![]() Even though it was entirely willed, uprooting myself from my native Lebanon had thus far been profoundly painful. I had never wanted to be an immigrant but such was my predicament if I wanted to be with him. I had just completed my graduate studies, and was daunted by the prospect of making a meaningful life for myself in America. He was twentytwo years my senior, a brilliant academic with radical politics. I was his third wife, he my first husband. I remember reckoning that his friends could become my new family, and I just might be able to start a new life in this country. For the entirety of the journey, we sang along to classic soul and R&B songs. My husband and I were driving home after a weekend with his friends. My September 10 was a long car ride from Washington, D.C., to New York City on a gorgeous, crisp autumn day. In my short-lived marriage, which came undone a year later, September 10 was a remarkably blissful day. To many, to most, in America and no doubt across the world, September 10 became a metaphor for the quiet before the storm, the serenity of unsuspecting. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |