August 7
The red-and-white bucket seat rocks back and forth. I place my hands, palms down, on either side of my body to center myself. A cool breeze swirls between my father and me. I suck in the salty air, hopeful that when I blow it out it will release some of my nerves.
“Why are we stopped?” I ask my father, who has both arms stretched out on the back of the seat, his head turned to the ocean. California seems to bring out a different side to him. A more relaxed side. Something I rarely see back home.
“Because, habibti, they have to let people on and off the ride. It’s a slow process, but it’s part of the experience.
” Dad grins as his eyes continue to take in the sights.
The L.A. coastline serves as our backdrop, with a multitude of sailboats in the distance.
Below us, the Santa Monica Pier is tightly packed with tourists, my mom and older sister among them.
The baby blue sky meeting the teal blue of the ocean makes the earth seem, for a moment, endless.
“Feeling like a caged animal is part of the experience?” I mock, my eyes the only part of my body that seem to move at the top of the Ferris wheel.
Dad’s smirk softens into a smile. “We spend most of our lives working toward a goal, for that one moment of glory, and then, just like that”—he snaps his fingers—“the moment is over.”
Our bucket seat rocks again and we jerk down a level.
“Did you hear that? I think maybe we lost a bolt.”
Dad laughs and slides over to my side, nodding at me to remove my hand from the seat. I pry it off and wipe my sweaty palm on my shorts. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he asks, draping an arm around my shoulders.
It’s true. I pushed to go on the Ferris wheel. Mom didn’t want to mess up her hair, and Georgie’s fear of heights stopped her.
We started our day at the beach and spent the afternoon exploring the pier.
My dad, Georgie, and I even reenacted the show opener for Three’s Company, Dad’s favorite show from when he was young.
A show he watched in the basement, away from his strict and conservative parents.
We ate delicious seafood for lunch and took so many pictures that our phones’ batteries collectively drained.
I begged Dad to ride the Ferris wheel even though he was clearly exhausted, and he agreed. For me.
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you were looking forward to a nice, long shower and room service.” My toes wiggle in my flip-flops and granules of sand come loose from the soles of my feet.
“I didn’t bring my family to California just to lie on a hotel room bed. I’m glad you insisted on this.” Dad leans in, and his eyes dart around as if to make sure no one can hear us. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. But you can’t tell anyone.”
I nod, my big brown eyes opened wide to his.
His lips stretch into a wide grin and the skin around his eyes forms multiple crinkles. “You’re my favorite daughter…by a hair,” he says, pulling on a lock of my frizzy black hair.
Dad’s words—though perhaps appeasing or, one might argue, unfair—still manage to light me up from the inside.
We rock again and move down another level as the sun begins its descent.
“What if we can’t find Mom and Georgie once we finally get off this ride?”
“You worry too much,” Dad says, waving me off while clearly taking in the experience much more than I am able to.
“Me?” I point a finger to my chest. “You worry more than anyone I know.”
“You’re right,” he says, with a far-off look in his eyes. “I passed that on to you.”
My father is a big man who puts up a strong front.
He immigrated to Canada with his parents and older brother from Palestine as a child.
In his early twenties, he met and fell in love with my mother on a visit back home.
They married the following year, and she moved to Toronto, where they eventually had two Canadian-born daughters.
By the time he was thirty-five, he’d lost his older brother and both parents—all to cancer.
He turned to music when his brother died, and loves the Beatles, John Lennon especially.
My father is a man of many talents but he pays the bills by working as a chartered accountant.
Our household thrives on rules and structure. And I thrive on making my father happy and proud. I already knew I was his favorite daughter. He didn’t need to tell me. I’m the easy one. I don’t question the rules. I do as I’m told. I seek out his validation. Always have.
Dad shifts in the seat and faces me. I swallow as the unbalanced bucket continues to rock back and forth. “Promise me something.”
“Okay?” I say, looking into his eyes to ground myself, to forget for a moment that I am suspended in air.
“Never forget who you are and where you come from.”
“Dad!” A blush rises to my cheeks. It isn’t often he gets sentimental, but whenever he does, it makes me uneasy.
“I’m serious, Lennon. Next month you’ll be in high school. There will be many temptations. People who want you to break the rules. Boys,” Dad says, heaving a sigh.
“Dad!” I say again, because I don’t know how else to respond.
I’m a few months away from turning fourteen.
Boys are definitely on my radar whereas in the past they’ve only been on the periphery.
But Dad has nothing to worry about. All day today I noticed boys noticing Georgie and other girls.
Girls with long, flowing hair and an unequal skin to clothes ratio.
Not me in my knee-length board shorts and baggy T-shirt.
It’s fine though. It allowed me to do what I do best: observe.
And what I observed was disappointment in my father’s eyes as boys glanced at Georgie’s full chest and bronze skin in her short shorts.
Dad would be so displeased if he knew how much I yearn for at least one boy to look at me the way they look at my older sister.
I want to feel wanted. Special. It’s almost like this need that is engrained deep inside me—to be perceived in a way that would bring shame to both my parents.
And it feels like if I don’t get that need fulfilled soon, I might die.
My father, however, wants something completely different for me.
“You must stay true to who you are and always remember our values. And it wouldn’t hurt if you promised never to love another man more than you love your father.” With those words he laughs, but I don’t.
Instead I nod, while avoiding his stare.
Waves crash against the pier, and people scream in mock horror as the roller coaster below us takes a sharp turn.
In the distance, Nirvana’s “The Man Who Sold the World” plays.
It’s a song I recognize only because of my father’s extensive vinyl collection—which I hope one day to inherit.
My eyes fall, once again, to the part of the ocean that meets the sky. The sun is setting and now the divide between ocean and sky is much starker, not as endless as it once felt.
“Still scared?” Dad asks, pulling me out of my trance.
I shake my head as he settles next to me, throwing his big arm over my shoulders again and pulling me in. “Can you knock on my door…?” he sings, his fading Arabic accent making the theme song for Three’s Company sound even more ridiculous.
“I’ve been waiting for you…” I sing back, both of us mixing up the lyrics so the song can be a duet instead of a threesome. After all, it’s just me and my father up here. And in this moment, no one else in the world matters.