Earlier this year, I opened my email to find a message from Facebook. It had finally happened - the dreaded and the inevitable - my father had joined Facebook and wanted to be my friend. I knew what that meant - first dad, then my eight aunts and uncles, 500 cousins, and 1,000 second cousins.

As “Sex and the City 2” premiered last week, I couldn’t help but laugh at all the movie posters plastered around New York City - four scantily-clad, gorgeous gals vacationing in the oil-rich land of luxury that is the United Arab Emirates. Hollywood movies always go for the cliched portrayal of oil-rich Gulf Arabs as if they represent all the rest of the Arabs as well, most of whom are actually incredibly poor. Every time I saw one of those movie ads, I couldn’t help but think, “Where does Hollywood get this image of us?” And then Abu Dhabi unveils a new gold bar-dispensing vending machine and I realize exactly where Hollywood gets this image of us.

I was reading recently about the release of the sequel to 1980 bestseller “The Official Preppy Handbook.” I had never heard of such a book, but was immediately frightened by the fact that apparently, one “Official Preppy Handbook” is not enough to meet American society’s needs. According to the New York Times, the book extols the blueblood New England set about “the virtues of pink and green.”

I know I complain a lot about the treatment of Muslims in the United States. While I stand by all my criticisms of this country’s race relations, at least it’s not as bad as tensions in Europe - yet. Ultra-right wing nationalist parties like the English Defense League and the British National Party have been expanding across the continent, especially in Britain, waving the banner of “indigenous” Brits, a.k.a white Brits. 

I was raised in the Southern United States, reciting the pledge of allegiance every morning, memorizing the Bill of Rights, and listening to country singers croon about good ole American values. Like many young Muslim-Americans, I felt just like my blonde, blue-eyed classmates until the events of September 11 made me suddenly and irrevocably different. 

I have this problem - old Muslim people love me. Wherever I go, some cute old Teta finds me and squeezes my face. It’s become a running joke in my office. I’ll leave my desk to refill my water bottle and I won’t return for 30 minutes. “Where did you go?” my co-workers will ask. “Another old Arab found me,” I’ll reply. 

Twitter is still a mysterious universe to me. I finally capitulated and joined a few months ago, and only because my fellow elan bloggers love the Twitter (no one calls it ‘the Twitter,’ do they?). I’m still figuring out how it all works. What am I supposed to say in less than 140 characters? As my editor here at elan can tell you, I have enough trouble keeping my blog posts under 500 words. But I must admit, the whole brevity concept is starting to win me over. I especially love reading everyone’s bios. I have one ‘follower’ whose bio reads:  “chastity, vitamins, and classical music!!!” Somehow, she has chosen these three things to sum her up as a human being, or at least as an online entity. 

I’ve spent the last week toting around an advance copy of N.H. Senzai’s young adult novel, ‘Shooting Kabul’. I read it on the subway during my long commute to work; I read it lounging on the futon on lazy Sundays. For a book written for 12-year-olds, this 23-year-old couldn’t get enough of this tale of family unity, perseverance, and cultural pride.

Yesterday in the New York Times, there was yet another article about the morphing relationship between the White House and American Muslims. After President Obama gave his famous June 2009 speech in Cairo about improving relations with the Muslim world, there were myriad articles and media commentaries discussing the way this new administration would handle “the Muslims.”

It is a strange thing to be a naturally light-skinned Arab. People praise you for your paleness as if you’ve done something wonderful just by being born with it. When I spent a summer in Egypt visiting my family, my older aunties badgered me about how much time I spent in the sun. They were worried that I wouldn’t maintain my white skin, as if the browner I got, the less attractive I got. But to me, this is a disturbing phenomenon - why is it that brown people are so obsessed with whiteness?