*020726-When Love Sounds Like a Threat*

When Love Sounds Like a Threat

The trouble began the moment my new neighbors tried to be kind.

I had lived in Boston long enough to believe I understood multiculturalism. I could pronounce Worcester correctly, knew when to pretend to like cold brew, and had mastered the local art of not reacting to anyone on the sidewalk. This, I assumed, made me worldly.

Then Rami and Arman moved in next door.

Rami is Lebanese. Arman is Armenian. Both are generous, expressive men whose primary mode of affection appears to be issuing statements that, in English, sound like the opening lines of a police report.

Our first real conversation took place on a Sunday morning, as I wrestled a recycling bin back into submission after it tipped over for no apparent reason—an experience so Boston it should be listed on the tourism website.

“Tom!” Rami called out, waving enthusiastically. “Habibi! Allah yakhodak!”

I froze.

Now, I am not religious, but I know enough to recognize when God has been summoned. I ran a quick mental scan: unpaid parking tickets, questionable tax deductions, that one time I forgot to return a library book in 2009.

“I’m sorry?” I said carefully.

Rami smiled. “Means I love you.”

I nodded, the way one nods when a sentence technically contains English words but still feels unsafe.

Before I could respond, Arman stepped forward. “Tom jan! Janis mernem!”

Let me be clear: no one in English says “let me die for you” casually. Not at brunch. Not before noon. Not ever.

“Please don’t,” I said. “I’m really not worth that.”

They both laughed, which somehow made it worse.

Conversation, I learned, does not proceed normally when you believe everyone is either dying for you or being taken by God on your front lawn.

We tried again. I asked about traffic.

Rami sighed. “Kharabtli dmaghi.”

“My brain… was destroyed,” I translated aloud, mostly to hear how it sounded.

“Yes,” he said, satisfied.

Arman nodded in solidarity. “Glukhs tarar. He took my head.”

I considered offering aspirin. Or helmets.

At one point, I tripped slightly on the front step—a gentle stumble, barely worth noticing. Both men gasped.

“Allah yehmi!” Rami cried.

“Achkeres lus e!” Arman added.

This was too much. “Why are we yelling about God and eyes?” I asked.

They looked genuinely confused. “We’re protecting you,” Arman said.

“From what?” I asked. “The step?”

Later, attempting to regain control of the interaction, I complimented Arman’s shoes.

He beamed. “Kez utel em.”

I stared. “You’re… going to eat me?”

“No, no,” Rami said, waving his hand. “Means he likes you.”

In English, liking someone involves no cannibalism whatsoever. We are very clear about this.

The final straw came when I spilled coffee on myself—an act of public clumsiness so mild it barely registered in my own shame hierarchy. Rami gasped.

“Fada7tna!”

“You… exposed us?” I asked.

“Yes,” Arman said gravely. “Our shame.”

I looked down at my coffee-stained shirt, then back at two men who seemed to believe my spill had undone generations of family honor.

That was when I realized the problem wasn’t translation. It was temperament.

English, as a language, is emotionally risk-averse. We apologize for things that haven’t happened yet. We express affection in careful increments. We say “interesting” when we mean “concerning.”

Arabic and Armenian do not share this restraint. They leap. They invoke God. They threaten bodily harm as a form of love. They turn every feeling up to eleven and assume you’ll catch up.

These days, I’ve learned to translate differently.

When Rami says, “May God take you,” I hear, Nice to see you.
When Arman offers to die for me, I say thank you and keep walking.
When someone loses a head, I assume traffic was bad.

We get along fine now.

Still, every Sunday morning, when I take out the recycling, I brace myself—not for judgment, but for affection.