The coming of two hands

Identity in quarantine

From the kitchen, I can hear my dad sing an Arabic song that he made up. Mama is in the living room: Arabic soap operas blare from the TV and are as customary throughout the day as a ticking clock. Later my brother will show me the newest rap song. In quarantine my parent’s culture surrounds me like a blanket. I’ve never felt so Egyptian and American at the same time, without the usual feeling of needing to chose one identity over the other or be embarrassed of one depending on where I am. Gone is the feeling of being on a seesaw. Inside of me are the coming of two hands.