In the Country of My Dreams...
Synopsis:
Khaled Mattawa
"Elmaz Abinader's In the Country of My Dreams redeems the achievements of a century that has struggled long and hard with tolerance and inclusion. Daughter of immigrants from Lebanon, she sings of their birthplace that she too claims as her own, and of the American landscape she reverently loves and calls home. I salute the arrival of these poems and their author for their expansive compassion and their delicate enduring tenderness."
Book Excerpt:
Preparing for Occupation
This is my place. My territory, Landing strip of my anxieties. Heaven upside down. It’s my place, and I won’t change it for any other. I fell, and I’m not sorry, From Juicio Final, by Blas de Oterotranslated by Hardie St. Martin Buy only short books, ones that read quickly with plotsyou can keep track of when the pounding starts on the door.Drive no nails into the wall, no pictures, no pencil sharpeneror mirror. Your face doesn’t matter any way. You are no one. Teach your children at home. Or leave them idle to wanderthe streets to find a funeral parade; a crowd to join.Use only votive candles so they can burn out before morning.Stash your cigarettes in your pocket. Leave nothingin the cupboards to remind them but a child’s toy. Adopt no pets. Hook up no phones. Print no cards, addresslabels or stationery. Test your batteries daily.All your clothes must be light, in similar colors and never needironing. Your only family heirlooms are habit, memory, name and song. Believe that placing your daughter upon your shoulders will be home enough for her as she feels for something familiar. Avoid meeting the neighbors unless you’ve known themsince birth. Be careful of the bird flirting with you in the yard; one of you may soon fly away. One of you has migratory patterns. You’ve been here thousands of years. But aren’t your peoplenomadic anyway? Can’t you pitch your tent in a groveon the outskirts? Move in with relatives? Cross into anothercountry, clogging the border with shanty towns, waitingto return? I’ve seen you together; you prefer to be together. Because this house bears the prints of your childrenupon the wall, because the kitchen is furrowedfrom your journeys made to the table from the stove, the stove to the table, because the floor is pockedfrom the weight of your davenport, doesn’t mean you can’t move on. The walls have echoed your voices, your sighs floated up to the ceiling and gathered like clouds in a refugee sky. Remember the time your son opened the door so quickly the bulghur flew off the table and around the room? Grains are in the corners still. You will miss nothing: the window that refuses to open,the sputtering light of the refrigerator, the leaking pipein the girls’ room; the cat that crosses the fence in the morning.He is not your family although your recognize him. This is not your town, although you walked its streetson your wedding day. Local water mixes with your blood.This is not your country despite its dust covering your shoes, the songs you have memorized; the poetsyou claim as your own. Don’t look down.Look up. When the geese are passing in their vee formation, join them, tuck your treasures under your wings. From the refugee sky, you can count the bodies below you, examine the shipwreck of your home while others pick
through the remains.
Topics/Categories:
arab, Arab-American, Family, geography, Immigration, Middle East, Midwest, narrative poetry
Genre:
Type of Work:
Publishers:
Awards:
PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Award
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Original Publish Date:
1999-05-30
ISBNs:
0965376427
Formats:
paper
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