You Exist Too Much

by Zaina Arafat

It occurred to me in that moment to question why, as a man, his bare legs were somehow less troubling than mine. It was a double standard, a shame I had simply accepted until then. In acquiring my gender, I had become offensive.

“Your worries are like water,” she often

said. “The moment one flows out, another floods in to fill the space.”

Without the security of a relationship, longing felt less safe. It felt lonely.

If my mother was Hamas—unpredictable, impulsive, and frustrated at being stifled—my father was Israel. He’d refuse to meet her most basic needs until she exploded. Then he would point at her and cry, “Look at what a monster she is, what a terror!” But never once did he consider why she had resorted to such extreme tactics, or his role in the matter.

This time she burst out laughing, her laugh throaty, then she mouthed, “elephant shoe.” I had taught her that trick, that when you mouth those words, it looks like I love you.

“Parenting is like piano lessons,” she tells me. “It’s not always something you know you want, but no one ever regrets it.”