Family gatherings

Today I made the decision to not stay at SeSoBEL during the afternoon, and I will now be coming to and from my house in Salaata every day for this week.  This was a pretty weighty decision — I was enjoying my time with the French volunteers and the drive is an hour and a half one-way.  However, my brother and father are in Lebanon now, and there is nothing more than I want to do than spend time with them in a country we all split in unique ways.

Families gather in many different ways.  Today, my uncles and their family brought my father, brother, Teta and I to the same restaurant in order to “break the fast.”  It was a night filled with delicious food and beautiful culture, as expected:

I left this restaurant with a satisfied palette and dissatisfied heart.  The table rambled for hours about how great the food was, how beautiful the restaurant was, how unique the experience was.  But that was not what I wanted.  I had not chosen to leave SeSoBEL for fancy restaurants and expensive cuisine.  I had chosen to leave SeSoBEL to get to know a family in a magnificent country — both of which I feel more connected to than ever before.

As we left the restaurant, I was certainly feeling disappointed.  As the fatigue from our food settled in during our thirty minute trip back to our house, the topic of my Jeda (grandfather) wafted into the dark air.  I never knew my Jeda very well.  He died when I was thirteen-years-old.  I had never held a long conversation with him.  I had never seen him for more than a week at a time.  When I was told he had died of heart failure, I sat in my room for an hour and tried to make myself sad.  But it was like mourning for a stranger.

However, I was now hearing stories about my Jeda in this short car ride home.  Stories about how he was offered positions as CEOs for companies in other countries where he could write his own checks.  Stories about how he would walk around his chemical plant and workers would warn another as to when he would arrive so they were caught working at their best.  Stories about how he made much less money than he could have because he gave so much back to his workers at the end of the day.  Stories about how his funeral was filled with thousands of people — all ready to pass along more stories of my Jeda.

I thought of what I had just learned about this man, and then I thought about what I knew about my dad.  A heart surgeon that could finish a surgery faster than anyone else in Georgia.  A man who had rejected offers to work at other, more prestigious hospitals.  A man who struck fear into the hearts of any person brave enough to enter his operating room.  A man who his known in his hospital for his skill, for his durability, for his passion.  A man who is known to give everything to his patients and to his staff alike.

There are many similarities I now see between these two men.  Two men that I am getting to know in this country.  Two men that I realize have created a legacy.  Two men that I hope to emanate in the future — as a Wanna who now understands this Lebanese family.

The pictures of food are great.  The parties are a lot of fun.  The kids make me happier than I could ever make them.  But the reason I came to Lebanon is for stories like this; stories about roots, stories about legacy, stories about family.

 

What is the most embarrassing story your parents tell other about your childhood?

When I was about ten-years-old, I was addicted to a TV show called Zoids (if you have heard of this show, please comment so I can be your friend and reminisce with a fellow fan [we are a dying breed…]).  My siblings and I found out that the season finale for this show was going to be on a weekday at 5:00… in the morning.  Negating school and sleep, we did not hesitate to set our alarms for 4:50 AM.  However, I was SO excited to see this finale (caps lock are required) that I woke up at 4:00 AM.  Not wanting to be alone, I forced all of my siblings to get up, walk downstairs with me, and wait for the glorious hour to arrive.  Unfortunately for us, our mom happened to hear the TV on at 4:00 in the morning.  Furious, she came out of her room and demanded to know what we were doing.  I explained to her with all the enthusiasm a child can have at such an unGodly hour (which is surprisingly a good amount) that this was basically the most important event of our lives.  She looked at me, looked at my siblings, looked at me, and told me to go back to my room.  No Zoids.  I was (and still am) crushed.  And may still shed a blushed tear every time she tells the story at a family gathering…