It’s been a while since I’ve been compelled to write a personal non-running post and Trump’s hyperactive reign as president has made me weary about where America is headed. There isn’t a lot I can do from this side of the planet except share (online and IRL). This blog turns FIVE this month so now is as good a time as any to tell the Bambi story.

My father was one of many Lebanese teens who traveled to the States in the early 80s, in the midst of the Lebanese Civil War. Dad ranked 4th in his promotion, like all Lebanese parents claim to have done, and took intensive English classes upon arrival in the land of the free. He enrolled in community colleges, eventually in a California state school, and was studying to be an electrical engineer. He met my Protestant blonde mommy “at a disco,” as they say. After a few months, some songs left on answering machines, and a wedding in Las Vegas, my parents were wed before either of them had hit 24. Baba was still a masters student at the time and had planned on working for NASA’s JPL but alas, we make plans and Allah laughs.

AND THEN I CAME ALONG

When I was a curly-haired munchkin growing up in Southern California, you could probably say that I identified as white. I went to private elementary schools that encouraged acceptance. My mom told me Bible bedtime stories, we celebrated every holiday, and dad told me Imam Ali words of wisdom. I attended a public middle school in a rich school district of an artsy gay-friendly town where 6th graders were taught about major religions and their core structures. If anything, I learned more about Islam from that history class than from my own Muslim dad. My mother’s family, technically white, was also full of mixed heritages due to my uncles and aunts marrying into every background and minority. My point is, I grew up in an environment that fostered tolerance and education but I also kinda grew up white. I didn’t know I was different because I hadn’t discovered that part of my identity. If anything, I had rejected it because Lebanon was still that tiny place where teta lived which sometimes had electricity but always had humidity (some things never change).

It wasn’t until I had moved to Lebanon at the formative age of 13, that I realized my Arab genes rendered me as an ethnic caucasian. Although white is an ethnicity, when anything is described as “ethnic,” it means it’s anything that isn’t white. It was only after I embraced my third-culture kid upbringing that I saw that my olive skin and dark features meant I was not white, that I was going to forever walk the tightrope of dual nationality and the respective stereotypes that each one came with.

After 9/11, being Arab became even more pronounced in my sense of who I was especially when it was stigmatized and automatically linked to terrorism. Instead of wanting to shy away from that part of me, I wanted to hold on tighter and make it known what being an Arab really meant, what living in Lebanon was actually like, and coming to terms with what being an Arab-American citizen allowed for me but not for others.

During the summer after graduating from high school, I had my first taste of violence due to a 34-day war with Israel. My family and I were displaced and we lost our home. The bombings that started with Rafik Hariri’s assassination, the invasions in neighboring countries, our deaths that were somewhat dismissed globally. All these events revealed a disheartening reality that your worth as a human, at least according to the media and the West, was very dependent on geography. Acts of terror in both my nations would repeatedly show me who I was in relation to the rest of the world.

BEING CHRUSLIM IN LEBANON

A friend of mine, also a product of a mixed marriage, had introduced me to this term which I thought was a perfect moniker for a situation that most can’t relate to. It also made my answer to, so what are you? take on an approachable tone. It made it easy for me to talk about and it made it easy for people to feel like they could ask for more. I love that I have a moral compass that was constructed from being exposed to two religions. I can understand both without being tied to a strict system of beliefs and although I would not say that I’m a particularly religious person, I’m principled in how I approach life while being accepting of others’ different approaches.

Living in Lebanon where religion is very present (too present some would argue), also pushed this appreciation for my mixed background further because I was able to blend in easily regardless of what sect someone identified with. The generalized misconception is that kids grow up confused not knowing what to believe in. In my case though, I grew up looking at religion as a source of guiding comfort for all rather than another source of division for the few.

AS A WOMAN IN THE MIDDLE EAST

In a household of 3 girls, we were empowered by our parents. Being a woman was never portrayed as a disadvantage. We were told that the world would treat us differently and that society would have unfair expectations of us because we were female. But we were also told that our gender should never be a factor that should keep us from being everything we wanted to be. Dad pushed us to be no-bullshit, no-drama girls who can do anything a boy can do. Mom showed us how to do it with compassion and patience.

I’ve been influenced by examples of sister strength throughout my young adult life. My education track exposed me to some of the most fierce ladies in the country. With all the top researchers of my pre-med days in AUB being female to the best design professors also being tough XX-chromosome cookies. From Dr. Nada Sinno of AUB’s bio department to Dr. Yasmine Taan, the woman responsible for bringing design to LAU, I was not under the impression that women couldn’t do it all.

This only continued as I entered the workforce. From my part-time job at LAU’s communications office which was 90% female to Leo Burnett Beirut where I worked on a 100% female team of 5 rockstar creatives led by Yasmina Baz, I had an ecosystem that made me forget about glass ceilings. When I had asked around about her, Yasmina had been described to me as the creative director with a Midas touch because everything she was involved in turned to gold. She showed me how to be meticulous with your work and confident with your ideas. She knew how to be firm yet kind. My second boss there, Betty Francis, a regional hair care guru, put life’s priorities into perspective and taught me self-respect in how you conduct yourself with others. I’d never imagined that advertising was still a MadMen’s world because of all the badass talent I had been surrounded with during my time at Leo. Burnett’s Beirut office is loaded with strong female role models in an international industry that is a male-dominated scene. On top of that, both my ladybosses taught me that you don’t have to choose one or the other, that the working mom wasn’t a myth of the Western workaholic world. You could climb the corporate ladder, find your person, and build something worth working for: a family.

AMERICA IN BEIRUT

I joke that the family empire I’m involved in now is a reflection of my parents’ marriage: bridging the worlds that they are each part of and fueling both economies while injecting food into whatever we do. I know that my experiences are mine alone and that average immigrant offspring have not lived my life but Lebanon has shown me that being exposed to diversity is a necessity while America has shown me what diversity can do in a nurturing environment. America’s mixture, not just of foreign doctors and scholars, but of average Joes and blue collar workers from all over is why, to the rest of the world, the USA represents possibility. Immigrants, whether refugee or not, are people looking for opportunity to succeed. One may arrive to start a falafel chain and another may become an engineer, marry a blonde lady, and sell beef jerky for a living after returning to the homeland. In the end, all immigrants are survivors, whether they’re fighting to stay alive or fighting to live with dignity. They are all people with stories to tell.

Their wedding photo is a Polaroid.

I’m proud of my nationalities and my parents because they shaped me into a tolerant, determined individual who just happens to be female. I love that the American ideals are being defended but I wish this fury was around when US foreign policy had been affecting these same banned (and unbanned) populations on their own soil. Perhaps the only positive effect that has resulted from Trump’s presidency is that the public are now scrutinizing every action being taken and order being made. There is a thirst for truth and knowledge that is unlike the complacency that was the status quo of late. As Jon Stewart said, maybe Trump will make America great again but not in the way he thought he would. He’ll make it great again by showing that Americans will stand by our pledge of allegiance that we recited to the stars & stripes every morning: one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

I’m currently delayed in Barcelona El Prat airport due to snowstorms in Istanbul so it’s the perfect time to get back on the blog track to discuss the irrational but real anxieties that overcome travellers. Or just me.

Baggage Weight
I would love to travel without the worry of overweight baggage charges but alas, I overpack shoes. And purchase more shoes. I wish I could say that this fear is restricted to the 23kg suitcase but my carry-on is also a source of stress since my ancient Macbook is a hefty 4kg baby in a 3kg carseat. Add that all together and you’ve got enough weight left for…3 pencils and 2 tubes of lipstick. BUT YOU CAN’T CHECK IT IN, THAT’S MY CHILD.

Meet UnCute
IF you manage to look semi-attractive, you will NEVER run into another attractive human in an airport. You will only run into your soulmate when you look like ass or as I like to call it, I woke up like dis…every 23 minutes for 6 hours straight. Peppermint tea helps with the bloating. You’re welcome.

Dirty Bathrooms
This doesn’t need an explanation. This isn’t even irrational. Just ew.

Misaligned Passport Stamps
Would it kill Passport Control to think about my passport pages as artwork? Of course it would because that’s a ridiculous request only a designer would make. But if you’re going to layer or stamp next to another stamp, can you try to do it in a studied way? Or not, that’s fine. I’ll just wait ten years, get a new one, and visit this country again when you’re replaced by robots. I know, that probably means we won’t have paper documents by then but let me hold on to this. It’s all I have.

The Cloud
Fluffy white marshmallows in the sky are shutting down airports. You planned to fly in tonight and snow is like nah. I want to crack dark jokes but only when I land safely at my final destination. Not that final destination. Here comes the anxiety. Posting this so I can go pray. I love you all.

With twenty-one days left of twenty-sixteen, a recap is in order before I blow the lights out on it. I find myself experiencing a block when it comes to creativity on all fronts – including writing – so Bambi’s Soapbox will be on hiatus until 2017, after revisiting Barcelona for a week.

After joining the family empire last year, the borders of my professional and personal life are now blurred to the max. I leave the store only to go home and have dinner with my bosses, discuss orders, and be reminded of a task I haven’t started. Even when away from my desk, my today-at-work stories involve my parents and the most exciting news I have to share is an arrival of limited edition Oreos. I do feel a sense of accomplishment when introducing brands to the market here; I slave away to find winners and playing brand manager & creative simultaneously is as satisfying as it is exhausting.

The thing that’s toughest about that scenario? The noise. Internally. Incessant mental knock-knock of thought. It’s like having your identical twin poke at your temples for 6 hours straight, laugh, and then do it for another 6. You always have to be on, ready to compose an email, pitch an idea, or recommend a solution. And because our kitchen is also a conference room, there’s no SPACE where the brain can decompress. Running was my safe haven and the Christmas season has deprived me of that. I can feel the tightness of burnout creeping back into the ball of my neck.

From a post in January 2016

2016, the Year of Realizing Stuff
I have yet to learn where my tipping point is when it comes to stress levels as I have reached burnout multiple times and doubt that it won’t happen again in the new year. I do know, however, that the burnout isn’t exclusively linked to the amount of work but more to the nature of it.

I miss being a full-time maker. I miss production shoots. I miss having lead and ink-stained fingers after getting lost in sketching. A masters workshop in Rome had me hand-lettering at 3am surrounded by a Prosecco bottle and pencil shavings. I signed up for it because I needed to create beyond that of an orange shopping cart. Alas, one workshop a year is not enough. It is not a passion I have cut out enough energy for.

I have yet to fall in love with Beirut again but that’s because I never fell out of love with her in the first place. But I do feel like this relationship hasn’t been one of equals. When will you start to love me back?

I met people who made me indirectly question where I’m at, further convincing me that sometimes you cross paths with others briefly and their sole purpose is to give you a wake-up call, a shove, or a shake. You get comfortable; then, X punches a hole in your autopilot so you can go back into manual.

Is this what I want? Where am I going? 

I haven’t seen the light because the end of the tunnel keeps moving with every recalibration. I will optimistically say that I’ve been hitting the bumper instead of rolling into the gutter but where I’ll hit next is what keeps me up at night.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hncWOZawsWo

This year has shown me nothing except this (which also happens to be an anthem dad recites on repeat): time is our most limited resource. Whether it’s the time we need to strike through lines of our to-do lists, the time that evaporates under jasmine vines in Jbeil, or the time that we want to freeze because the porcelain plates of our existence are spinning in unison on stilts and if we stand still, nothing will fall and nothing will flee. Time is what we will always want but never be easily granted.

Three weeks left.
Take your time.

This is the 9th installment from the BambiRunsBey42K biweekly series covering the marathon training journey with NRC Beirut.

But first, the NYC Marathon
Last Sunday, NYC held its 46th marathon. It’s the largest in the world (+50K runners) and the course runs through the five boroughs of the city. The first marathon in 1970 ran through Central Park and only had 55 finishers. Paul Fetscher, a 70-year old who’s run the NYC Marathon 45 times, says, “even though it’s 50,000 people, it’s the small, personal moments that define it.” 

MasterChef judge and co-owner of Eataly, Joe Bastianich participated, finishing at 04:08:25. He once said, “Quite honestly, it is so easy to overindulge when you are around food all day. You have to find balance. If your work sets you up to consume unnecessary calories, you have to be smart and find a way to burn it off.” He gets me. #Wesleys

The Beirut Marathon
Don’t underestimate our little city. The Beirut Marathon is a silver label marathon which means the International Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF) has deemed it as one of the “leading road races around the world.” The IAAF are the UN of sports and started in 1912, the same year the Titanic sank. That’s a completely irrelevant connection but I used to be obsessed with Titanic facts before Leo had anything to do with it. I’m still trying to reconcile that that was not a waste of brainspace. Anyway, Wikipedia calls the IAAF the international governing body for the sport of athletics so the silver label is like university accreditation or our marathon being knighted by the Queen. Now we know who to talk to about a Quidditch World Cup.

PC: Dima Abdallah 

Training is Over
We’ve been playing it safe these last two weeks, keeping our blood flowing without stressing too hard before M-day. We had our last 15K run and, in that last loop back from Sporting, I saw what my favorite part of every run is: when I pass other teammates already making their way back to the start. It may have been that mixed with the relief that training was over but I made a new 10K PR, even if just by a few seconds. It was a good day to do so because I feel ready for tomorrow’s 21.

Even though we’ll be together before and after, I’ll miss seeing all those faces on the marathon track; it’s a circle and 21K & 42K start at different times. I’m sure the cheering stations will take over on that front but it’s a whole other kind of warm&fuzzy when your team’s champs are calling you out by name. It’s similar to that 1 person who offers you their hand to help you get up off the ground only multiplied by 60. There’s a bond that has formed, a kind of solidarity between us that can only come from growing/suffering together. That’s what happens when you spend so much time with strangers while you’re in a raw state and they may be the only other people who understand why you decided to sign up for this unnecessary challenge. They see you without the power suit, the makeup, and the bling that makes you your glossy civilian self. They’re not strangers anymore, they’re your podium holding you up. They’re that safety net that will catch you when you fall. They’re the voices cheering louder than the one that’s begging you to stop. They’re your team and they’ve got you.

I’m partially grateful that I had to shift to the half because now I’ll be there to see every pack42 runner, who will then all be marathoners, cross that finish line after I’ve trudged through my own 21 kilos.

Don’t forget your socks.

I’ve watched you bust your asses every week, pushing through injuries, sacrificing Saturday nights, and drowsily dragging yourselves out to a Mar Mikhael parking lot every Sunday morning for four months. No matter the outcome or the time it takes you to do it, you’ve made it here. The marathon is just another Sunday morning that you will unlock and conquer.

Get your mantras on repeat during those last few kilometers, even the last 192 meters between the 42K pillar and the finish line at Martyrs Square. Fight through the fatigue but listen to your body when it needs fuel/water/encouragement. Conserve for the distance left to go but don’t let it weigh heavy on your chest. Feed off the energy of the crowd to keep lifting your feet up after every step but hold your head even higher because you have fought for this and you’re winning. Unleash the inner beast. It’s one more day.

Pacer Moe! (PC: Marc Tanas)

I agree with our veteran NRC pacer, Moe Marhamo, when he said that it feels like he’s going to cross that finish 62 times in a row. I’m so proud of you, my wou7oush, and I can’t wait for all those sweaty hugs tomorrow.