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Aufgabe I

Aufgabenstellung

1.

Outline the autobiographical information given by Joseph Azam.

(30 %)

2.

Examine the significance the author’s names have for him.

(30 %)

3.

You are taking part in a workshop titled “Displacement and Identity in Literature.” You have to hand in an article about the struggles of integration, discussing the statement “It is not easy to be stranded between two worlds, the sad truth is that we can never be completely comfortable in either world” by the novelist Sharon Kay Penman.

Write the article, also referring to the text at hand and materials studied in class, such as the short stories by Lahiri, Levy, Pandit, and Shahraz.

(40 %)

Text

Excerpt from Joseph Azam, “Last, First, Middle” (2018)

The writer Joseph Azam and his family fled Afghanistan in the early 1980s when he was still a baby.

1
Growing up, my name – Mohammad – caused me to dread the fall. While some kids
2
fretted about months of monotony, my angst was focused squarely on the first moments
3
of the school year when roll would be taken out loud for the first time. By the first
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grade, I had come up with a routine designed to ensure that my teacher wouldn’t even
5
utter the name Mohammad. […]
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I had a lot of friends from immigrant families with strange sounding names and
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most of them went even further than I did in trying to fortify their American-ness.
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Instead of going by their given names, many of them took on noms de guerre like
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Michael, or Danny, or Jessica in the struggle to fit in. I never had the courage or the
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permission to go that far myself. I had abandoned Mohammad, but I never asked to be
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called Joseph or Joe, in part because it felt dishonest but mostly because I was worried
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about my parents somehow finding out and seeing it as a rejection of who we were.
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Ironically enough, years later they would do it for me. […]
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When it came time to enroll me in [high] school, my father made a choice that short-
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circuited my unrest, at least for a time. As we stood there at the registrar’s counter, he
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very casually, and without so much as turning to me, registered me as Joseph Azam.
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To this day I don’t know what went into his decision. Perhaps he and my mother had
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noticed my mushrooming anxiety, and perhaps they realized it had something to do
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with how I thought I was going to fare in this new place. In any case, my father’s
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decision liberated me from the immigrant self-gaze that had consumed me for so long,
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but it also felt like a death.
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So much of what I had been through with my parents over the years – Kabul, India,
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Germany, our early days in New York – seemed to fall instantly out of focus as the
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name Yousuf faded. Being known as Joseph or Joe outside of my family brought with
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it the ordinariness and anonymity that I had so desperately wanted at age six, but at
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fifteen it brought me discomfort and waves of guilt at home.
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[…] I wondered whether it stung my parents that on top of the many things they
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lost and left behind in Kabul, a decade and a half later they felt compelled to surrender
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my name as well. More than anything, I brooded over what my grandfather would have
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thought of the way in which I had treated his exquisite gift to me.
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I’ll never know exactly how or to what extent going through high school under an
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alias colored my experience, or whether or not it somehow helped clear a path for me
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– to college back in New York, to graduate school, to law school, to a career in corpo-
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rate America. What it did do was leave me with an entirely new dilemma over what
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was worse: being identifiably foreign or secretly false. It was a question I tortured
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myself with throughout high school and one that was thrown into relief not long after
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I graduated at a U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services Center just south of Los
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Angeles.
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My parents had become naturalized U.S. citizens when I was very young but hadn’t
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gotten around to filling out the paperwork for me to claim my derivative citizenship
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until we had moved to California. I was eighteen years old by the time my application
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was up for review, which meant I had to go in for a citizenship interview as part of the
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process. I remember breezing through my interview and sitting in a drab corridor in
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the immigration center as I waited to submit my passport application that same day.
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The fluorescent lights above my head had lulled me into a trance when my eyes sud-
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denly fixated on the first fields of the still blank application: Name (Last, First, Mid-
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dle); Place of Birth; Address; List All Other Names You Have Used.
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No sooner had I realized the choice that lay in front of me than my number was
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called; I found myself standing with my father at a counter once again being asked to
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register my name. This time the decision was mine alone to make, he made sure of
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that. At a loss for what to do and with an impatient clerk scowling at my empty form I
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panicked and dropped the stack of documents that I had been toting around all morn-
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ing.
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Realizing that she had frazzled me, even if she was unsure of why, the clerk behind
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the counter told me to take my time gathering myself and cleaning up my mess. She
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had no idea how many years I had spent trying to do just that.
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As I knelt down to pull together the papers that had fallen around my feet, I was
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confronted by the dissonance that I had lived with for so many years. I picked up the
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green card with the photo of Yousuf, the wide-eyed asylum seeker. I picked up the
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California driver’s license with the awkward photo of Joseph, the gangly teenager who
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had just barely passed his driving test. I picked up my parents’ citizenship certificates.
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I picked up duplicate after duplicate I had brought of my various citizenship forms that
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outlined in detail the places we had lived. I picked up my passport application and I
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picked up my pen.
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What I did next is simply what felt most honest. Instead of choosing between my
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names, I chose all of them.
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Joseph Mohammad Yousuf Azam. It was disjointed, redundant perhaps, but it made
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whole again the hopes of my grandfather and added to them my own. It didn’t fit in
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the space provided on the form that day but it fit the moment and it fit me.
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This was my American name.

991 words

From: Joseph Azam. “Last, First, Middle.” The Displaced: Refugee Writers on Refugee Lives. Ed. Viet Thanh Nguyen. New York: Abrams, 2018. 29 – 33.

Annotations

4/5 Azam asked his teachers to address him by his middle-name Yousuf only.

8 nom de guerre – German: Deckname

29/30 His grandfather in Kabul named the new-born baby Mohammad Yousuf.

32 alias – a fake name used to conceal one’s identity

33/34 corporate America – the world of large American businesses

40 derivative citizenship – a type of citizenship for children born abroad whose parents are U.S. citizens

54 to frazzle s. o. – to make s. o. nervous

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