I watched an obscene amount of television as a child. It's literally impossible to overstate the magnitude of my consumption — cumulative years of my life have been spent slack-jawed in front of glowing boxes both big and small. There is nary a '90s show that I haven't seen: The Secret World of Alex Mack, Seinfeld, Animaniacs, the entire TGIF lineup. I'd gorge on it all. My parents, in their immigrant innocence, just didn't bother much with enforced hour-limits or PG-ratings approvals. So long as I got good grades, I was free to rot my brain in any manner I saw fit.
My sister and I held dominion over the TV in our family room. When our parents entered the space, it was understood that the kids would retain ownership of the controller, of deciding what to watch. In exchange, we knew to not interrupt my father as he and his friends smoked shisha in the garage. We didn't dare walk through the living room while my mother knelt down on her prayer rug — doing so would sever her direct line to Mecca. Sure, we crossed these invisible borders occasionally, but precautions were always taken: one of us stood as lookout while the other rummaged through my mom's dresser drawers of old photos, searching for clues to her and my father's life in Egypt, before we ever came into the picture.
To look at our house, you'd never know such boundaries existed: ours was the cacophony of objects and scents and language that occurs when you stuff two worlds into one home. The exterior looked like every other house in our suburb of Cincinnati, but inside it was chaos. Oriental ottomans stacked with Amelia Bedelia books stained with greasy fingertips. I was sharply embarrassed by our disorder; the sparkling sterility of my classmates' homes always reflected our foreigner's ineptitude back at me.
In the eye of our hurricane was our stupidly large TV. Everything stemmed out in relation to that garish piece of furniture: empty Lean Cuisine containers, hairbrushes, and math work sheets. My sister and I spent years doing our homework in front of the TV, studying the Seavers and the Winslows as if they were our next-door neighbors. We studied those people too, but in some shaken way the families on the screen felt more trustworthy than the ones down the street. It was TV families who gave us access to their most private moments, who showed us how a "normal" parent responds to first dates and caffeine pills and Thanksgiving meltdowns. They were all encrypted manuals. Somewhere in them was the raw information on how a person should be.
Though the kids ruled the remote control, we weren't always watching alone. My parents searched inside the TV like that, too, to some extent. In summer, we'd all watch The Wonder Years on Nick at Nite, my mom teary-eyed at Kevin's coming of age. She'd been only a little older than him when Neil Armstrong landed on the moon, and here, finally, was something she understood: Kevin Arnold, the epitome of American boyhood, had experienced the space mission in much the same way she had across the world in Alexandria, Egypt. Our 54-channel cable package was our most useful tool in making sense of the America that seemed to exist everywhere but inside our home.
And then, in 1999, when I was 12 years old, my parents did something that upended our entire dynamic: they switched to satellite. I'd left for school at eight as usual, my brain sedated by a morning serving of Bobby's World reruns, and returned home to find the saucer sticky on our slanted, suburban roof. Turns out, an auntie had told my parents that if they switched to Dish Network they could get A.R.T. (Arab Radio and Television Network) beamed into our family room at any hour of the day. A bit of Egypt in Ohio.