About
Path of the Storyteller
There was a profound ease of existence to my Sitti. Quite a testament to her will considering all she had lost throughout her life. In her elder years, Sitti was shuffled between her three daughters, bouncing from house to house. When it was our turn to care for her at our Southside Chicago apartment, she would sit still as a statue in her corner, barely uttering a word, occupying such a small space with her 4 foot 10 inch diminutive frame.
However, without effort, Sitti’s presence would immediately transform the room, bringing the weight of centuries old Palestinian history into our American home. I didn’t know it when I first met her, but this tiny, ancient lady was a living library, proof that Palestine was and still is… For a little boy born thousands of miles away from the birthplace of his parents, Sitti’s stories were nothing short of magic. She would open portals to a world, a rich cultural heritage, that I’d never known… A world that would influence my path for decades to come.
As a child I didn’t realize any of this… I was simply drawn to her. She was a calm eye in the chaotic storm that was my family and I wanted to make her feel at home.
After I rolled out the many prayer rugs she brought with her, Sitti would conjure a weighty wooden misbaha seemingly out of thin air. Moving the prayer beads through her delicate fingers one by one to keep count while softly reciting the Muslim remembrances of God. Her weathered hands matched the timeworn scratched and dented prayer beads. They clicked and ticked against each other like an abacus. With the evening prayers complete, the steaming tea was poured, the lights dimmed and the candles lit. Sitti was transformed... Be it caffeine or divinity, she started to talk and there was no stopping her.
It was storytime…
Flickering flames cast a soft warmth on Sitti’s tired eyes. She’d sip and smile. “This tea reminds me of when I was a little girl in Beitunia. One night, after I fell asleep under one of my father’s olive trees, I heard a terrible howl in the wind. There was a monster in the hills. It was lying in wait for its next victim…"
The hair stood straight up on my arms. My heart beat faster. Sitti was the best storyteller I’ve ever known. The tone in her voice had a wonderful quality that kept the listener both composed and captivated. Hers was the guiding soul that started my childhood love of Palestinian Folklore. Bygone tales of wonder and sadness that have stayed with me to this day. That portal to the land of a tragic and enduring people, has been placed in my hands. I’m the storyteller now. Shukran min a'maq qalbi. Thank you from the depths of my heart, Sitti.
Monsters, Misfits and Me
The first movies I ever watched were in beautiful black and white. They had names in them like Errol Flynn, Basil Rathbone, Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney. Pirates, legends, villains and, best of all... monsters!
Eight-year-old me had a strict watching routine. Blanket fort at the ready, pop tarts on my plate, no one in the room but me and the movie stars. Most importantly, no lights... Just the glow of a 12" Sears Model 564 television set. Only I knew it was more than just a set. It was a portal to another world. A world inhabited by vampires, mummies, invisible men, swamp creatures and man made monsters. These misunderstood misfits were not merely entertainment. They were my people.
And as my people, I felt they deserved more than the violent fates that were waiting for them at the end of the film. I couldn't just let them die by fire, the stake... It didn't need to end with the bang of a silver bullet. Determined, I’d sit in the light of that flickering portal and draw the monsters in new adventures, ones with happier endings. Through my writing these misfits would finally have their day.
