Possible Histories

Front matter

CHARLOTTE KAREM ALBRECHT

POSSIBLE HISTORI

Arab Americans and. thee

Contents

List of Illustrations ix Preface xi Acknowledgments xv Note on Terms and Translations xix Introduction 1

1. Traveler, Peddler, Stranger, Syrian: Queer Provocations and Sexual Threats 24

2. “A Woman without Limits”: Syrian Women in the Peddling Economy 55

Preface

I first heard about my great-grandfather Nicholas Karem as a young adult in my early twenties. My mother told me about him a few months after I came out to my parents. Living in Kentucky in the early twentieth century, he had married another young Syrian immigrant, named Mary, and the two went on to have nine children together. He was known for being a demanding employer, a strict father, and a sweetheart to his grandchildren. All of his boys worked in the family’s twentyfour-hour restaurant, with the oldest son running the night shift on his own.

My great-grandfather, working alongside his wife and sister, owned and operated this business in Louisville, a racially segregated southern city. Their customers consisted largely of white truck drivers and Black laborers from Louisville's Haymarket area, where the restaurant was situated. The eatery, named Trucker’s Restaurant, was specifically marketed toward a white clientele. While white customers ate inside the restaurant, Black customers could order inside—but, by the Karems mandate, and in accordance with white supremacist norms, Black customers were then required to leave the restaurant to eat their food. This restaurant remained financially successful for my family until the construction of a freeway closed the original site of the Haymarket in 1962.

But my great-grandfather was also up to things that made people talk, according to my mother. His sexual encounters were not confined to his marriage. The evidence that my family—and the larger Syrian community in Louisville—offered to back up this claim was that he was assaulted on more than one occasion related to his sexual behavior. I have no way of knowing what was actually said or speculated during his lifetime; but by the time the rumor got to my generation, after I came out to my mother, I was told that he was bisexual and that he had been xii PREFACE

“beaten up for cruising.” How these assaults that my great-grandfather experienced happened is unclear. Did rumor of his sexual desire incur such attacks, or did his attempts at sexual encounters with men result in violence? Was it, perhaps, the race of the men he might have engaged with sexually that led to this violence? Or was it his own liminal racial status? Did he have sexual encounters with other men in the Syrian community? Did he frequent a particular locale that may have been associated with nonnormative sexuality or that was heavily policed?

I have attempted to find arrest records to corroborate this story but to no avail. My mother suggested that there are no records because her own mother (Nicholas’s daughter-in-law) was friends with the wife of a police officer who intervened on her behalf and prevented my great-grandfather’s arrest. White supremacy structures a critical juncture in my family’s history through this possible protection from police arrest. Just as our family-owned restaurant abided by southern racist customs, white supremacy provided my family with a layer of protection, insulating it from the racist and heteropatriarchal purview of law enforcement.

While my great-grandfather’s potential encounter with the police is not archived, whatever did happen to spur this rumor had lasting consequences for him and our family among other Syrian (and later, Lebanese) locals. I have been told that sometime in the past two decades, a younger family member approached someone at a Louisville gathering whom he recognized as a Lebanese elder. He identified himself and told the man that my great-grandfather was his relative. The elder replied sharply, “Nick Karem? Nick Karem was a queer.” And several years ago, an undergraduate student of a colleague contacted me after having read my dissertation, which formed the early research for this book. They described themselves as a young queer Arab American who was also descended from early Syrian immigrants. As it turned out, we were related through marriage, and both our ancestors had settled in Louisville. This young student’s maternal relatives knew all about the rumors surrounding Nick Karem’s life.

The rumor of his sexuality continued long after one imagines it would have. It functioned to ostracize my ancestor and his family from the local Syrian community. The gossip presumed that Nick and his family should feel shame for his desire, his actions, and the violence done to him. The rumor continues to circulate as a source of shame, communicating that his violation of sexual and gendered norms points to an intractable difference that ought to be minimized. Compounded by the already racialized difference of being Arab in the United States, the rumor teaches lessons about sexual and gendered expectations for Lebanese Americans in my family. Despite this legacy of shame, the rumor about my great-grandfather has taken on a second life, as it seems also to provide evidence to queer family members that our existence as queer Lebanese Americans is nothing new.

I have been told by family members that to continue circulating this rumor, as I am doing now, is unfair to my ancestor, as he is not able to defend himself against the accusation. This concern assumes, of course, that his deviation from

PREFACE xiii heterosexuality and the punishing assaults he experienced possibly as a result are blights upon his memory. To either circulate or deny the rumor would inscribe his life and memory within forms of violence. Circulating the rumor relegates his desires to their outcome, that is, violent physical punishment; denying it disciplines his sexual desires into a heteronormativity forged through white supremacy. But can we imagine other ways in which he may have experienced desire and pleasure in his life, outside this evidence of his sexual existence? This rumor, with its focus on violence as evidence of sexuality-as-shame, leaves no room to imagine desire and pleasure as part of Arab American history and existence. It obscures the fuller dimensions of how my great-grandfather (and other queer Arab ancestors) loved, desired, and experienced a range of erotic intimacies during their lives.

I share this story because it was one of the early sites of inquiry that framed my entry into the historicist study of Arab Americans, sexuality, and race. This story was compelling for multiple reasons. It circulated as a kind of evidence of queerness in the Arab American past (especially among members of my family who were not heterosexual). It suggested the power of sexuality as a lasting rubric for self-policing in Arab American communities. And it called into question how we produce knowledge about the Arab American past. If the only evidence of historical queerness in a particular community comes through rumor, what can we say we truly know about sexuality and its imbrication with race in the early Syrian American diaspora? In the pages that follow, these questions of method unfold alongside an examination of the inextricability of sexuality from race in Arab American history.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The research and writing of this book has spanned more than fifteen years, across multiple jobs and institutions, through illness and loss, and through a global pandemic. Producing a work like this is far from a solitary practice, and there are many people to whom I am grateful. While I would like to say that I have kept diligent records of every person along the way who has helped or supported me in some way, the past several years especially have tested my capacity for memory and organization. Please forgive any omissions.

I am grateful for several forms of institutional support that allowed me time and resources to work on this manuscript. These include the Francis Maria Fellowship in Arab American studies at the University of Minnesotas Immigration History Research Center, a postdoctoral fellowship at Denison University through the Consortium for Faculty Diversity, a fellowship at the University of Michigan's Institute for the Humanities, and an ADVANCE Summer Writing Grant from the University of Michigan.

This book began as doctoral research at the University of Minnesota. I am thankful for the guidance and support I received from so many people in the Twin Cities. I was incredibly lucky to have a wonderful advisor and doctoral committee: Jigna Desai, Sarah Gualtieri, Regina Kunzel, Erika Lee, and Shaden Tageldin. I am forever grateful for your support and collective interdisciplinary wisdom. Many graduate school and Twin Cities friends have nurtured me and this project, including Cathryn Merla-Watson, Elizabeth Ault, Emily Smith Beitiks, Jasmine Kar Tang, Jessica Giusti, Juliana Hu Pegues, Karissa White, Kelly Condit-Shrethsa, Myrl Beam, Rushaan Kumar, Ryan Cartwright, Simi Kang, Anne Jin Soo Preston, Bao Phi, Darren Lee, Ethan Laubach, Jna Shelomith, Reema Bazzy, Charissa Blue, Charissa Uemura, Marie Michael, Sharon Goens, Sun Yung Shin, Thea Lee, Kathy

XV xvi ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Haddad, Lana Barkawi, and the whole Mizna family. David Chang enthusiastically talked with me about my project and offered suggestions when I walked into his office as a graduate student. Other faculty offered sources, encouragement, and affirmation throughout the dissertation process, including Lisa Albrecht, Joe Kadi, J. Kehaulani Kauanui, and Trica Keaton.

I have been humbled by the generosity of many people who have read parts or all of the manuscript at different stages and given me feedback. Jocelyn Stitt was a godsend for preparing fellowship application narratives, which also helped me to better conceptualize my project for a wider audience. Umayyah Cable and Nadine Naber generously offered to read and comment on my introduction and both provided key insights into framing the project’s interventions. Phil Deloria helpfully read and suggested developments on an early version of chapter 1. The fellows of the Institute for the Humanities at the University of Michigan were generous and attentive readers ofa later version of chapter 1, and they were also an amazing group of people who helped me to find enthusiasm for my book after a difficult period. Many thanks to those folks: Alena Aniskiewicz, Sahin Acikgoz, Marlyse Baptista, Joel Batterman, Megan Berhend, Nick Caverly, Sara Ensor, Zehra Hashmi, Kyle Frisina, Dan Kim, Heidi Kumao, Petra Kuppers, Ashley Lucas, Peggy McCracken, Sara McDougall, Diana Ng, Tiffany Ng, Shira Schwartz, Scott Stonington, and Elizabeth Tacke. Tracey Deutsch, Sally Howell, and an anonymous reader offered much guidance and feedback on an early version of chapter 2 that was submitted as an article to Gender and History. Retika Adhikari, Manan Desai, Allan Lumba, and Balbir Singh gave me excellent suggestions on an earlier version of chapter 4. Thank you to Evelyn Alsultany, Greg Dowd, Leela Fernandes, and Dean Hubbs, each of whom carefully read and offered feedback on an early version of this manuscript. Carol Fadda also offered insightful comments and helped affirm the direction of the book at a crucial moment in its trajectory. I am very appreciative of the work that Sarah Gualtieri, Anthony Mora, Nadine Naber, and Valerie Traub put into my manuscript workshop as readers. Your comments were instrumental in moving my manuscript out of the dissertation framework and into a compelling book. I am equally appreciative of all of my colleagues who participated in my manuscript workshop or supported me at other points in the manuscript writing process: Stephen Berrey, Rosie Ceballo, Matthew Countryman, Greg Dowd, Sandra Gunning, Jesse Hoffnung-Garskoff, Jennifer Jones, Leila Kawar, Suad Abdul Khabeer, Larry LaFountain-Stokes, Diana Louis, Sarah Murray, Ava Purkiss, Alex Stern, and Ruby Tapia. Finally, I am indebted to the three readers who gave their time to review my manuscript for the University of California Press, including Amira Jarmakani and Nayan Shah. Your comments were very generous, and I cannot understate how much they helped me to see more clearly what this manuscript was doing and where I could press further. Many of the suggestions I did not take were due to the limited time I had left in which to complete the manuscript.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS xvii

Iam fortunate to have a supportive intellectual community across several institutions and associations and, in particular, through the Arab American Studies Association, many of whom have already been named here. Thank you to my colleagues in the Women’s Studies program at Denison University and in the departments of American Culture and Women’s and Gender Studies at the University of Michigan. Thank you as well to Tahereh Aghdasifar, Leila Ben Nasr, Louise Cainkar, Meiver de la Cruz, Stacy Fahrenthold, Suad Joseph, Nadeen Kharputly, Neda Maghbouleh, Rachel Norman, Isis Nusair, Dana Olwan, Shaista Patel, Theri Pickens, Therese Saliba, Kristin Shamas, Mejdulene Shomali, Matt Stiffler, Randa Tawil, Stan Thangaraj, Pauline Homsi Vinson, and many others. I am also grateful to the generation of Arab American studies scholars who created paths when there were none, especially Alixa Naff.

Without the labor of a bevy of research assistants, librarians, archivists, editors, and other staff, this work would not have been possible. First, thank you to all of the staff of the American Culture and Women’s and Gender Studies departments, especially Donna Ainsworth, Sarah Ellerholz, Mary Freiman, Judy Gray, Patti Mackmiller, Marlene Moore, Kevin O'Neill, Kate Sechler, and the late Tammy Zill. Thank you to Iman Ali, Haleemah Agel, Ryah Agel, Sena Duran, Belquis Elhadi, Yahya Hafez, Irene Inatty, Alice Mishkin, Raya Naamneh, Will O’Neal, and Dahlia Petrus, for the research assistance, translation and transliteration work, conversation, and enthusiasm for my work. Thank you to Meredith Kahn, Evryn Kopf, and all of the wonderful librarians at the University of Michigan for your expertise and assistance. Thank you to Vanessa Brouchard and Kay Peterson of the National Museum of American History for your assistance with the Faris and Yamna Naff Collection over the years. Kim Greene and Jeannette Fast Redmond provided much needed editing of the manuscript at different stages throughout the process. Erika Clowes was the best writing coach and motivator that I could ask for. Thank you to Sherri Barnes for indexing and to Steven Baker for copyediting. And, of course, thank you to the fine people at the University of California Press for your stewardship of this project, from fledgling draft manuscript to published book. I especially want to thank Niels Hooper, Naja Pulliam Collins, and Julie Van Pelt.

Completing this book would not have been possible without the love and support of my friends and family. Evelyn Alsultany has been an indefatigable mentor who also became a cherished friend. Your support has meant the world to me. Thank you to Retika Adhikari, Tahereh Aghdasifar, Umayyah Cable, William Calvo-Quirés, Nilo Couret, Kristen Cole, Clare Croft, Anna Fisher, Manan Desai, Jessica Guisti, Jennifer Jones, Nancy Khalil, Aliyah Khan, Heidi Kumao, Scott Larson, Chelsea Lisiecki, Diana Louis, Allan Lumba, Sara McClelland, Victor Mendoza, Yasmin Moll, Jennifer Murray, Diana Ng, Tiffany Ng, Dana Olwan, Cristina Perez, Dahlia Petrus, Ava Purkiss, Deborah Rosenstein, Mejdulene Shomali, Balbir Singh, Antoine Traisnel, and Jessica Walker for the laughs, walks, xviii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS texts, phone calls, work dates, group chats, meals, memes, and care. I am grateful for my brother, Matt, and my sister, Emily, for your support, kindness, and love. Thanks too for bringing some exceptionally good humans into the family (Erica, Annie, Wendy, Kenyatte, and Barb) and for producing some smaller humans I truly love (Lindsey, Zack, Xavier, and Aaliyah). With words I cannot express, I am infinitely grateful for my father, Ken, who did not live to see the publication of this book but who cheered me on every step of the way. I thank my mother, Connie, who has always been a source of inspiration, love, and kindness. She has never wavered in her faith in me and her support for my work. And finally, all of my love and gratitude to Katie, who has stood by me and cared for the human beyond the scholar for so many years. Thank you for sharing your deep well of compassion with me.

Parts of the introduction appeared as “Why Arab American History Needs Queer of Color Critique” in the Journal of American Ethnic History 37, no. 3 (Spring 2018). Parts of the introduction and chapter 1 appeared as “Narrating Arab American History: The Peddling Thesis” in Arab Studies Quarterly 37, no. 1 (Winter 2015), which was reprinted in Sajjilu Arab American: A Reader in SWANA Studies, edited by Louise Cainkar, Amira Jarmakani, and Pauline Homsi Vinson (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2022). An early version of chapter 2 appeared as “An Archive of Difference: Syrian Women Peddlers and U.S. Social Welfare, 1880-1935” in Gender and History 28, no. 1 (March 2018), which was reprinted in Arab American Women: Representation and Refusal, edited by Louise Cainkar, Suad Joseph, and Michael Suleiman (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 2021).

NOTE ON TERMS AND TRANSLATIONS

Throughout this book, I use the term “Syrian” to refer to Arab people coming from the region of Greater Syria under the Ottoman Empire (or “Ottoman Syria”). Ottoman Syria, also called Bilad al-Sham in Arabic, covered the geographies of present-day Lebanon, Syria, Israel/Occupied Palestine, and parts of Jordan. “Syrian” is also the term these migrants used to refer to themselves during the time period described in this book, in English and later in Arabic. They also referred to themselves as “Arab,” primarily in Arabic.

In addition to “Ottoman Syria,” I use several additional terms to refer to the region from which these individuals migrated, including the “Middle East” and the “Levant.” At times, I also use the “Middle East and North Africa’ (or MENA) to refer to a broader geographic region, as well as “Southwest Asia and North Africa” (or SWANA). As a term, SWANA repositions part of this region as being within the Asian continent and reorients it away from the perspective of Europe.

Arabic in the text follows the International Journal of Middle East Studies’ simplified system for transliteration, with all diacritical marks removed except for the ‘ayn and the hamza. Transliterations of names appear with the spellings that those individuals themselves used where applicable. I am indebted to Ryah Agel, Iman Ali, and Raya Naamneh for their translations of Arabic texts in chapters 2 and 3. I am responsible for any interpretive errors based on these translations.