Who Said ADC Conventions Aren't Fun

On my first day at the convention, I spotted the usual self-proclaimed pundits standing by in ambush around the corners of the convention halls waiting to snatch unsuspecting participants and subject them to excruciatingly dull conversations. Few mothers accompanied their extremely embarrassed young daughters to canvass the convention floor hoping to catch the attention of potential suitors. Grumpy old men engaged in heated loud debates shouting at each other every now and then but lowering their voices as others pass close by. Children running around playing hide and seek amongst the crowds. "Ya walad ihda," demanded one mother of her unruly child who seemed bent on getting her attention.

"It is bigger than last year," was repeated as a matter of duty and made for a great line to start a conversation. I have never been to an ADC convention where such remarks were not made. But this convention did seem larger than last year's. Not unlike earlier conventions, this one seems to have fewer and fewer of the old faces I was accustomed to. But fresh faces abounded. While I made numerous friends, this ADC convention did not feed my nostalgia. New leadership was matched by new membership. But some old familiar faces still traversed the halls of the convention and provided the comfort I was longing for and the opportunity to rehash old stories and reminisce about old days. We sure felt old in the company of so many young folks.

Before each main event, the convention floor seemed more like a stock exchange as meal tickets were being traded and favors asked in return. I am ashamed to admit it but I stand before you as a beneficiary of the "wasta" I often loathed and preached against. Friends in the press and speakers had plenty of tickets and never hesitated to offer them. I was ready and willing. I pledge to you I shall send my contribution to ADC and beg forgiveness.

Unobtrusively, ADC volunteers and staffers toiled around offering assistance to those who needed it while maintaining law and order on the convention floor. Some were busy repulsing the onslaught of free-riders who were on the lookout for an opportunity to enter without a paid ticket. Like pickpockets, they mingled with the heavy crowds as they entered the dinner hall to find out later on that you can enter the hall but you will be served a meal at the table only if you have a ticket. What a disappointment it must have been for some. Nothing exasperates the loss of dignity than an empty stomach.

When I asked one if it was worth the trouble, he miraculously turned the issue into one of class struggle where the wasta-less half of the participants are paying for the free meals of the other half who have wasta. He was not going to be exploited, he insisted. "You should have stayed home instead of becoming a thief in a fancy suit," I almost said but decided not to escalate. Then I thought about my free tickets and was overtaken by feelings of guilt until dessert arrived, then I was fine again. He remained hungry and bitter. I would have volunteered my meal since I was not really hungry, but his Rolex placed him in the wrong class of the alleged struggle.

His first ADC convention since assuming the role of National ADC Coordinator, Nabil Mohammad ran a tight ship. Tending to multiple chores at once, Nabil lived up to the challenge and in many respects had a calming effect when things seemed to go haywire. With his background in large scale event planning as the president of ROOTS, the Palestinian youth organization, Nabil was at home with the challenges of the convention and on occasions seemed to relish the opportunity to deal with the unexpected.

"Hi, my name is Khalil what is yours," a friendly lad decided to introduce himself first. As it turns out, this is his first ADC convention and he was glad to have made it. He was of Lebanese descent and had been born in the US. He never heard of ADC until this year. Someone should take the credit for spreading the word. I felt a sense of satisfaction that US-born Arab Americans feel a reasonable sense of kinship and a level of comfort with their heritage strong enough to bring them together with Arab Americans of all walks of life. He is a high-school teacher in Michigan. Ah hah, I found myself a case study.

Not until half an hour or so of grueling questions did I let go of him. Now I know more about the demographics of Dearborn, albeit from a casual source. I have enough ammo for my next conversations with Arab American Michiganites. From the relationship between the Polish community and the Arab community to the interesting discovery of the evolving ties of later-generation Muslim Arabs and Pakistani Muslims who have lost the native language but retained strong cultural identities shaped by a common religion. Such similarities, I was informed by Khalil, have drawn some Pakistanis into the Arab American community. Interesting insight, I thought, with political ramifications.

Kahlil, as it turns out later, and like many other young professionals, was not only interested in knowledge and awareness, he had a personal agenda too. Khalil was on a mission, like dozens of others, to find himself a soul-mate. A handsome fellow with a nice job and good manners made a fair impression with some of the Arab American ladies.

My snooping was made possible by the concentration of social activities on the second floor of the Crystal Gateway Marriott. The elders loitered around together during breaks with younger family members. The youthful crowds would gather in pockets of small groups in view of family members. Laughter would often be interrupted by a powerful "shshhhhhh!" coming from a volunteer protruding from the ballroom door where the next speaker in line continues the sermon to hundreds of attentive listeners. The door closes. All quiets down for a few seconds and the pace of the chatter picks up again from where it left.

Soon a round of loud applause drowns the ongoing discussions as the ballroom doors opens wide signaling the end of the banquet. A column of people exits the ballroom and in few minutes fills the court outside adding to the congestion creating new groups of debaters and enlarging existing ones. The banquet speeches added fuel to the ongoing discussions and turned the court into some sort of a controversial campus event. Few hands were flailing and gesturing above the crowds while others were shaking hands and slapping shoulders in reconciliation and approval.

Not to be outdone, I decided to jump into the fray but discovered my bold views were so out of sync with the interlocutors they ended up uniting to forcefully rebut my argument. I was loosing ground. Too much for playing a devil's advocate, I thought. I attempted to retreat gracefully to save face, mine of course. But a youngster who was honing her debate skills kept hammering at me and drumming up support for her position.

It was an intellectual mayhem and I was in the center of it. At the most opportune moment, I was saved by a passing friend who I pretended to have not met for a long time and proceeded to extricate myself from the group promising to return so they may continue to administer the verbal beatings. What a great tactical and orderly retreat, I congratulated myself. As for my friend, she was bemused at my excitement to see her until she heard my ordeal. "Aamel haalak fahmaan, testaahal" she ridiculed me but it was one thing to be ridiculed by a friend versus total strangers, Arabs or not I might add.

It took few minutes for my pride to heal. I took mental notes of lessons learned and promised not to repeat the encounter--something I promise to do every ADC convention.

"Mish ma'ool! Muna izzayik," shouted an elated lady in her forties as she embraced another lost-and-found friend of early days. Such encounters were common and some more dramatic than others. I for one prefer the loud "Ahlaaan!" greeting followed by a moderate hug when welcoming an old friend I lost touch with. Other acquaintances whom I hoped to forget, turn up like an old penny. On such occasions, and for the sake of courtesy, we both may engage in a subdued and mildly surprised "Meeen?" followed by a lukewarm handshake, short yes/no questions about health and family, and a mutually desirable rapid exit maneuver.

Samir passed by with his beer over-wrapped in white napkins.  Famous for his self-righteousness, I saw an opening. "It is non-alcoholic," he swears. But the Heineken label at the bottle neck which he has accidentally failed to cover blew the whistle on him.  "No more sermons," he promised me while laughing halfheartedly. "I will buy you the next round," I said jokingly but he declined and, using the ol' strategy, waved to someone and asked permission to say hi to an old friend and promised to be back in a second. Yeah, sure you will, I said  to myself struggling to suppress an evil smirk.

I proceeded to mingle with the crowds moving from one group to another dropping business cards and collecting others'. Email addresses were a hit this convention. Before, if you wished to stay in touch you had to make a dozen long distance calls or write and send letters and that I disliked. Now, I compile a list of emails I collected and send one "Hello Y'all" email and hope someone will respond to my friendship call.

The band has already started and the crowds inside the ballroom were already dancing to the tunes of "Ri heen la Ramallah." A number of long concentric circles of dabkeh dancers were turning opposite to each other with feet stomping in unison, hands locked and swinging up and down, and torsos leaning forwards and backwards. The over-enthusiastic lead dancers bounced up and down in over-exaggerated movements showing off their dabkeh prowess. The band was already drenched in sweat as the lead singer trailed one popular song with another to an energetic crowd of dancing youths and adults.

It took a combination of entreats and coercion by two of my friends to drag me into the dabkeh ring. I was out of dabkeh-shape.  My rhythm has been shot after a year of no dabkeh. Anticipating the worst, I proceeded (or more like dragged) into the crowded floor and was inserted into the outer ring and started to stomp on my friends' feet.  That ought to teach them a lesson, I thought. Undeterred by my poor performance,  the saga continued. I felt like a puppet. I had no control over my movements. I was being pulled by my friend on the right and pushed by the one on the left. At their whims, they would lift one of my arms and drop the other.

And it just hit me that half of those on the floor were as incompetent as I, and had little control too. If this is how dabkeh is done, it is fine with me. So I never put up a resistance until one of my friends tired and I offered to accompany her to the nearest available seat. And there we sat clapping and tapping. What a crowd! What a convention! Seeking knowledge by day, stomping the hell out of the dance floor by night. It is all about balance. The Yin and the Yang. Or as our religion teaches, the best of affairs are in the center.

On the last day of the convention, withdrawal symptoms kick in as many participants prepare for departure and have to struggle with post-convention depression. Their bags laden with toys and souvenirs, books and pamphlets, the participants line up for taxicabs and airport shuttles. The fortunate ones live within short driving distances. The hugging and handshaking became intense and emotions ran high. "Call me or email me," cried a young student to her new friend as she entered the airport shuttle. "Allah ma'kum ya shabab," waved another.

Most can't wait to go home and put into action valuable lessons learned and maybe phone or email newfound friends. A sense of belonging has been strengthened and most have made up their minds to return the following year for this unique Arab American experience brought to you by the people at ADC, an Arab American institution.