And yet, in the U.S. I’m just as much of an outsider. Even though America is built upon the idea of assimilation, a so-called melting pot, we Arabs stand out. As a child I was made starkly aware of our nonconformity when my friends would come over and ask why my parents were going out to dinner at nine p.m.—on a Tuesday. Why wasn’t my mother wearing mom jeans, but rather, formfitting leather Moschinos? Why did my father call me “daddy” and speak to me half in English, half in Arabic? At the time, they found it funny and harmless to tease me about my otherness; they’d even call me “the terrorist,” which I laughed along with, not fully processing nor having the courage to resist the insidious danger of such “jokes,” ones that just a few years later would be deemed microaggressions or else blatant hate speech. Back then, to be different was simply a bad thing; diversity wasn’t yet something to celebrated, and being white was necessary if not sufficient for coolness. The white girls basked in the light while the rest of us suffered quietly in the lunchroom corners and bore our lot. The best we could hope to achieve was camaraderie among ourselves, united in our outcast status. It is a bizarre and unsettling feeling, to exist in a liminal state between two realms, unable to attain full access to one or the other.

“Fifty dollars is the price of the camel itself,” my mother said.

“So, technically, I own the camel.”

“Technically, yes,” she said. “Make sure you declare it at customs!”

•

I felt flustered by the group’s accusation. I told them that I wasn’t trying to be condescending, that I didn’t think I was better than anyone. “Besides, why do you care what I think?” I asked.

“Great question!” Richard said, and winked at me. “Why do you care? Do you always need everyone’s approval?”

Sometimes his explicit assessments were annoyingly astute.

IN COLLEGE, AFTER THINGS ENDED WITH KATE, I couldn’t make myself straight no matter how hard I tried. And I tried. I slept with as many Lambda Chis as possible, and as they drilled away on top of me, my boredom ever-increasing, I’d close my eyes and picture Kate.