In the house in Detroit

    in a room of shadows

    when grandma reads her Arabic newspaper

    it is difficult for me to follow her

    word by word from right to left

    and I do not understand

    why she smiles about the Jews

    who won't do business in Beirut

    "because the Lebanese

    are more Jew than Jew，"

    or whether to believe her

    that if I pray

    to the holy card of Our Lady of Lebanon

    I will share the miracle.

    Lebanon is everywhere

    in the house： in the kitchen

    of steaming pots， leg of lamb

    in the oven， plates of kousa，

    hushwee rolled in cabbage，

    dishes of olives， tomatoes， onions，

    roasted chicken， and sweets；

    at the card table in the sunroom

    where grandpa teaches me

    to wish the dice across the backgammon board

    to the number I want；

    Lebanon of mountains and sea，

    of pine and almond trees，

    of cedars in the service

    of Solomon， Lebanon

    of Babylonians， Phoenicians， Arabs， Turks

    and Byzantines， of the one-eyed

    monk， saint Maron，

    in whose rite I am baptized；

    Lebanon of my mother

    warning my father not to let

    the children hear，

    of my brother who hears

    and from whose silence

    I know there is something

    I will never know； Lebanon

    of grandpa giving me my first coin

    secretly， secretly

    holding my face in his hands，

    kissing me and promising me

    the whole world.

    My father's vocal chords bleed；

    he shouts too much

    at his brother， his partner，

    in the grocery store that fails.

    I hide money in my drawer， I have

    the talent to make myself heard.

    I am admonished to learn，

    never to dirty my hands

    with sawdust and meat.

    At dinner， a cousin

    describes his niece's head

    severed with bullets， in Beirut，

    in civil war. "More than

    an eye for an eye，" he demands，

    breaks down， and cries.

    My uncle tells me to recognize

    my duty， to use my mind，

    to bargain， to succeed.

    He turns the diamond ring

    on his finger， asks if

    I know what asbestosis is，

    "the lungs become like this，"

    he says， holding up a fist；

    he is proud to practice

    law which "distributes

    money to compensate flesh."

    outside the house my practice

    is not to respond to remarks

    about my nose or the color of my skin.

    "Sand nigger，" I'm called，

    and the name fits： I am

    the light-skinned nigger

    with black eyes and the look

    difficult to figure——a look

    of indifference， a look to kill——

    a Levantine nigger

    in the city on the strait

    between the great lakes Erie and St. Clair

    which has a reputation

    for violence， an enthusiastically

    bad-tempered sand nigger

    who waves his hands， nice enough

    to pass， Lebanese enough

    to be against his brother，

    with his brother against his cousin，

    with cousin and brother

    against the stranger.