The Rock Is Cracking: A Set About Arab Manhood

[Applause]

Thank you, thank you. Okay. So I'm Arab-American, which means I get to experience two cultures' worth of toxic masculinity. Lucky me. It's like a buy-one-get-one on emotional repression.

“I'm Arab-American, which means I get to experience two cultures' worth of toxic masculinity. It's like a buy-one-get-one on emotional repression.” Click to tweet →

[Laughter]

In Arab culture, the man is the provider. The protector. The rock. My dad— love him, he's here tonight, hi Baba—

[Audience looks around]

He's not here. He would never come to this. That's the bit.

[Laughter]

My dad has been to the emergency room twice and told no one until after he was discharged. Both times. The man had a kidney stone—a KIDNEY STONE—and drove himself to the hospital. You know how painful a kidney stone is? Your body is pushing a rock through a tube the width of a pen. And he drove. In traffic. On the Lodge Freeway. Which, for those of you who don't know, is already a near-death experience when you're HEALTHY.

[Laughter]

I asked him why he didn't call anyone. He said—and this is a direct quote—"Why would I worry your mother?"

Baba. You were passing a geological formation through your urethra. I think she'd want to know.

[Big laughter]

But that's the thing, right? Arab men, we don't burden people. Especially not the women we love. Because the whole model is: you handle it. You carry it. You don't put it down. Even when "it" is a sharp calcium deposit traveling through your internal plumbing at the speed of agony.

[Laughter]

I drive rideshare now. Mostly nights. And driving strangers around at 2 AM is basically free therapy—for them, not me. People get in the back of my car and just START TALKING. Breakups, job losses, family stuff. Complete strangers. I've had men cry in my backseat. Grown men. Full sobbing.

And here's what gets me: every single one of them apologizes. "Sorry, man. Sorry. I don't usually do this."

Brother. You are paying me $14.50 to drive you from the bar to your apartment. Cry if you want. I'm on the clock. This is a safe space with leather seats and a pine air freshener.

[Laughter]

But they apologize because somewhere they learned that having feelings in front of another man is a violation. Like, there's a code. And the code says: the backseat of an Uber at 2 AM is for quiet reflection and phone scrolling. Not feelings.

I always say the same thing: "You're good, bro. Let it out." And you know what happens? They let it out MORE. Because sometimes all a person needs is one other human to say: this is allowed.

My mom wants me to get married. Obviously. I'm Arab, I'm 24, the clock is ticking—her clock, not mine. She keeps showing me pictures of girls from back home. "She's educated. She's beautiful. She cooks."

Mama, I can cook. I make a very good shakshuka. I don't need someone to cook for me. I need someone who will let me be weird and scared and uncertain without thinking I'm broken.

[Applause]

And that's the real talk under the comedy, right? The expectation for Arab men—for a lot of men, honestly—is that you show up finished. Complete. You're supposed to arrive in a marriage, in a career, in a friendship, fully assembled. Like IKEA furniture that doesn't need instructions.

But nobody's fully assembled. We're all missing a screw. Some of us are missing the whole Allen wrench.

“Nobody's fully assembled. We're all missing a screw. Some of us are missing the whole Allen wrench.” Click to tweet →

[Laughter]

The difference is: women are allowed to say "I'm still figuring it out." Men are supposed to have figured it out already. And if you haven't? Something's wrong with you.

Nothing's wrong with me. I just don't know what I'm doing yet. And I'm trying to be honest about that instead of performing certainty I don't feel.

Last thing. My dad—the kidney stone guy, the rock, the man who has never once said "I'm stressed" out loud—he came to my apartment last month. Unannounced. Sat at my kitchen table. Drank the coffee I made him.

And he said: "Ahmad, are you happy?"

He's never asked me that. In 24 years. And I realized—he wasn't just asking about me. He was asking because he doesn't know how to ask himself that question, so he's testing it out on me first.

I said, "Yeah, Baba. I'm getting there."

He nodded. Drank his coffee. Left.

That's an Arab "I love you." For those of you keeping score: coffee, a nod, and an exit.

But I'll take it.

[Laughter, applause]

The rock is cracking, people. And that's not a bad thing. That's how the light gets in.

Thank you, you've been great. Tip your servers. Call your dads. Goodnight.

[Applause]