more decades, but that's what the expression on people's faces says when I say that I graduated). After more than two decades in school, you'd think I would go out and get a real life, wouldn't you... But nooo... I spend most of my days "playing company" (as in "playing house" or "playing doctor"), working for an embryonic software company which I co-founded. It's hard to summarize but right now, in this early stage, the work is like one big pot, with a strange stew boiling 24 hours a day, that contains everything that I've ever learned, and many things that nobody ever teaches. I do some math, some software, some reading and writing, and talking. Lots of talking, way too much talking. On the phone, conference calls, voice mails, returning calls, making appointments, software demonstrations, dog and pony shows, meetings, meetings, meetings, presentations, pitches, conferences, seminars, blah blah blah. Endlessly re-arranging the same words to explain what we do, in the hope that somehow, some particular sequence of words will make people say "cool! I'll use your stuff" or "wow! Here's some money"... Oh, and sometimes, my job requires me to think, which is nice. Soon I'll also be doing research again and teaching too. And that's about it. (c.f. the shrimp monologue in "Forrest Gump"). Foggy period indeed, Berry. Nemo.
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