Day Five

Merhaba!

I think I've found my favorite place in Amman, already. It's called Shara Al-Rainbow or Rainbow street, and it's the oldest area in Amman. Located near Jabel Amman, the first families moved to this place in about 1926. The late King Hussein was born, raised, and educated in this part of the city, and two different governments were formed there. The picture you see here was taken on a patio roof of a little place called JARA Cafe. JARA stands for the Jabel Amman Residents Association. This group of citizens formed out of a shared concern for the preservation of this historic part of Amman. They are both a lobbying group and a historical society who tries to protect old Jordanian buildings on Shara Al-Rainbow from being swallowed up in the torrent of incoming development.

My second favorite place in Jordan as of right now is definitely my new home. It's in a relatively nice area in Amman called Arabiya (I think?) right next to the Chinese and Israeli embassies. My Jordanian family is pretty small in comparison to some of my other SIT compatriots. There are four of us living in the house in toto right now. My father, Samir, lived in the U.S. for seven years, working for the apparently world famous gas company Shell. When I first heard this I thought perhaps he worked as some sort of petroleum mogul, especially since his wife, Nadia, her cousin helps run the company. But listening to him talk about the sort of work he did, stocking soda, selling cigarettes, I've come to realize that he was more like a convenient store clerk/owner in the Shell headquarters in Cleveland, Ohio. Quite a different picture than the one I had painted in my mind.

When I walked into the house for the first time, I was welcomed by a warm and friendly voice that was frantically shouting my name: "Tony! Tony! Tony! Where is Tony!" I heard. In comes this modest-looking older, Arab man with a smile that his face was struggling to accommodate. He immediately grabbed my hand saying "Ahlan wasahlan! (Welcome)" Then he became quite stern and looking me directly in the eye he firmly said, "You are my new son." Then smiling again: "Now, let's eat. Come to the kitchen; I want to show you."

What I saw upon entering the kitchen was a relatively spacious room with granite counters and cold tile floors. He walked me over to the table on which sat something that looked like a rice cooker. But when he took off the lid there was clearly much more than rice inside. This dish his wife had so apparently slaved over was called 'upside down' in English. I can't remember the name in Arabic. And it was called this because it was a classic one-pot dish that one flipped over to release the delicious panoply of tomatoes, onions, chicken, and so much more it had inside. After briefly explaining the ingredients and the cooking process, the show began!

He hurriedly ran over to grab a very large plate. Then he took out the bowl-like container in the rice cooker, placed the plate on top of it, and in one fluid motion flipped everything over. Then, with a few taps on the side of the rice-cooker bowl, he lifted it to reveal an effusive, delicious-smelling mass of food that cascaded down over itself to fill the plate.

Now it was time to eat.

After the usual polite exchanges inquiring about my trip and first impressions of Jordan, the more intimate questions began. As expected, we eventually moved to the topic of my background and ethnicity. Their guesses: Asian, not Indian, maybe Fillipino. Also, you should know that this issue was quickly resolved by my SIT compatriots with a not-so-unfamiliar series of questions over an enjoyable argeeleh (hookah in Turkish) session:

Where are you from?

I say: Memphis

No where is your family from?

I say: Memphis and D.C., all over really.

No, where are your roots?

I say: Do you mean, why am I brown?

With a chuckle: Yes.

This wasn't exactly the series of questions that my homestay family asked, but you get the general idea. However, unlike my fellow SITers, my homestay father, was particularly fond of Black people. (He had spent a great deal of time with a number of them in the states.) Upon hearing that one of my parents is Black, he excitedly stuck his fist out, zealously declaring "Pound!" I imagine it had been years since he could do that and have someone respond appropriately.

Issues of race have always intrigued me, but they seem to be skirted over or completely ignored in very serious ways here. I've seen several people who appear to be phenotypically Black, but the only attention paid to racial/ethnic difference in this country so far has consisted of a very clear line of demarcation drawn between individuals who are ethnically Palestinian and those who are ethnically Jordanian or there is the even clearer line of racial demarcation drawn between middle to upper class Jordanians and their South Asian house servants. It's amazingly interesting how this subversive or perhaps blatant color-blidness runs as deep but perhaps deeper here than in the states and how a defining sign of affluence here is having a foreign work-force perform your household chores, again quite reminiscent of home.

As time passes, these categories of difference: religion, nationality, culture--all but fade away and I begin to realize that the Jordan I have seen is not all-too much different from the U.S. I know and love.

Anyhow, now I must go watch Texas Chainsaw Massacre with my homestay brother Ehab. He's about 22, an aspiring accountant, and a lover of romance, drama, and horror movies. He doesn't like action very much. It's the guns.

To be continued.

Ma'salaama