Late November, after all the turkeys have been put to rest and the fingerless gloves start to come out of hiding, the Christmas fun train leaves the station. Lights go up, Michael Buble and Mariah Carey tracks are dug up, salt-stained Uggs are pulled out of the closet.
Twice a year, Eid comes around. It's a day of prayer, gratitude, family, food, and Eid moolah (definitely a song title on my never-to-be-released mixtape). Every Eid follows the same format, at least in my household. We roll out of the house in our finest (read: cleanest) clothes for prayer. we come back home to enjoy fabulous meals with family members and close friends (I especially love this part because the leftover food is essentially my lunch/dinner for the next week - #lowprephighreward).
The day usually ends with the ladies upstairs, laughing and gossiping with a biscuit in one hand and coffee in the other. Downstairs, you'll find all the men, lounging around, their voices booming; drowning out the BBC commentator on television.
However, in between the prayer and glorious lunch, there's always a lull. My mother will walk over to her tattered phonebook, filled with numbers, slightly faded, from all across the globe. From Geneva to Mogadishu, from London to San Jose. An aunt here. An uncle there. A cousin or two over here. Hey, here's that friend of your cousin that gave you a hug when you were 5! You gotta give her a call as well. So we do. Hours and hours pass. My parents are both smiling, laughing, and speaking rapid-fire Somali in their booming outdoor voices while sprawled out on our couch. Eventually, the phone makes its way to me.
I love my grandmothers, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends. I love trying to maintain these connections while establishing my own.
I dread this moment every single time.
This time, it's my grandmother living with my rebelling/troubled cousin in Stockholm. As I take the phone from my mother, this overwhelming sense of self-disgust consumes me. I can't stand myself.
"Hello, ayayo (grandmother)?"
I proceed to have a 30 second conversation with her. The same 30 second conversation I've had with her on the phone every time for the past decade or so.
Same words.
Same responses.
Same phrases.
This now-20-year-old boy/man-child/grown-ass dude can barely speak Somali at a kindergarten level. I try to add depth. I try to at least perfect the accent, hoping that I can sound semi-respectable. No luck.
"Hi. How are you? How is everyone? I wish you all the best. Bye."
Done. Just like that. I can hear the resignation in her voice as she wishes me the best in school. It's as if she still holds out hope that I will eventually grasp the language and connect with her on a deeper level.
It kills me.
It destroys me that I avoid contact with my family members abroad solely out of embarrassment. I hate it. The only connections I have with my Somali culture and heritage is my name and my face. That's it. None. I'm a Canadian who just happens to be of Somali descent.
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And that's cool with me.
I could do without the tribalism and incessant backbiting that cripples my community.
However, we could use more inter-connectivity
We could use more sense of community; more looking out for each other.
Fortunately, for me, these are the values I remember and recall when I think of "Somali culture". These are the values and ideals I'll pass down to my future children.
Of course, I'd also value a little more of that Eid moolah.
