Sarah Dadouch

While the significance of the year 2000 as the beginning of a new millenium was lost on young 8-year-old me, that year was still a landmark year in the life of little Sarah Dadouch. Until that year, I had mainly read Arabic books that were easily accessible in the bookstores of Damascus, Syria, and I was content with my book collection. But then, my father, who frequently took trips to the States, purchased a small book somewhere in America — a book that had been described to him by the pushy salesperson as the new obsession of this nation.

One especially snowy winter, my dad decided that it was the perfect time for a road trip. He, along with my three siblings and I, bundled up and piled into his beat-up powder-blue Ford pickup, inviting along our longtime friend Adventure to drive along with us into central Syria.

For as long as I remember, every summer, my maternal aunts and all of my cousins would travel from wherever they were living at the time to settle in my grandma’s secluded, bright-yellow house in Al-Zabadani, a small town about half an hour outside Damascus, Syria.

Last week, while my Facebook was exploding with friends’ posts about getting into Stanford’s and Harvard’s graduate programs, I faced a dilemma: Do I change out of my 5-year-old sweatpants and oversized sweater when getting my SpoonRocket order? Not that I cared how I looked — I was just worried the guy who delivered my mac and cheese at 3:21 p.m. would be the same one who delivered second one at 3:42 p.m. I decided I didn’t care and kept my comfortable clothes on.