Seeing Stars: an immigrant’s chart of the sky

How often do you think about the stars and the universe, and their role in how our lives have
played out and will play out? I never had much of a relationship with astrology except for the
occasional Google search wondering how compatible I’d be with the cute Pisces or Virgo I’d just
met until I formed a close friendship with a wildly intelligent and free-spirited woman who
convinced me to look up from time to time and ask questions. She got me thinking about what
our individual sky says about our lives – what precise formation the stars and planets were at
your birth, that exact moment of that day of that year in that location. Pretty fascinating
thought.

She pulled up my birth chart and tried to find the meaning behind the aspects, ascendants and
planets in houses. This is complicated business – I had no idea. She read from a giant
encyclopedia-esque book about what it all is supposed to say about me, but none of it seemed
fitting. So, I told her what I’d been thinking the whole time and the reason for my reluctance
with the process: “That’s not really my sky.”

My mother flew from Beirut to the United States – Tucson, Arizona – nine months pregnant to
give birth to me. With the war raging in Beirut in the early ’80s, two older daughters and the
endlessly increasing stress, my folks knew we were going to relocate to the States sooner than
later, and they wanted me to be a U.S. citizen. A week after my birth, my mom and I made the
trek back around the world to Lebanon, where we stayed till we finally did move to the U.S.
when I was 4. I still have my first passport, which was issued four days after my birth.

Just before I was born, I was physically plucked out of everything I was rooted in and dropped
somewhere I’d never been and only was for a week. That’s supposed to be my sky? It couldn’t
be, right?

By the time we moved to the U.S. for good, I felt as disconnected from the then-foreign sky that
I was born under as I did about almost everything I was rooted in. I wasn’t here, but I wasn’t
there. Everything that was I supposed to be supported by was so distant, and everything I was
surrounded by was the antithesis of what I was being told, taught and presented at home.
Neither existence was foreign, but neither was familiar, and neither felt mine.

When we got here, my parents were truly wary of American traditions and norms (no slumber
parties, no PB&Js, no boyfriends – much less girlfriends – yeesh), so I wasn’t able to really
engage in or assimilate to my surroundings, but no one at home had the time or energy to
purposefully address my cultural crisis. Everyone was dealing with their own challenges and
stressors. My life was completely out of context.

With no sense of belonging comes no sense of community. As a kid, I was bewildered at the
concept of team spirit, school spirit, or hometown pride. What did it feel like to be supported and understood? To not fake it? To have genuine loyalty?

The answers came slowly over the years through friendships, mostly, and then through
connections over music, and communities of writers and poets. It was these connections that
first gave me a glimpse of the warmth and truth community, support, and pride in a group can
provide. These are the feelings I am starting to get as a gay girl in Denver.

Some might think that it’s easy to connect with other queers of all age groups and backgrounds
here, but I actually found it challenging at first, because like with anything in life that matters,
we have to lay ourselves out there for better or worse. But when I finally embraced my
sexuality, I did put myself out there, and I still am and try to do so all the time. By doing so, I
continue to tap into the well-rounded alliance that I’d always felt lacking.

Seeking out and connecting with LGBT individuals, meeting them, learning about LGBT history,
not just from movies and books, but also from those who came before, is personally demanding
but crucial. It provides a sense of history, belonging and understanding, and alleviates the
disconnect that many queers are accustomed to carrying around. Getting involved not only
helps you feel connected, but also helps maintain our community by perpetuating the stories,
and widening its impact. And doing so provides that rooted comfort of knowing that you are
part of a living, loving organism that has been and will be around, well, forever.

That day, my cosmically inclined friend couldn’t handle the idea that I wasn’t connecting to my
stars, and she didn’t have the knowledge to provide me with an adequate answer to my unique
predicament, so she did something that was generous beyond belief. She booked a session for
me with one of the country’s best astrological specialists and cosmic healers. He’s an author,
speaker and teacher who travels the world. Basically, this guy is as legit at it gets. When I met
with him, I explained how I was uprooted and suggested that I didn’t really have a sky at all. He
took both my hands, squeezed them and said, “The stars that you were born under are yours.
It’s a map of where you’ve been and where you are going. No one can take that from you.”