My dad died two and a half weeks ago. My mom figured that out tonight, counting out days on the calendar on the refrigerator while I stood by her in the kitchen. I thought it was much longer ago than that. I'm 26 years old--I had to do a quick calculation from the date to figure that out, right now, it's been awhile since I just knew how old I am-and my dad's been dead for two and a half weeks. I had trouble sleeping last night, and again tonight, so I decided to sit up and write something. I've been thinking about his voice.

I spent more time looking at my father, during the month that he was in the hospital, than I probably ever have before. The ventilator obscured his face, and then made it very very clear; the hospital sharpened his features. One time, I took a break in my four-hour shift (I'm reconstructing, but probably it was one of my four-hours shifts; time is funny on the intensive care unit) and headed out for the waiting room bathroom. Washing my hands, looking into the mirror, I saw my father's features in my face. He didn't have a lot of hair; I'm mostly bald cause of shaving my head a couple months ago. Something--maybe the same hospital air that sharpened my dad's features?--made the resemblance stark and pure. Though my friends mostly don't see it, I see my father in my own face.

This is a little different, though. Sometimes I speak in my dad's voice. Or I used to. It hasn't really happened since he got sick, but I think it will again. It's not something that I choose, really; I'll just be talking about my dad, saying something that he did or might have said, and my voice and intonation shift, rhythm changes, and something between his voice and mine comes out of my mouth. Some of my friends think it's cool; sometimes they ask me to do it on purpose. But I can't.

When I heard my dad was sick I was in California at a conference for Arab queer women. While I was there a friend showed me a video on Arab Detroit. Lots of immigrants and their children; one man who looked an awful lot like my dad, and a daughter who reminded me of me. The film showed her dad talking about trying to keep her connected, taking her to Arab parties that didn't really fit. Showed her talking, wanting to be connected but how it didn't always work. Showed them together, talking.

And the girl did her father's voice. Intonation shifted; an immigrant rhythm came into her speech; she did her father talking to her how important community is, and herself replying. There was a click of understanding; I recognized my father and myself. Turned to my new friend to talk to her.

This is complicated stuff. My friend told me about an Arab man in her family who married white and has children who are ashamed of him. The daughter had her wedding in a church he wasn't allowed to enter. They imitate him to mock--my friend told me that voice was painful for her to hear. She hears cruelty.

I've been thinking about it. My dad is a Syrian immigrant who married white; my mother's parents, and some of her siblings, have always despised him. Yearly we were dragged to Texas because family is important; yearly I heard my drunken grandmother insulting my father, that damned Ayrab, that oil-rich sheik. He was never good enough for her daughter. Yearly my father listened, laughed it off, and treated the old woman with respect. He even spoke sternly to me about respecting her--she had a hard life and deserved kindness. I hated her. I always hated her.

Now I wonder about that. I remember being mad, at my grandmother and at my parents for humoring her; later at my parents for letting her insult my (dark-skinned) brother too. He nherited the contempt due to the son of "the sheik." I didn't understand why my parents permitted that. Even if they were willing to let her insult my dad, they shouldn't have let her at my brother. I still believe that.

So I've been thinking about my dad's voice, about what happens when I speak him, when his voice comes out of my mouth. Is there a trace of mockery in that, a parlor trick to amuse white friends? Maybe there was at some point but I don't believe there is now. This is something that might have begun as nervous joking, to distinguish myself from my Arab father.

But that's not why I'm waiting, hoping, to hear my dad's voice out of my mouth now. I want to hear him to honor him, to be connected to him.

I want to hear my father's words from my mouth so that I never forget his voice.