Driving north on the 101 freeway on a foggy December day in 1981, we exit to fill the car with fuel. My father sees a coffee shop, and in an unusual move, decides to stop—we never stopped for drinks; we didn’t buy on the road; we always brought our own. Our thermoses full of tea and hot water, our coolers filled with Iraqi food that shamed me in public. We never stopped for drinks on excursions; we had no such custom, not only because we were poor, but we had not yet absorbed American travel habits.
Living in Orange County in the ‘80s, my father had the idea to take us on a fishing expedition from one lake to another around Santa Barbara. We went fishing because my dad loved fishing, we went camping because my dad loved camping, we went adventuring all around California because my dad loved adventuring around California. As poor immigrants we had two choices: motels or camping. I hated both. Once my parents discovered camping was cheaper, we began to slowly accumulate camping gear: tent, Coleman camping cooker, coolers, lamps, folding chairs, futons. Yet, horribly, we couldn’t even camp like normal Americans with their sandwiches, burgers, hot dogs, steaks. No, we had to draw attention to ourselves by bringing a big old pot of dolma, a dish of stuffed vegetables and grape leaves, that my mom would heat over the camp gas cooker, and the box of water kettles, teapots, tea, sugar, and powdered Coffee-mate that had to be lugged from the station wagon to the campsite.
But these inconveniences were little compared to what I hated most: the feeling of not belonging in America.
Read the full essay at Providence Magazine.