Politically Correct

The politically correct USA census asks who am I?

With the publication of the new USA census this year, I have a confession to make. As you know, most of the questions were straightforward inquiries about my household size, age, education, address and other impersonal stuff, which I didn't mind answering. I was glad to be counted as one of the almost 300 millions Americans who claimed to be alive last year.
There was one question, however, that I couldn't answer and I'm not proud of it.
The life-stirring question was about my race.
The politically correct USA census was kind and sensitive enough to give me the choice to define my own race as I pleased. I paused as my mind went through a crash course of anthropology and gene-politics.
Well let us see, I was born in a small village in northern Egypt, my father was an elementary school teacher, and my mother was the daughter of the school principle who came from another village.
As a son of the "education family" (not Bush's family), as the villagers used to call us (Afandyah), the native villagers rejected me. We didn't farm like they did, we didn't dress like they and according to them, we took more than our share of showers.
Like millions of villagers in Egypt I moved with my family to Cairo, trying to blend and vanish in the big capital city. I was again rejected by city boys, as I seemed to be more provincial and rural mannered. My farmer (fallahin) accent and my personal hygiene seemed to be short of the acceptable frequency and consistence, which singled me out as an easy target of ridicule in the filthy city.

I left for the USA as a very confused 25-year-old young man.
I glanced at the USA census question once more for further help or explanation. Thoughts started roaming through my mind like the gushing blood from a violent video arcade game. What is my race? Am I an Arab, Muslim, Egyptian, or African American?
I'm not sure how to answer. I'm not fully accepted here because I grew up in Egypt. At the same time, I am rejected back home in my birthplace for being tainted by American impurities.
Am I a white American - as most people of Middle Eastern descent are considered by the USA Census? In most people's eyes in the street, supermarkets, and soccer games I understand otherwise. I'm always reminded of my foreign heritage, and I am asked often about my country of origin. Where are you from? they ask. My answer of "Minnetonka" seems to be a touchy answer that usually puts an end to the friendly exchange.
Am I an African American or an Arab American? It's hard for me to say, because I have left these places a long time ago and there is a very good reason for that.
I'm an American citizen. Even though I may look like Saddam Hussein, I never burned an American flag, and I don't know where ben-Ladin is. Instead I try to live in this great country of immigrants, as an American citizen who lives a suburban lifestyle lacking only in an SUV and a dog.
I'm a Muslim who teaches in a Catholic University, married to a Unitarian wife and father of a daughter who seems to have the answers to all the questions that she herself often raises.
Multi-racial marriages and the constant influx of new immigrants every year make the question of my race irrelevant and unnecessary. I don't need the government to remind me of that even if it is only once every ten years.
Minorities experience enough alienation and distrust in the American systems: police, work, athletic departments in school…etc. They are often forced to play the race card in self-defense and our government should not play the same game.
If everyone started raising his or her race card, the American playing field would be a living hell. Even if my race is accepted, then I may be rejected for being a Muslim. Why do we inflict this on each other?

Ahmed Tharwat
4-6-01