My immigrant dad was the embodiment of America.

As so many are. Because that is who WE are.

“We have become not a melting pot but a beautiful mosaic. Different people, different beliefs, different yearnings, different hopes, different dreams.”

-President Jimmy Carter

My dad was my whole world.

I remember thinking as a little girl, how massive his hand felt when holding mine. His palms were scratchy. His knuckles were worn. His thick fingers calloused from top to bottom because he was always working on something.

He loved to visit the Middle Eastern markets in Paterson whenever he could. And I would ALWAYS go with him. I remember clutching his hand tightly as we made our way through the crowded aisles. His reassuring grip anchoring me to something amidst all of that vibrant chaos.

The air was thick with the mingling aromas of cumin, coriander and cardamom wafting from shelves piled high with a kaleidoscope of spices that looked to my child’s eye like a painter's palette.

Dad’s hand was warm and steady, guiding me through that enchanting maze. I felt a sense of belonging there which I couldn’t really name or explain. Every corner seemed to hold a story of my family history still waiting to be uncovered. Looking back at it now, the beauty around me—the laughter, the colors, the scents—it feels as if I was walking through a dream, hand in hand with my father, exploring the heart of an exotic yet familiar world filled with wonder and warmth.

Dad would point to the sumac he wanted, making sure it was on a shelf low enough I could reach. I’d add it to the cart, glance up at him, catch a proud smile, and take a hold of his hand again. A few jars of the good grape leaves as I came to think of them, because they were softer than the ones from grandma’s backyard, and easier to eat. Tahini, bulgur, rose water, barberry, dried fenugreek and fava beans went in too.

They kept the pickles and the olives towards the back. The rich, earthy, nutty aroma of the Kalamatas and Arbequinas grew stronger as we approached. They were kept beside other varieties in great big wooden barrels which were taller than I was at the time.

It never mattered that we had tasted every single one of them a thousand times over before, dad would still hand me a toothpick and ask me to point to which one I wanted first.

I always chose the dry cured black ones. Looking back at it now, I think I knew that I wanted to go as big as possible with that first bite. A reward for helping him shop so well through those dizzying aisles filled with all that cigarette smoke.

Toothpick after toothpick was handed to me while he chatted away in Arabic with someone I would always act like I knew, but never did.

Before leaving, he’d let me sample the chocolate Halva before pretending as though it was me who had twisted his arm into getting some for home.

Bags of still steaming pita were last. And those never survived the long car ride home.

I can see the drive home so clearly still… my dad’s hands on the wheel as I sat in the front seat with the window down, tearing the fresh, doughy pita, feeling the wind in my hair, and enjoying every single second of time I got to spend alone with him.

I was the youngest of five you see, so those moments were few and far between. But I was the one who would always jump to join him any time he had to so much as run an errand.

Being with dad meant that I was safe. That I was ok. That I was with the strongest, toughest, smartest, most incredible man in all the world.

And he was with me.

Being with him made me feel proud. To my mind, my dad was a superhero. Not the kind in a cape of course, but the kind who took custody of his 5 kids during a time when men simply did not do that.

I was proud of being Lebanese. I loved the boisterous family parties we used to have. Everyone there was my dad’s “cousin”. Dozens of stunningly beautiful, olive-skinned, raven haired, red-lipped, impeccably dressed women I knew as my “aunts” floated and danced around effortlessly replenishing plates of food while black-haired, almond-eyed, bearded men played backgammon, smoked cigarettes and playfully offered all of us kids a sip of that nasty, milky, licorice drink I hated with a passion, but endured because my facial expressions amused them so.

I loved everything about it. But I didn’t ever see it as separate in any way from the backyard barbecues my dad would hold for his colleagues at the military base. My dad loved his heritage, and he loved America.

He loved being an American.

He worked for the Department of Defense for his entire career. He was an engineer. And he was so damn proud of his work. The base where he worked was my second home. He was raising us largely alone, so in the summers, we went with him when he went to work at 7am. We waited outside the pool until it opened at 10. Mostly torturing each other, but I was lucky to have found the fallen pinecones to be particularly distracting. We did that every day all summer long, until the 5:00 cannon forced us out of the pool, and dad would emerge with cocktail napkins of chips and cheese from the officer’s club.

He cried during the anthem. He choked up during fireworks. He modeled a deep respect for our military, and a profound gratitude for our freedom.

He may have been born in Lebanon, but my dad was as American as they come.

Today, I cry during the anthem. I get choked up during fireworks. I have a deep respect for our military and I am profoundly grateful for our freedom.

I am so proud to be Lebanese.

And I am so, so proud to be an American.

The America I love is the one which opened its arms to my dad. But it’s also the one that sees its own failings and works to correct them.

And while I know this country has never been everything I’ve known for everyone, and that there is much work to do, I also know that we will never get there with people like Donald Trump out there trying to tear us apart.

And I know that his fear mongering, xenophobic, hateful lies have taken a hold of a great many people here. They’ve re-taken roots time has worked very fucking hard to remove.

That’s how authoritarians work.

But my dad believed this country was special. That the people were special. He believed in our strength and in our resilience.

And because of him, I do too.

I believe we will meet the moment we are being forced to contend with. I believe that right will prevail. I believe that inside of each and every one of us is an immigrant story like mine.

And my greatest hope is that we will overcome this darkness and triumph over the evil that is Trumpism. Together.

I’m not just hopeful, I’m sure of it.

And when we do, I’m gonna have the biggest goddamn party with the most icky black licorice drink the world has ever seen.

And then we can raise a glass to the future. A future where we’ll find a still steaming bag of pita bread at a backyard barbecue right beside the burgers and dogs.

We are a nation of immigrants.

We are far from perfect, but I fundamentally believe we are still pretty damn special.

Immigrants have so much to do with that.

And anyone who says otherwise, can fuck all the way off. They don’t get to exclude anyone.

A certain future President said it best:

“The American dream belongs to all of us.”

— Vice President Kamala Harris

My dad came here as a boy, and he embodied those words. I refuse to let him down now. So, I’m going to keep fighting. I know that’s what he would want me to do.

I may not be able to physically hold his hand anymore, but I feel him guiding me all the same.

Love you dad.

Miss you terribly.

You raised a fighter who loves this country like you did.

And we’re gonna be ok.

I just know it.