"internationalist...yeah, that's not the best name, but..."

6751...er, was it 5761...West San Miguel. It was a chant I learned as a little person to remember my address. It was painted on a rock that we took with us when we moved from my first home. That stone, the last remnant of that fleeting and frivolous confidence that belongs only to innocent children who know, just know, that they are completely secure and completely loved. Ironic, isn’t it, that a rock, symbolically and tangibly, should be my anchor to such an thing, something so dream-like and intangible as a memory. But, it’s a memory that is the foundation of who I am. Isn’t that crazy? We build ourselves on the foundations of a dream of what once was. Yeah. Who needs anything more solid than that. If that isn’t good enough, I don’t think anything can ever be.

As I sit here in this UK-based cafe drinking my Italian espresso served by my new friend, a Philipino barrista, having just left my Egyptian friend, listening to classical European guitar overlapping with the sounds of the morning Islamic prayers piped into the whole shopping center, eating my croissant, I think about that old neighborhood and how it came to be that today, I can feel so utterly content and at home, across the marble, a mere three months new to this place, in a desert less comfortable than my own desert.

I think of the Korean family across the street who inspired the name of one of the first family dogs I can remember: Toki (meaning “rabbit,” apparently), whose counterpart was a cocker spaniel named Yolanda.

I think of my surrogate grandparents, a German couple. They were the ones who, unlike my blood relatives, were there for my first steps. Mr. and Mrs. Jay, who were and still are, in my cloudlike memory, a whimsical but manicured garden with whirly-gig bird mobiles, butterfly collections, the smell of mothballs and the sound of a cuckoo clock.

My mom was friendly with the Puerto Rican lady down the street, until, after calculating my revenge at age 4 or 5, I gave her son a bloody nose for all the times he had bullied me.

I went to school with Greeks, southerners, and countless other cultures. It was one culture to me. Or rather, each family had it’s own culture and that seemed normal. We were the “Mexicans,” although none of us had been born or had ever lived in Mexico, except for my mom for a few weeks at a time in her youth.

My mom’s community college friends in my youth were African-American, Chilean, south and central American of many lands, Saudi, Persian, and I don’t know who else. I think I was too young to really know who was who. They just were. So many cultures. I remember the music and art, incense, languages, and foods stimulating my senses. Wonderful.

I never knew how lucky I was. It was just life. It was a stew. Not a melting pot. Guess the heat wasn’t on that high.

Over the years, I noticed more and more that this is not typical in the world. Either there are neighborhoods, pockets of people preserving their cultures out of pride, or protecting out of fear. Or, there is the dreaded assimilation, where culture is lost. For years, I had these two ideas to gage myself by, and sadly, came to the conclusion that I must be one of the assimilated. Awful. Language lost. I can’t even make a decent pot of beans or a tortilla that doesn’t resemble the shapes of the places I’ve visited. College taught me that, that I must be one of the lost, assimilated ones. Mexican-American studies. Minnesota. Yeah.

But, ya know, I realize that there is another cultural experience that isn’t talked about. (Or maybe it is, and I’ve just been out of school too long.) It’s a fleeting experience, hard to capture. It doesn’t last. Can’t last. This short-lived culture is what I’ll call Internationalism. Yeah, it’s a weak name, maybe too pretentious, most likely means something else entirely to someone, I know. Help me out. Come up with something better. Or just let me know that it already has a name. Anyway, it’s the culture that I most belong to.

I crave the experience of learning about others’ ways. I love eating different foods, smelling different smells, hearing about different sayings, herbal remedies, observing different customs. My heart aches to think that these things will disappear some day. Or worse: that we will experience them through the PF Chang's, Disney movies, and kitschy tourist knick-knacks. Please, no.

I do, unfortunately, believe it’s fleeting, this International culture where everyone shares their own, peacefully, respectful and respected. It’s one that exists in the memories of Glendale, Arizona in the 1970’s, when farmland began to give way to the suburbs, and the many migrants came to find a new and better life. It exists here, in the Emirates, a country some six months older than myself. Both she and I are still working on getting this whole thing sorted out. After many years, homogeny will set in, perhaps, either by segregation or assimilation, but in those precious moments before that happens, is this magical time when people from across the globe gather, light of newness and hope glowing in their eyes, light of openess, or curiousity at least, towards each other. This is the culture I crave and love. That brief moment of sharing without losing sense of self. What a beautiful thing it is.

So, as crazy, and sometimes reason-free this place can seem, I love it here. Maybe the placement of stoplights behind the spot where you’re supposed to stop seems pretty wacky. Maybe having five or more different means of getting your ID card, but no one to tell you the best and easiest way leaves you feeling like, “ooh, shouldn’t that be a job?” Maybe having so many qualified doctors around who can’t practice medicine because they don’t have the right high school class on their transcripts seems kinda silly. Maybe the lack of nutritious food and toothbrushes in the richest part of the community seems a little odd. Maybe, maybe a lot. Still, it feels right, all these different people from different ideals, wearing different dress, silently or directly trying to figure each other out, is just so...real.

Brief. Fleeting. Movement. Change. Just the way I like my life.

Here’s an ad I just saw at the cashier of the local store: “Order now: Fresh UK Halal Turkey for Christmas.” Hmm. Now that I’m eating meat again, think I should order one? I even have a rotisserie in my oven. I’m sorry, my “cooker.”