I have two very distinct memories 

From my time in Palestine 

As a child one is seeing the wall 

The other

Reaching out of a window 

To pick the most delicious peach 

From my uncle’s tree and

Sharing it with my father

I was ten

I’ve never returned but

I will always remember

My grandparents left their home in Nazareth in 1967 to seek a better life in Beirut, later immigrating to Oklahoma City. But far from American was their way of being. My teita had two extra freezers and an additional refrigerator in the garage. She woke before the sun rose every morning to make a decadent breakfast spread, always humming as she cooked. When we would drive off to return to my hometown of Louisville, Kentucky, Teita would always stand outside and wave until we were out of sight. We cried each time. Their home gave me  an incredible sense of belonging. I reflect on their life’s intricacies in this work; disparate and difficult to mirror in totality, but tethered to Palestine as a whole. 

There are few things I am as proud of as being Palestinian. 

Let my existence be a pure form of resistance. 

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