Oh my, it has been a long, long while since I have opened blogspot and made it my slave.
Today I am going to write to you about writing. I think every person with a blog indulges in this, but each person has a unique reason for needing to write, or wanting to write if the need is not too great. Then again, I have always believed that needing and wanting are not so far apart. Blame my hedonistic attitude for that statement!
I used to write this blog to keep myself sane from the desert of my mind. It then became a reason for me to analyse and think about different aspects of my past and present life. It became a place to iron out some issues, discuss some thoughts, and open my own eyes despite the sandstorm.
Now, my life has been taken over by another kind of writing - the academic kind. Being a Master's student in a program about relations between people of different cultures...all I do is write! And the reason I am doing this reading and writing is to learn more about myself and how people interact. It is all fascinating. My ultimate goal, after this, is...guess what? To write more.
I do not use the pen and paper, I use the keyboard. I want to use my keyboard forever, use it up until it is so broken the keys don't even register anymore. After this laptop, I want to use another one. The keyboards will be used up like pens run out of ink. I have no paper, but that's just better for the environment.
I am writing in so many ways now, so many other ways that I have neglected to write in this blog, the blog that once kept me grounded. This is what is sad about my writing life. I need to put my life back into writing, and not just write for the sake of others in an academic setting. I cannot write only what others ask me to write, although I love the writing experience every time.
This blog is for letting you see me. I want you to see me and know me, even if you know very little about me. You will learn about me as you read, because the best way for me to open up to you is write. That's really why I write: because when I speak, or sing, I cannot express myself. My face hides too much, my body's movements are mostly calculated. When I write, the social situation is different. I can be myself. I can be anything I choose to show you, but I promise you that I want to show you everything. In due time, of course...
I am writing more specifically about writing today because I am taking part in NaNoWrimo - I am trying to branch out and write fiction. On my first day, I wrote ~2000 words. My story is about an afterlife where memories are stripped of the dead and they are stuck in a purgatory for a much higher purpose, one that will decide their ultimate fate. I don't wish to say too much just yet, mostly because I have not planned it closely and also because I have only written for one day.
Am I overdoing it with the writing thing? Am I writing too much, asking too much of myself? Let me just say that in my life, there is one certainty - okay, there are many certainties, but there is one major one that I feel very good about, although I know it is not possible. The certainty lies within a dream. A dream I know will never happen, a dream of a life that will never occur. The dream is this:
If I were to fill the rest of my life with eating, sheesha, and writing, that would be the best life.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
His Dark Victory Over My Own
When I was 14 years old I was told by my school counsellor that I may be suffering from clinical depression.
After many ups and downs, I figured out over the years that I was not suffering from depression, but bipolar disorder. In terms of coping mechanisms and medication I must take that actually work and make me feel like a functioning human being, all of this makes sense. I have/had a psychiatrist back in Saudi (a strange, unlikeable fellow) but I have already talked about that in a previous, albeit messily written post.
Back at that awkward age, when I was told I had depression, I allowed myself to sink into that identity. I became the depressed girl who was on medication that didn't work. It became hard to deal with me. Everything I did wrong was because I was depressed and I let it become my reason for everything happening in my life. I kept it a "secret" but told some of my friends and let them know, so when I was in a particularly bad mood, they'd have my condition to blame. I'd have my condition to blame, rather.
How long could I have let that kind of attitude go on? Sadly, about 6 years. I went to undergrad with that mindset - that I was practically invincible because of depression, that it would be my excuse for all of my pitfalls. Even when the diagnosis was switched to bipolar, I let it drag me down. I honestly did not feel the need to fight against my condition. I became engulfed in helplessness. Because of my lack of desire to go against all odds, I went with, no, swam with the flow of depression's tide. It gave me bad grades, a terrible attendance record, and disappointment in me from people who thought I could do much better.
What a miserable, pathetic few years of my life. I still am bipolar, I still deal with the consequences, but I cannot let myself become the bitchy, angsty, immature brat I was before.
I was made to revisit my past and my previous diagnosis when I was face to face with a beloved family member who is currently dealing with depression. This man, once full of life, is now possessed by a failing memory and a hatred of his age. It hurts me so much to see him. However, I noticed that despite his feelings he still fulfills his duty as a grandfather, father, and husband without fail. He takes care of his wife and makes me believe all over again in everlasting, true love. He makes us laugh with his hilarious manipulation of our Mauritian Creole. He keeps us company with his stories of generations past. Although we are all concerned about his well-being, and it has brought many tears to my eyes to see the frustration on his face, he is doing all the fighting I couldn't be bothered to do; that I was too busy being self-pitying to do. While I lurked in the darkness of my room, he is struggling at completing his routines - routines he is still managing to keep even though it is becoming more and more difficult. He might have his moments, but he keeps moving on.
I am so proud of him. I have always looked up to him my whole life and admired the many amazing things that he has done throughout the years, whether on his own or with his wife, another wonderful person. He is doing what I was too scared to do back as a teenager. I became a victim by my own behaviour while he is not letting himself become too much of a victim. Though he is so obviously affected by the physical changes he is going through against his will, he is still alive while having some life taken from him. For 6 years, I was a zombie by choice.
Right now, all I have been thinking about is this wonderful man. He is as inspiring to me now as he always has been before. Mo Yab, personn pa kapav sanz twa. To bien tro fort. Extra pli fort ki mwa mem so mwa mo pli zenn. Vrai mem, to leker bien pli zenn ki mo leker.* I only dream I can be as good and as fort as you.
*My Yab, no one can change you. You are too strong. Much stronger than me even if I am younger than you. Really, your heart is much younger than mine.
After many ups and downs, I figured out over the years that I was not suffering from depression, but bipolar disorder. In terms of coping mechanisms and medication I must take that actually work and make me feel like a functioning human being, all of this makes sense. I have/had a psychiatrist back in Saudi (a strange, unlikeable fellow) but I have already talked about that in a previous, albeit messily written post.
Back at that awkward age, when I was told I had depression, I allowed myself to sink into that identity. I became the depressed girl who was on medication that didn't work. It became hard to deal with me. Everything I did wrong was because I was depressed and I let it become my reason for everything happening in my life. I kept it a "secret" but told some of my friends and let them know, so when I was in a particularly bad mood, they'd have my condition to blame. I'd have my condition to blame, rather.
How long could I have let that kind of attitude go on? Sadly, about 6 years. I went to undergrad with that mindset - that I was practically invincible because of depression, that it would be my excuse for all of my pitfalls. Even when the diagnosis was switched to bipolar, I let it drag me down. I honestly did not feel the need to fight against my condition. I became engulfed in helplessness. Because of my lack of desire to go against all odds, I went with, no, swam with the flow of depression's tide. It gave me bad grades, a terrible attendance record, and disappointment in me from people who thought I could do much better.
What a miserable, pathetic few years of my life. I still am bipolar, I still deal with the consequences, but I cannot let myself become the bitchy, angsty, immature brat I was before.
I was made to revisit my past and my previous diagnosis when I was face to face with a beloved family member who is currently dealing with depression. This man, once full of life, is now possessed by a failing memory and a hatred of his age. It hurts me so much to see him. However, I noticed that despite his feelings he still fulfills his duty as a grandfather, father, and husband without fail. He takes care of his wife and makes me believe all over again in everlasting, true love. He makes us laugh with his hilarious manipulation of our Mauritian Creole. He keeps us company with his stories of generations past. Although we are all concerned about his well-being, and it has brought many tears to my eyes to see the frustration on his face, he is doing all the fighting I couldn't be bothered to do; that I was too busy being self-pitying to do. While I lurked in the darkness of my room, he is struggling at completing his routines - routines he is still managing to keep even though it is becoming more and more difficult. He might have his moments, but he keeps moving on.
I am so proud of him. I have always looked up to him my whole life and admired the many amazing things that he has done throughout the years, whether on his own or with his wife, another wonderful person. He is doing what I was too scared to do back as a teenager. I became a victim by my own behaviour while he is not letting himself become too much of a victim. Though he is so obviously affected by the physical changes he is going through against his will, he is still alive while having some life taken from him. For 6 years, I was a zombie by choice.
Right now, all I have been thinking about is this wonderful man. He is as inspiring to me now as he always has been before. Mo Yab, personn pa kapav sanz twa. To bien tro fort. Extra pli fort ki mwa mem so mwa mo pli zenn. Vrai mem, to leker bien pli zenn ki mo leker.* I only dream I can be as good and as fort as you.
*My Yab, no one can change you. You are too strong. Much stronger than me even if I am younger than you. Really, your heart is much younger than mine.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Mission: Impossible (or How to Date in a Place like Mauritius)
She meets me at my house. I have now become her alibi.
Her Mom knows me and, more importantly by far, knows my Mom. That is why she was allowed to visit me in the first place. But she is not there to see me, not really. We engage in a little chitchat here and there, we laugh about certain things. She's a little nervous.
We walk over to Plaza, the city centre of the glorious town of Rose Hill - a place I could faithfully call my hometown, at least for 6 years. It isn't my hometown anymore, but I know that place too well. If I ever go back, I'll remember the way to Plaza. It's hard to forget.
Plaza is a beautiful town hall. In my mind is it Rose Hill's pride and joy; a complex of offices and a gorgeous opera house which I have attended and performed at. Behind this colonial wooden structure is a parking lot, and small garden. The lot is full of old, crumbling low walls and trucks. The garden has high hedges.
Do you know what all of those are perfect for? Why, the secret rendez-vous!
And that is what we are doing. We are meeting a boy there. She has been waiting for a good two weeks to see him and hold his hand, so she is very eager and impatient. She blushes at the very sight of him.
He's a skinny guy with spiky, gelled hair. I think it's gross, but he is her Adonis, so what can I say? I smile, say hello, and go for a walk. This is their time, not mine.
Rose Hill is full of places to walk. I go into stores, maybe walk to the post office which is right by the bus station. An old woman sells boiled peanuts but I never buy any from her. I am, as always, severely tempted.
After about an hour of wandering or reading in Le Cygne bookstore, I go back to Plaza. I shyly walk by the many couples who are attempting to be unseen, but it is all very obvious. They are there to make out, and I am there to see if my friend is finished, because she needs to get back to my house soon. Her Mom might have called while we were out of the house. This is the age of telephones, not cell phones...
I see her sitting with her beau under a tree, against a mouldy-looking wall. It's gross, but they don't care. They are in love, and this is just the first step to them being together...forever.
No, it isn't. They will have a fight in a few months, or maybe in a few years, that will end in tears. She will probably end up getting an arranged marriage to a guy from a "good family" and he will hate her forever. He will text her many times a day before she gets engaged, because he cannot believe it is over. She will cry late at night sometimes. Her new husband might be good to her, or he might not. It never ends up the way you think it will.
The Muslim dating world is hard to navigate. It is unforgiving and, at times, heartless. The Muslim-Mauritian community may be the same in many ways, but when I was growing up there my friends and I had nothing but heart. We loved our girls and boys with all of ourselves. We didn't care about race, religion, or age. We just fell in love over and over, fully and crazily. This was a time of hormones and raging emotions, and Mauritius may have stifled us. We were young and full of love, but we had to do everything in secret. While it may have been exciting, the consequences could be dire.
I am unhappy with the knowledge that Mauritius hasn't really changed yet. The same mentality still exists.
I hope other Mauritians are still acting as alibis. As hated as we might have been by the righteous, weren't we a necessary evil?
Her Mom knows me and, more importantly by far, knows my Mom. That is why she was allowed to visit me in the first place. But she is not there to see me, not really. We engage in a little chitchat here and there, we laugh about certain things. She's a little nervous.
We walk over to Plaza, the city centre of the glorious town of Rose Hill - a place I could faithfully call my hometown, at least for 6 years. It isn't my hometown anymore, but I know that place too well. If I ever go back, I'll remember the way to Plaza. It's hard to forget.
 |
| Image: http://cache.virtualtourist.com/912663-Rose_Hill_The_Plaza_theatre-Rose_Hill.jpg |
Plaza is a beautiful town hall. In my mind is it Rose Hill's pride and joy; a complex of offices and a gorgeous opera house which I have attended and performed at. Behind this colonial wooden structure is a parking lot, and small garden. The lot is full of old, crumbling low walls and trucks. The garden has high hedges.
Do you know what all of those are perfect for? Why, the secret rendez-vous!
And that is what we are doing. We are meeting a boy there. She has been waiting for a good two weeks to see him and hold his hand, so she is very eager and impatient. She blushes at the very sight of him.
He's a skinny guy with spiky, gelled hair. I think it's gross, but he is her Adonis, so what can I say? I smile, say hello, and go for a walk. This is their time, not mine.
Rose Hill is full of places to walk. I go into stores, maybe walk to the post office which is right by the bus station. An old woman sells boiled peanuts but I never buy any from her. I am, as always, severely tempted.
After about an hour of wandering or reading in Le Cygne bookstore, I go back to Plaza. I shyly walk by the many couples who are attempting to be unseen, but it is all very obvious. They are there to make out, and I am there to see if my friend is finished, because she needs to get back to my house soon. Her Mom might have called while we were out of the house. This is the age of telephones, not cell phones...
I see her sitting with her beau under a tree, against a mouldy-looking wall. It's gross, but they don't care. They are in love, and this is just the first step to them being together...forever.
No, it isn't. They will have a fight in a few months, or maybe in a few years, that will end in tears. She will probably end up getting an arranged marriage to a guy from a "good family" and he will hate her forever. He will text her many times a day before she gets engaged, because he cannot believe it is over. She will cry late at night sometimes. Her new husband might be good to her, or he might not. It never ends up the way you think it will.
The Muslim dating world is hard to navigate. It is unforgiving and, at times, heartless. The Muslim-Mauritian community may be the same in many ways, but when I was growing up there my friends and I had nothing but heart. We loved our girls and boys with all of ourselves. We didn't care about race, religion, or age. We just fell in love over and over, fully and crazily. This was a time of hormones and raging emotions, and Mauritius may have stifled us. We were young and full of love, but we had to do everything in secret. While it may have been exciting, the consequences could be dire.
I am unhappy with the knowledge that Mauritius hasn't really changed yet. The same mentality still exists.
I hope other Mauritians are still acting as alibis. As hated as we might have been by the righteous, weren't we a necessary evil?
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Unreal Concept of Dating in the Muslim World
Oh, boy. Dating. In any culture, it's really, really hard.
It's a great way to meet new people, even if you are not looking for strictly romance and a whole lot of commitment. It's a way to find out about a new area, to make new friends, and have fun experiences. I've been to a lot of fun places because of dating. It's a way to lighten your wallet, taste new foods, and have eye-opening (or dreadful) conversations with people who want the same things you do (I hope). All emotional attachment aside, dating is (or should be) fun, lighthearted, and a way to make a potential connection of some kind with another human being. It's nice.
Never in my life have I ever dated a Muslim. I cannot tolerate Muslim dating in the least, and the Muslim men I have met who I might want to date either a) end up scaring the heck out of me (I will show you later) or b) are married/engaged with twenty kids. The better Muslim men who I have had connections with are either not progressive enough, or taken. Apparently, the Muslim world is out to prove to me that happiness with a Muslim man is not possible for me at this point in my life.
Now, I am not going to talk about arranged marriages, being set up, etc. etc. That is a different way of looking at life; one that is not mine but one that I respect. There is nothing wrong, in my opinion, with meeting a nice guy/girl through the family in this "traditional" way. I think in certain aspects that it makes more sense! In a close knit family, having input from the people who love you might be the best way to find a partner. They know you best. I do not want it for myself, but I think it is reasonable as long as the person is not pressured or forced into marriage.
I am instead going to talk about Muslim dating. I am also talking about Muslim dating from the point of view of myself, and probably many female Muslims out there. Indeed, stereotypes will be engaged in, generalisations will be apparent, and one or two people may raise their arms in anguish and shout, "BUT, Ms. Burdened Mary, not ALL Muslim men are like this! Some of them are awesome! Look! I'm married/engaged/dating/the mother of a GREAT Muslim man!" Well, good for you. I'm talking from my miserable experiences; the bad side of things. I am aware of individual differences.
Some of us Muslimahs want to casually hang out with an attractive male. That is, apparently, the most wrong, immoral, indiscreet, SLUTTY thing you can ever do. Yes, we are all skanks for wanting to find a soulmate in a casual atmosphere, with conversation, food, and maybe a movie or something. Obviously we just wish to use our wiles to seduce poor, poor Muslim men who are naive and defenceless against our wicked charms!
Oh, come on.
This is the first issue with wanting to date in the Muslim world: the huge discrepancy between the role of men and women. Men are expected to take charge, and women are not supposed to want the attention. We are to be demure, shy, reserved and sweet. We should accept the advances we get but are damned if we show our own feelings of attraction too much ourselves. We are pressured every time we meet a man into showing affection, but once we do it...that's it. We are impure and not innocent anymore, so the man moves on!
Let me give you an example that is way too familiar to you if you have dated or have read/heard about someone dating a Muslim man. A young girl, age 18, meets a guy at a falafel restaurant in New York City. He is handsome, and older at about 26 years old. He is Arab, and a Muslim. The girl is Muslim too, and is flattered by his friendly, seemingly open manner towards her in the store. She is Arab, and has moved to the city for studies - it was nice to find a face familiar to those at home. They exchange phone numbers and the girl floats on could nine out of the store with a delicious falafel- and tahini-filled sandwich.
The next day, she calls him. He jokingly says, "Wow, you seem eager to meet me." She says, "Well, yes. Do you not want to meet me?" He goes silent. He says, "Okay. I'll meet you. See you in x place at x o'clock."
They meet at this place, which is a dark restaurant in a seedier neighbourhood. She is dressed nicely, and he is in a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans. They sit down, he looks at her, and throughout the meal he smiles with a glitter in his eye. She smiles back, and they flirt, albeit shyly from her end. She's not too used to flirting and is really just acting on impulse rather than on calculated thought, at least most of the time. By the end of the meal, he has his foot next to hers under the table, and they indulge in a small, yet meaningful, game of footsie. It's like they've been dating for a long time...
He offers to walk her to her bus stop, being a gentleman in her eyes. She is glowing with happiness. That is, until they start walking. He runs his hand down her back as they walk, his hand getting lower and lower. She is uncomfortable, and flinches away oviously. Suddenly, his tone of voice changes to a low growl as he stops.
"Why are you running away from me now," he asks, "why are you suddenly shrinking?" She says, "I like you, but you are making me feel weird." She couldn't think of a better thing to say than weird. Uncomfortable would be too accusatory, in case he didn't realise he somewhat crossed a line, and if she said I don't like what you are doing, it would be way too awkward.
"Oh, I see." He faces her and looks her right in the eye. His stance widens, and his shoulders look suddenly twice as broad, just for a second. "Now all of a sudden you are a pure and innocent Arab! The way you were before, you were like a looser girl, like an American. What did I do wrong?"
Offended by his words, the girl feels heat in her face. Pure and innocent? Loose? Those are not words that went into her mind throughout the whole date. Now she just wanted him to leave, but they were near the bus stop. She realises that she is all alone, with this man she did not know.
She is lucky. He says, "I don't know you or what you want. Good night." He walks away from her, leaving her in the dark. It's better this way, she thinks. I am glad he is gone. She takes the bus home and she feels safe, and the questions in her head are too much for her. What did he mean? What did he think I wanted? Did I act like a whore? I don't remember!
I want to tell her, and every other woman with those questions every day, that she did not act like a whore, nor did she do anything wrong. Whether he was Arab, Indian, Mauritian, whatever, it doesn't matter - he was a Muslim man from a Muslim culture that did not expect a woman to be forward in the least. If she were quiet, unresponsive, and never looked at him in the eye whatsoever, she would have been doing what was right in Muslim society's mind, but she would have been boring, wouldn't she? She wouldn't have been acting as herself. She would have been a great wife, but not a partner or a friend.
But guess what? Us ladies, whether we are Muslim or not, we don't just want to date to become wives. Some of us would like to to end that way, but dating is about having fun and, as I have said, making real connections. We cannot shield ourselves completely, lie or conceal for the sake of reputation, and then expect to be able to have a genuine relationship based on trust and love. It doesn't make sense!
The Muslim dating world, if that even really exists, puts too much emphasis on face, the idea that we need to protect our reputations. It's all about what we should do, and not at all about who we are, or emotion. It has gotten to the point where everything is ridiculous. If you dare make up your own moves, forget it. You'll be forced out, and alienated. I'm sick of it; that's it.
It's a great way to meet new people, even if you are not looking for strictly romance and a whole lot of commitment. It's a way to find out about a new area, to make new friends, and have fun experiences. I've been to a lot of fun places because of dating. It's a way to lighten your wallet, taste new foods, and have eye-opening (or dreadful) conversations with people who want the same things you do (I hope). All emotional attachment aside, dating is (or should be) fun, lighthearted, and a way to make a potential connection of some kind with another human being. It's nice.
Never in my life have I ever dated a Muslim. I cannot tolerate Muslim dating in the least, and the Muslim men I have met who I might want to date either a) end up scaring the heck out of me (I will show you later) or b) are married/engaged with twenty kids. The better Muslim men who I have had connections with are either not progressive enough, or taken. Apparently, the Muslim world is out to prove to me that happiness with a Muslim man is not possible for me at this point in my life.
Now, I am not going to talk about arranged marriages, being set up, etc. etc. That is a different way of looking at life; one that is not mine but one that I respect. There is nothing wrong, in my opinion, with meeting a nice guy/girl through the family in this "traditional" way. I think in certain aspects that it makes more sense! In a close knit family, having input from the people who love you might be the best way to find a partner. They know you best. I do not want it for myself, but I think it is reasonable as long as the person is not pressured or forced into marriage.
I am instead going to talk about Muslim dating. I am also talking about Muslim dating from the point of view of myself, and probably many female Muslims out there. Indeed, stereotypes will be engaged in, generalisations will be apparent, and one or two people may raise their arms in anguish and shout, "BUT, Ms. Burdened Mary, not ALL Muslim men are like this! Some of them are awesome! Look! I'm married/engaged/dating/the mother of a GREAT Muslim man!" Well, good for you. I'm talking from my miserable experiences; the bad side of things. I am aware of individual differences.
Some of us Muslimahs want to casually hang out with an attractive male. That is, apparently, the most wrong, immoral, indiscreet, SLUTTY thing you can ever do. Yes, we are all skanks for wanting to find a soulmate in a casual atmosphere, with conversation, food, and maybe a movie or something. Obviously we just wish to use our wiles to seduce poor, poor Muslim men who are naive and defenceless against our wicked charms!
Oh, come on.
This is the first issue with wanting to date in the Muslim world: the huge discrepancy between the role of men and women. Men are expected to take charge, and women are not supposed to want the attention. We are to be demure, shy, reserved and sweet. We should accept the advances we get but are damned if we show our own feelings of attraction too much ourselves. We are pressured every time we meet a man into showing affection, but once we do it...that's it. We are impure and not innocent anymore, so the man moves on!
Let me give you an example that is way too familiar to you if you have dated or have read/heard about someone dating a Muslim man. A young girl, age 18, meets a guy at a falafel restaurant in New York City. He is handsome, and older at about 26 years old. He is Arab, and a Muslim. The girl is Muslim too, and is flattered by his friendly, seemingly open manner towards her in the store. She is Arab, and has moved to the city for studies - it was nice to find a face familiar to those at home. They exchange phone numbers and the girl floats on could nine out of the store with a delicious falafel- and tahini-filled sandwich.
The next day, she calls him. He jokingly says, "Wow, you seem eager to meet me." She says, "Well, yes. Do you not want to meet me?" He goes silent. He says, "Okay. I'll meet you. See you in x place at x o'clock."
They meet at this place, which is a dark restaurant in a seedier neighbourhood. She is dressed nicely, and he is in a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans. They sit down, he looks at her, and throughout the meal he smiles with a glitter in his eye. She smiles back, and they flirt, albeit shyly from her end. She's not too used to flirting and is really just acting on impulse rather than on calculated thought, at least most of the time. By the end of the meal, he has his foot next to hers under the table, and they indulge in a small, yet meaningful, game of footsie. It's like they've been dating for a long time...
He offers to walk her to her bus stop, being a gentleman in her eyes. She is glowing with happiness. That is, until they start walking. He runs his hand down her back as they walk, his hand getting lower and lower. She is uncomfortable, and flinches away oviously. Suddenly, his tone of voice changes to a low growl as he stops.
"Why are you running away from me now," he asks, "why are you suddenly shrinking?" She says, "I like you, but you are making me feel weird." She couldn't think of a better thing to say than weird. Uncomfortable would be too accusatory, in case he didn't realise he somewhat crossed a line, and if she said I don't like what you are doing, it would be way too awkward.
"Oh, I see." He faces her and looks her right in the eye. His stance widens, and his shoulders look suddenly twice as broad, just for a second. "Now all of a sudden you are a pure and innocent Arab! The way you were before, you were like a looser girl, like an American. What did I do wrong?"
Offended by his words, the girl feels heat in her face. Pure and innocent? Loose? Those are not words that went into her mind throughout the whole date. Now she just wanted him to leave, but they were near the bus stop. She realises that she is all alone, with this man she did not know.
She is lucky. He says, "I don't know you or what you want. Good night." He walks away from her, leaving her in the dark. It's better this way, she thinks. I am glad he is gone. She takes the bus home and she feels safe, and the questions in her head are too much for her. What did he mean? What did he think I wanted? Did I act like a whore? I don't remember!
I want to tell her, and every other woman with those questions every day, that she did not act like a whore, nor did she do anything wrong. Whether he was Arab, Indian, Mauritian, whatever, it doesn't matter - he was a Muslim man from a Muslim culture that did not expect a woman to be forward in the least. If she were quiet, unresponsive, and never looked at him in the eye whatsoever, she would have been doing what was right in Muslim society's mind, but she would have been boring, wouldn't she? She wouldn't have been acting as herself. She would have been a great wife, but not a partner or a friend.
But guess what? Us ladies, whether we are Muslim or not, we don't just want to date to become wives. Some of us would like to to end that way, but dating is about having fun and, as I have said, making real connections. We cannot shield ourselves completely, lie or conceal for the sake of reputation, and then expect to be able to have a genuine relationship based on trust and love. It doesn't make sense!
The Muslim dating world, if that even really exists, puts too much emphasis on face, the idea that we need to protect our reputations. It's all about what we should do, and not at all about who we are, or emotion. It has gotten to the point where everything is ridiculous. If you dare make up your own moves, forget it. You'll be forced out, and alienated. I'm sick of it; that's it.
Friday, September 24, 2010
A Bond by Birth: A Childhood Object Described
Wherever I lived, I had to be a big girl.
I cry because my mother or father is yelling at me? If I do it in front of them, it ends up becoming embarrassing later.
I cry because my heart is broken? Never in front of my family or friends.
I cry because I am leaving a country where I made great new friends? Never, EVER in front of my family, and coincidentally never in front of my friends, too.
Maybe the coincidence isn't a coincidence after all, you know. I've been made harder, like stone. I listened to Simon & Garfunkel's I am a Rock when I was about 13 and I thought...Wow. This song is life. MY life.
I don't feel that way anymore. I feel that if I should cry, let me cry! I am a human being who deserves to be sad. I deserve to look forward in my life and not backward. I cannot get over the past, however, if I keep everything inside. My friends would love to help me, as I would love to help them no matter what. Why not show them my feelings? Why not cry?
I can't. I'm 21 years old, and I can cry at movies like I have lost everything I have ever loved, but if you make me sad, or if I feel sad for another, even more devastating reason, you will not see me cry. Books, songs, movies, random news stories and photos will make me cry. Sometimes, you'll be around when that happens. That'll be your lucky day, because otherwise, I am a rock, I am an island. And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.
--
Tomorrow, I have an extra Saturday class. I am supposed to bring an object that is from my childhood or that represents my childhood before I turned 10 years old. I honestly have nothing from that time frame anymore. I do not have, in my possession, anything that old. I have some scanned photographs that I might share, but that is the only thing I have.
I will not share these with you, because some of them involve my family and the last thing I want to do is show a picture of my family on the internet. That would be risky and unfair to them. But I will describe a picture to you that I think I might share tomorrow.
I do not know how old I am, however, I am very little. Well, little as in young, but I was a big baby! I was enormous! My large, black eyes made me alien-like and frightening, even to me today! They are soulless. My mother's father hold me up while my father's father grabs on from the other side. They are standing beneath a framed Islamic inscription on a blank cream wall. My grandfathers are smiling, animated, alive. They are excited to be holding me.
But what I will probably not mention tomorrow is that even as a baby, I was emotionless and blank as that wall behind me. I don't even have a hint of curiosity. I am staring, but at nothing at all, just towards the camera so that the lens can capture those dark, dark eyes. I am wearing a ridiculous pink outfit, but I might as well have been naked. I was either a blank slate waiting to take on the world, or the zombie I am afraid of becoming today.
It is strange to me how emotional and happy people are with a new arrival like me into the world. I have never been that excited about babies, although I must admit that when my niece was born, it was an entertaining idea for me to think about being an aunt. However, in general, my interest in children has waned. My interest in life, however, since that picture was taken, has grown immensely.
I am studying really hard so that I can understand the way cultures interact. Right in that photograph, I am seeing a forced alliance through marriage between two very, very different cultures. My mother's father looks so different from my father's father. One is white and American, one is dark and Mauritian. They are both a part of me, and they are both insanely beautiful. They have different personalities that reflect in their eyes and postures. My mother's father is looking at me with a cheeky grin of all white teeth, his hair pushed back in a messy parting. He is charming, funny, and loving. My father's father stands just a bit straighter, his hair neater, and he wears a sweater-vest and tie. He is also smiling, but directly at the camera. It looks like he is in the middle of a laugh. He looks so proud to be the grandfather of a third girl; I can see it in his Caspian blue eyes.
I can see cultural differences, but what I see even more now is how similar these two men become, together in this frame. Sure, their physical features are different, extremely different, but their expressions are connected. That day, in that photograph...they were connected by me. It's hard for me to think of that, but I know it is true. The picture was taken to actually celebrate me, and it took me so long to get it.
--
So what if I grew up all moody and cold? So what if I went through moments and periods of sadness and solitude? I hid my feelings, but today I am not the same. I love that I am alive. I mean something to someone, even more than one someone. I may be working on expressing my feelings outwardly, but I will one day prevail even if it is not today.
One day, I will be able to cry in front of someone and it won't feel weird or awkward or wrong. There is a time and place for everything, and my time and place for open expression is in an intimate area, with a friend or family member. I can do this; I know it. It may not be soon, but it will be a day described as a turning point in my life.
I cry because my mother or father is yelling at me? If I do it in front of them, it ends up becoming embarrassing later.
I cry because my heart is broken? Never in front of my family or friends.
I cry because I am leaving a country where I made great new friends? Never, EVER in front of my family, and coincidentally never in front of my friends, too.
Maybe the coincidence isn't a coincidence after all, you know. I've been made harder, like stone. I listened to Simon & Garfunkel's I am a Rock when I was about 13 and I thought...Wow. This song is life. MY life.
I don't feel that way anymore. I feel that if I should cry, let me cry! I am a human being who deserves to be sad. I deserve to look forward in my life and not backward. I cannot get over the past, however, if I keep everything inside. My friends would love to help me, as I would love to help them no matter what. Why not show them my feelings? Why not cry?
I can't. I'm 21 years old, and I can cry at movies like I have lost everything I have ever loved, but if you make me sad, or if I feel sad for another, even more devastating reason, you will not see me cry. Books, songs, movies, random news stories and photos will make me cry. Sometimes, you'll be around when that happens. That'll be your lucky day, because otherwise, I am a rock, I am an island. And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.
--
Tomorrow, I have an extra Saturday class. I am supposed to bring an object that is from my childhood or that represents my childhood before I turned 10 years old. I honestly have nothing from that time frame anymore. I do not have, in my possession, anything that old. I have some scanned photographs that I might share, but that is the only thing I have.
I will not share these with you, because some of them involve my family and the last thing I want to do is show a picture of my family on the internet. That would be risky and unfair to them. But I will describe a picture to you that I think I might share tomorrow.
I do not know how old I am, however, I am very little. Well, little as in young, but I was a big baby! I was enormous! My large, black eyes made me alien-like and frightening, even to me today! They are soulless. My mother's father hold me up while my father's father grabs on from the other side. They are standing beneath a framed Islamic inscription on a blank cream wall. My grandfathers are smiling, animated, alive. They are excited to be holding me.
But what I will probably not mention tomorrow is that even as a baby, I was emotionless and blank as that wall behind me. I don't even have a hint of curiosity. I am staring, but at nothing at all, just towards the camera so that the lens can capture those dark, dark eyes. I am wearing a ridiculous pink outfit, but I might as well have been naked. I was either a blank slate waiting to take on the world, or the zombie I am afraid of becoming today.
It is strange to me how emotional and happy people are with a new arrival like me into the world. I have never been that excited about babies, although I must admit that when my niece was born, it was an entertaining idea for me to think about being an aunt. However, in general, my interest in children has waned. My interest in life, however, since that picture was taken, has grown immensely.
I am studying really hard so that I can understand the way cultures interact. Right in that photograph, I am seeing a forced alliance through marriage between two very, very different cultures. My mother's father looks so different from my father's father. One is white and American, one is dark and Mauritian. They are both a part of me, and they are both insanely beautiful. They have different personalities that reflect in their eyes and postures. My mother's father is looking at me with a cheeky grin of all white teeth, his hair pushed back in a messy parting. He is charming, funny, and loving. My father's father stands just a bit straighter, his hair neater, and he wears a sweater-vest and tie. He is also smiling, but directly at the camera. It looks like he is in the middle of a laugh. He looks so proud to be the grandfather of a third girl; I can see it in his Caspian blue eyes.
I can see cultural differences, but what I see even more now is how similar these two men become, together in this frame. Sure, their physical features are different, extremely different, but their expressions are connected. That day, in that photograph...they were connected by me. It's hard for me to think of that, but I know it is true. The picture was taken to actually celebrate me, and it took me so long to get it.
--
So what if I grew up all moody and cold? So what if I went through moments and periods of sadness and solitude? I hid my feelings, but today I am not the same. I love that I am alive. I mean something to someone, even more than one someone. I may be working on expressing my feelings outwardly, but I will one day prevail even if it is not today.
One day, I will be able to cry in front of someone and it won't feel weird or awkward or wrong. There is a time and place for everything, and my time and place for open expression is in an intimate area, with a friend or family member. I can do this; I know it. It may not be soon, but it will be a day described as a turning point in my life.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
My Identity in the Form of a Graduate Paper
I had to write a paper about my identity for a class in this new Intercultural Relations degree I am aiming for. After writing it, I knew it needed to be posted here. So here it is...
Enn Ti Zacko Blanc
“Where are you from?” is the most irritating question in the world, in my opinion. This is due to the fact that my nationality or birthplace has nothing to do with who I am. Depending on my mood, the position of the moon, and the blowing of the Eastern winds, I have different answers.
When I am in the company of good-natured, jovial people, I laugh and say, “It’s complicated!” Sometimes, the rest of the group enthusiastically proclaims that they would love to hear this complicated story that I had just advertised. Sadly, they missed the point of my laughter – to me, it was a social queue meaning “I’m laughing because I don’t really want to talk about it and because it is, in fact, way too complicated.” A few times in my life, the other people recognize that I am trying to shy away from the subject and either poke and prod me for at least a little about myself, or they respect my desire to stay silent on the topic. When the latter happens, I breathe a huge sigh of relief.
On a bad day, when I have had it particularly rough, I respond to the question with a sharp “It’d take way too long to explain.” My tone of voice is not of the easy-going, carefree Khadeja in the last situation. Instead, I am pointedly irritated by the question and it is obvious. Again, some still ask for more, some stay silent, and others just smile and try to turn my nasty spark into a kind of joke. Again, the latter allows me to let out a sigh of relief. I like it when people use lightheartedness to improve a situation. I usually feel guilty, no matter what their response is. They are only trying to make conversation.
In the end, there is one thing that one may notice about these two polar situations. The truth is, I do not enjoy explaining my background in one fluid paragraph or flow of words. I need to break it up, little by little, over the course of many conversations. This is mainly because the first explanation I try to give does not encompass the vast amount of knowledge I need to portray to my listener. Sadly, the first impression counts for many, many people.
However, there is a question. What do I do when people ask for more or practically beg for some kind of answer? I am a fickle lady, one who cannot take too much begging before I start to feel bad. In the end, I give them something indeed, but up to this point I think that what I have been answering is incorrect.
Before today, I used to give them a rundown of the places I have lived in throughout my life. I was born in a suburb of Chicago, near to where my father was born. My mother was born in Mauritius, a small island off the coast of Madagascar and the land of the dodo bird, which is now extinct due to a plague of Dutchmen and rats. When I was one and a half years old, my father accepted a job opportunity in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Since then, I have become a forced nomad, as my parents (mostly my father due to his job) made us pack our things and leave on many occasions. At one point, we moved back to Saudi Arabia, but this time to the holy city of Makkah. We used to go to the Friday Jummah prayer at the Masjid Al-Haram, and we would see the Kabah at its centre. It did not occur to me, when I was so young, that there are millions of Muslims that would never get to see the Kabah due to health or financial reasons, but there I was. At another point in time, much later, I was living in Mauritius. My father moved back to Saudi Arabia alone – this was the time right after the tragedy of September 11th, 2001. Foreigners in Saudi Arabia were being targeted, especially international schools, so my father did not want my sisters and I to have to live that kind of life. After my years in Mauritius and graduating from secondary school, I went back to the United States with hope in my heart and dreams of a great, free university life. I thought I would finally begin to find myself…
Instead, I got even more lost. Is it not apparent why none of that chunk of story matters? What does it say about where I am from? I think it says very little, if anything at all. It took me 21 years, but now I see that who I am does not lie with the countries I have lived in, no matter what anyone tries to impose upon me. I am from none of these places, in the end. The longest I have ever lived in a country was in Mauritius, but even there I was not accepted fully into the society. Even with a Mauritian mother, the fact that I had a white American father mattered more. I feel President Obama’s pain when people constantly label him as a black president when, in fact, his mother was white. This is the kind of uphill battle I am constantly involved in, but in this battle I have no armor to speak of. It is as if everyone is better equipped than I am.
When I was in Mauritius, people chose what I was – I was that weird English-only-speaking girl who tried too hard to make friends. In every other country, I was labelled as an expatriate testing the waters but never going in too deep – except the United States. Here, I am an exotic, interesting woman who has lived in places most people would never dream of visiting. I am sometimes scrutinised, and at others idolised merely for existing. Back in Mauritius, for an extremely long time, I was the epitome of everything that the society hated: a “white” girl who claimed to be a Mauritian, but who knew nothing of the culture itself because she only began living there at the age of eleven. To be honest, I feel like I am an intruder upon the cultures I visit, and that the Mauritius got it right. In the Creole I claimed as mine, I am enn ti zacko blanc ki envi rentre kott les pli grand noirs[1]. The harsh truth is that I don’t fit in anywhere.
However, when it comes to my flexible, unknown identity, I can at least say this: the ti zacko blanc (little white monkey) was able to, and is always able to, coexist peacefully with the pli grand noirs (bigger black ones). Sometimes, we even become friends and share experiences.
My identity is an endless ocean, with life and death as well as stagnancy and waves. It is a mixture of colours, textures, and movements of things dead and alive. How can I possibly describe it? Where could I possibly start? I feel sometimes that I am incapable of doing so, because I am but a small creature; floundering, swimming and gasping for air in this sea of emotions and experiences. And the imposed labels that have been forced on me are like oil rigs, tankers, and fishermen who plunge into my sea and destroy me.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Using Travel to Forge the Link
This weekend, for the Eid celebration, I went to Chicago.
The events unfurled as follows, starting on Thursday, the 9th of September:
Sitting in my room, trying to watch My Name is Khan without bursting into tears, I decide to pause the DVD I ordered from Netflix and call it a day. With everything that has been going on, with the threat of Qur'an burnings and Park 51 nonsense, watching My Name is Khan is a bad idea in the first place. All of a sudden, in the middle of me drying my eyes, I see that Mom is calling me on my cell phone..
The conversation basically starts like...
"Khadeja, do you want to come to Chicago?!"
"Umm...okay!"
She buys me a ticket mid conversation and sends me a receipt. That's the short version of what happens. In reality, it takes about 3 phone calls for the tickets to be bought, as well as a lot of mumblings on the part of both myself and Mom. Usually, when we get excited, it's hard for us to do things systematically. This usually infuriates the likes of my Dad, who likes things done in order and efficiently.
Finally, the last conversation my Mom and I have ends something like...
"Okay, we'll see you tomorrow then!"
"Yeah! I will!"
That very night, I book a taxi to the airport that night by searching for taxi services in Google and calling the first name that catches my eye. I then decide to read the reviews - again, doing things out of order, willy-nilly, because of entrenched excitement. To my dismay, the company I choose instinctively has the worst reviews, citing terrible manners, customers being ripped off, and dirty taxis with cigarette butts littered on the seats. One guy wrote a scathing paragraph about how the cab driver he had was mad at him for being 2 minutes late to catching the taxi - by the driver's watch, mind you - and he berated the customer constantly throughout the 20 mintue drive to the airport. Ohhhhh boy.
I wake up at 6am the next morning although the taxi is supposed to come by 9. I initially plan to wake up at about 7:30am, which would give me plenty of time anyway. I decide to skip the shower and take it when I get to Chicago, for some reason - I am lazy all the time, but let it be known that most of my laziness occurs in the early morning hours when I do things at a quarter of the speed. I instead waste time on the internet, reading threads on the Something Awful forums, where I have lurked for years. I ended up rushing in the shower for 5 minutes because I realised I had nothing better to do. I wear my Eid dress, one I bought the day before from a thrift store (it was vintage!) and I love the way it looks on me. The oranges, browns, and 70s patterns evoke a feeling of bliss and inner hippie, something that has been apparent in my clothing of late for some reason.
I go outside and end up waiting only 5 minutes for the cab to arrive. The driver ends up being awesome. He is a hilarious Greek guy (from Macedonia!) named Steve who talks about all the girls he chased in his youth before settling down with his, and I quote, "amazing woman." It warms my insides after I laugh at the stories of his various conquests. He really, really loves her, and his children and grandchildren. He reminds me a bit of my own grandfather, the one I am about to visit, who also had his fair share of women in his youth - and still brags about it. While I should be offended somehow, I like Steve's cheerful nature and sugary words about how good-natured he thinks I am for laughing and not taking him too seriously.
I get to the airport rather early for the flight, especially since I get my boarding pass and go through security checks very smoothly. The passport checker looks at my passport and asks, in Russian, whether I speak Russian. I understand him due to some basic vocabulary, but had to say no as I do not actually speak the language. The man was Brazilian and was speaking Portuguese only a second before switching to Russian to ask the question to me.
At my gate, I ned up alternating between playing Plants vs. Zombies and reading The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage. It is 2 hours before I am able to board my flight to Chicago's O'Hare airport. The American Airlines "wing" is interesting, with some fun neon work on the wall. I did not think of taking a picture only because the book was engrossing.
I finally get onto the flight and end up being seated between two rather attractive men: one big, burly, and obviously on his way to some sort of business meeting, the other shorter with a gorgeous smile and a self-help book. The book I am reading has racy pictures of rock stars and the author, who appears on one full page in lingerie and a sexy pose, pushing her breasts together and puckering her lips seductively. I feel awkward looking at it next to these two men, but I want to understand this woman whose story I was reading; I want to be engrossed in her physicality which makes up so much of the book - and believe me, it is very important. In retrospect, it is hilarious. I end up finishing the book within the first hour or so of the flight anyway, leaving me with nothing but my iPod for the rest of the time.
I arrive in Chicago with barely any sleep, but slightly earlier than scheduled. I take an American Taxi cab over to my grandparents' house in the suburbs. I arrive there before my parents and, while talking to my grandparents (who are in this case my father's parents) I receive an Eid Mubarak phone call from my other set of grandparents who live in New Jersey, my mother's parents. It is then that I realise why it is I took this trip.
The details of this trip are mundane, and most of them have blurred into a blob of grey in my mind. The dance I have always done through the security checks with only my passport, boarding pass, and carry-on entertainment as my partners now contain steps I have memorised through years of practice. I am now a world-class performer! I have been on airplanes since I was 1 1/2 years old, I have been travelling without my parents since I was 16, and I will keep on travelling for years and years.
It is lonely being on an airplane for hours and hours; it is boring at an airport with the same duty free shops, the same exorbitant food prices, and the same families, businessmen, well-dressed women and tourists walking around like zombies at the shopping mall. It's no longer thrilling, or exciting, or amazing. The only exhilarating thing is being on the airplane during takeoff and landing near a window. I will never get tired of that. However, I take my second flight back here and it's as if I just took a bus to downtown Boston and back.
But when I was with my family, my crazy tumultuous family of mixed beliefs, cultures, backgrounds, and aspirations...I feel everything in the world at once. I feel things that are fantastic as well as depressing in the span of about 10 minutes. I walked again through the grey, personality-free corridors of another airport for the reward. When it comes to my life, the monotone of travel is always met with the colour and vibrance of the destination. When there is a chance to reforge old bonds on the anvil, it makes everything even more worthwhile.
The events unfurled as follows, starting on Thursday, the 9th of September:
Sitting in my room, trying to watch My Name is Khan without bursting into tears, I decide to pause the DVD I ordered from Netflix and call it a day. With everything that has been going on, with the threat of Qur'an burnings and Park 51 nonsense, watching My Name is Khan is a bad idea in the first place. All of a sudden, in the middle of me drying my eyes, I see that Mom is calling me on my cell phone..
The conversation basically starts like...
"Khadeja, do you want to come to Chicago?!"
"Umm...okay!"
She buys me a ticket mid conversation and sends me a receipt. That's the short version of what happens. In reality, it takes about 3 phone calls for the tickets to be bought, as well as a lot of mumblings on the part of both myself and Mom. Usually, when we get excited, it's hard for us to do things systematically. This usually infuriates the likes of my Dad, who likes things done in order and efficiently.
Finally, the last conversation my Mom and I have ends something like...
"Okay, we'll see you tomorrow then!"
"Yeah! I will!"
That very night, I book a taxi to the airport that night by searching for taxi services in Google and calling the first name that catches my eye. I then decide to read the reviews - again, doing things out of order, willy-nilly, because of entrenched excitement. To my dismay, the company I choose instinctively has the worst reviews, citing terrible manners, customers being ripped off, and dirty taxis with cigarette butts littered on the seats. One guy wrote a scathing paragraph about how the cab driver he had was mad at him for being 2 minutes late to catching the taxi - by the driver's watch, mind you - and he berated the customer constantly throughout the 20 mintue drive to the airport. Ohhhhh boy.
I wake up at 6am the next morning although the taxi is supposed to come by 9. I initially plan to wake up at about 7:30am, which would give me plenty of time anyway. I decide to skip the shower and take it when I get to Chicago, for some reason - I am lazy all the time, but let it be known that most of my laziness occurs in the early morning hours when I do things at a quarter of the speed. I instead waste time on the internet, reading threads on the Something Awful forums, where I have lurked for years. I ended up rushing in the shower for 5 minutes because I realised I had nothing better to do. I wear my Eid dress, one I bought the day before from a thrift store (it was vintage!) and I love the way it looks on me. The oranges, browns, and 70s patterns evoke a feeling of bliss and inner hippie, something that has been apparent in my clothing of late for some reason.
I go outside and end up waiting only 5 minutes for the cab to arrive. The driver ends up being awesome. He is a hilarious Greek guy (from Macedonia!) named Steve who talks about all the girls he chased in his youth before settling down with his, and I quote, "amazing woman." It warms my insides after I laugh at the stories of his various conquests. He really, really loves her, and his children and grandchildren. He reminds me a bit of my own grandfather, the one I am about to visit, who also had his fair share of women in his youth - and still brags about it. While I should be offended somehow, I like Steve's cheerful nature and sugary words about how good-natured he thinks I am for laughing and not taking him too seriously.
I get to the airport rather early for the flight, especially since I get my boarding pass and go through security checks very smoothly. The passport checker looks at my passport and asks, in Russian, whether I speak Russian. I understand him due to some basic vocabulary, but had to say no as I do not actually speak the language. The man was Brazilian and was speaking Portuguese only a second before switching to Russian to ask the question to me.
At my gate, I ned up alternating between playing Plants vs. Zombies and reading The Last Living Slut: Born in Iran, Bred Backstage. It is 2 hours before I am able to board my flight to Chicago's O'Hare airport. The American Airlines "wing" is interesting, with some fun neon work on the wall. I did not think of taking a picture only because the book was engrossing.
I finally get onto the flight and end up being seated between two rather attractive men: one big, burly, and obviously on his way to some sort of business meeting, the other shorter with a gorgeous smile and a self-help book. The book I am reading has racy pictures of rock stars and the author, who appears on one full page in lingerie and a sexy pose, pushing her breasts together and puckering her lips seductively. I feel awkward looking at it next to these two men, but I want to understand this woman whose story I was reading; I want to be engrossed in her physicality which makes up so much of the book - and believe me, it is very important. In retrospect, it is hilarious. I end up finishing the book within the first hour or so of the flight anyway, leaving me with nothing but my iPod for the rest of the time.
I arrive in Chicago with barely any sleep, but slightly earlier than scheduled. I take an American Taxi cab over to my grandparents' house in the suburbs. I arrive there before my parents and, while talking to my grandparents (who are in this case my father's parents) I receive an Eid Mubarak phone call from my other set of grandparents who live in New Jersey, my mother's parents. It is then that I realise why it is I took this trip.
The details of this trip are mundane, and most of them have blurred into a blob of grey in my mind. The dance I have always done through the security checks with only my passport, boarding pass, and carry-on entertainment as my partners now contain steps I have memorised through years of practice. I am now a world-class performer! I have been on airplanes since I was 1 1/2 years old, I have been travelling without my parents since I was 16, and I will keep on travelling for years and years.
It is lonely being on an airplane for hours and hours; it is boring at an airport with the same duty free shops, the same exorbitant food prices, and the same families, businessmen, well-dressed women and tourists walking around like zombies at the shopping mall. It's no longer thrilling, or exciting, or amazing. The only exhilarating thing is being on the airplane during takeoff and landing near a window. I will never get tired of that. However, I take my second flight back here and it's as if I just took a bus to downtown Boston and back.
But when I was with my family, my crazy tumultuous family of mixed beliefs, cultures, backgrounds, and aspirations...I feel everything in the world at once. I feel things that are fantastic as well as depressing in the span of about 10 minutes. I walked again through the grey, personality-free corridors of another airport for the reward. When it comes to my life, the monotone of travel is always met with the colour and vibrance of the destination. When there is a chance to reforge old bonds on the anvil, it makes everything even more worthwhile.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
The Fashionable Marginalisation of Peoples
Yesterday I went to the supermarket to buy food. When choosing what to wear, I decided to let myself feel inspired by reading I had done the night before about the Rastafari religion.
Mauritius is home to a very small community of actual Rastafarians. However, Bob Marley, reggae, and ganja are symbols familiar to all Mauritian people, and the Rastafari way of life is appreciated by many who live on my small island. Some are taken in by the peaceful way of life while others take on the fashion as their own, especially amongst the Creole (those of African slave origins). Of course, the music is loved by people of all religions who find it to their taste.
In this way, the Rastafari religion and culture has permeated and become a part of many Mauritian cultures. It is not a strange thing to see someone who is not actually "Rasta" dress in the colours or in a Bob Marley t-shirt walking around the streets of Mauritius. So, today, with that same spirit and feeling inspired, I wore my "Rastafari" t-shirt emblazoned with a sparkly Ethiopian lion and decorated with the gold, red green and black.
I accompanied it with my Africa necklace (with black beads and a dark wood pendant of Africa as its centrepiece) and a green headband, and there I was! Totally irie and all so good. I put my red earphones in and went to that supermarket I mentioned earlier. I didn't have a care in the world.
When I was at checkout, the woman scanning my items looked at me kinda funny, then asked me where I was from. She noticed my Africa necklace and Ethiopian lion and was visibly confused. I don't look like I could come from Ethiopia, I suppose, and for all I know, she was from around there. I told her I was from Mauritius, and as is the case with most people, I was met with a blank stare. I first tried to explain where it was, and then instead opted to just say, "We have a few rasta there and we love reggae!"
I am so glad and grateful that she smiled and said, "I like it!" - of course referring to my outfit. The truth is, when she showed interest in what I was wearing, I immediately felt foolish and a little ashamed. I immediately thought of one of my pet peeves and realised I had become what I didn't like.
What I am talking about is the way that "Westerners" take fashion of different cultures, ignore the actual meaning and symbolic nature of these items of clothing, and decide to use it as theirs. I am talking about hipsters wearing the Islamic crescent and star, "hippies" wearing the Om symbol, and the most irritating to me of all: the youngsters and celebrities wearing the ghutrah or, as it is known in the US, the keffiyeh.
For those who do not know, let me just give you a short explanation of what the keffiyeh means to some people: it is a symbol of resistance, it is a show of support for Palestine, it is a cloth used by many Middle Eastern countries and cultures, and it is a symbol of unity of all Arab cultures. It was once used by many races and religions in the Middle East, even Jewish people even though it is now seen as a pro-Palestinian tool.
When I used to see skinny model types in New York City tie one of these around their necks, I would burn with rage. To me, this was disrespect for a whole political movement and area of the world. Apparently, people can appropriate whatever they want in the US and dilute a culture. I saw it as a symbol of conquering. I saw it as proof of pure commercialisation and world domination. Frankly: I did not like it.
Wasn't I doing the same thing when I was wearing my "Rasta" stuff? Even though I was not wearing an item that reminds us of conflict, I was using a symbol that was important and spiritually meaningful to a culture that was really not my own. I may feel kinship for some Rastafarian ideals, but it they are not mine. I may like the music and the colours, but that does not make me immediately Rastafarian. It doesn't give me the right to take what is theirs. I was a mockery of their ideology, wasn't I?
We, as human beings, have been picking and choosing from other cultures for so long. Look at the turban - it has become bastardised. For some, it was just a means of covering the head and protecting it from the sun. For others, like the Sikhs, it was a religious item of clothing that showed the world who they were and their pride for their people. Then, it was a fashion item. Look at it.
Mauritius is home to a very small community of actual Rastafarians. However, Bob Marley, reggae, and ganja are symbols familiar to all Mauritian people, and the Rastafari way of life is appreciated by many who live on my small island. Some are taken in by the peaceful way of life while others take on the fashion as their own, especially amongst the Creole (those of African slave origins). Of course, the music is loved by people of all religions who find it to their taste.
 |
| I swear I saw a dude who hung out in my Mauritian hometown who used to wear this same hat! Image: http://bit.ly/bYfPLO |
In this way, the Rastafari religion and culture has permeated and become a part of many Mauritian cultures. It is not a strange thing to see someone who is not actually "Rasta" dress in the colours or in a Bob Marley t-shirt walking around the streets of Mauritius. So, today, with that same spirit and feeling inspired, I wore my "Rastafari" t-shirt emblazoned with a sparkly Ethiopian lion and decorated with the gold, red green and black.
 |
| The Ethiopian Lion is used as a Rastafari symbol as they revered Haile Selassie, the Ethiopian King. Image: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Flag_of_Ethiopia_(1897).svg |
When I was at checkout, the woman scanning my items looked at me kinda funny, then asked me where I was from. She noticed my Africa necklace and Ethiopian lion and was visibly confused. I don't look like I could come from Ethiopia, I suppose, and for all I know, she was from around there. I told her I was from Mauritius, and as is the case with most people, I was met with a blank stare. I first tried to explain where it was, and then instead opted to just say, "We have a few rasta there and we love reggae!"
I am so glad and grateful that she smiled and said, "I like it!" - of course referring to my outfit. The truth is, when she showed interest in what I was wearing, I immediately felt foolish and a little ashamed. I immediately thought of one of my pet peeves and realised I had become what I didn't like.
What I am talking about is the way that "Westerners" take fashion of different cultures, ignore the actual meaning and symbolic nature of these items of clothing, and decide to use it as theirs. I am talking about hipsters wearing the Islamic crescent and star, "hippies" wearing the Om symbol, and the most irritating to me of all: the youngsters and celebrities wearing the ghutrah or, as it is known in the US, the keffiyeh.
 |
| That scarf thing is known as a keffiyeh. Image: http://bit.ly/aJHSLg |
For those who do not know, let me just give you a short explanation of what the keffiyeh means to some people: it is a symbol of resistance, it is a show of support for Palestine, it is a cloth used by many Middle Eastern countries and cultures, and it is a symbol of unity of all Arab cultures. It was once used by many races and religions in the Middle East, even Jewish people even though it is now seen as a pro-Palestinian tool.
When I used to see skinny model types in New York City tie one of these around their necks, I would burn with rage. To me, this was disrespect for a whole political movement and area of the world. Apparently, people can appropriate whatever they want in the US and dilute a culture. I saw it as a symbol of conquering. I saw it as proof of pure commercialisation and world domination. Frankly: I did not like it.
Wasn't I doing the same thing when I was wearing my "Rasta" stuff? Even though I was not wearing an item that reminds us of conflict, I was using a symbol that was important and spiritually meaningful to a culture that was really not my own. I may feel kinship for some Rastafarian ideals, but it they are not mine. I may like the music and the colours, but that does not make me immediately Rastafarian. It doesn't give me the right to take what is theirs. I was a mockery of their ideology, wasn't I?
We, as human beings, have been picking and choosing from other cultures for so long. Look at the turban - it has become bastardised. For some, it was just a means of covering the head and protecting it from the sun. For others, like the Sikhs, it was a religious item of clothing that showed the world who they were and their pride for their people. Then, it was a fashion item. Look at it.
 |
Image: http://www.houseofwigs.co.nz/images/gloria%20turban.jpg |
Later on, especially now, the turban has become a representation of Islam and Muslims. What a shame. All of those people around the world, from Russia to India, who use the turban in their own specific ways, with their own special fabrics and colours, are completely discounted because of a Western interpretation of what a Muslim "looks like" or dresses. It is all wrong. Is this the road that the keffiyeh and other cultural or religious dress are travelling on? The road to complete, devastating distortion?
I am seriously worried. Where do we draw the line? Sometimes I love wearing clothes that belong to other peoples, not necessarily of my own. I would love to own an African dress from Ghana because I love their fabrics and colours, but I also know that the colour choices are very important to the people who make the fabric. Does that mean that I shouldn't buy the fabric and wear the dress? Can I only buy and wear the clothes of countries I belong to?
But then again...where do we belong? Are we not all citizens of the world? We should be allowing and appreciating diversity, in theory. This is a very important and difficult question indeed that doesn't have a direct answer. I don't know where to draw the line yet. For now, I think I should draw it at religious or political significance. I am not going to wear a keffiyeh for trendy purposes. I will not wear an Om necklace because I do not follow that religion. I will have to think carefully about the Rastafari-inspired top, although I feel the top was made more for fans of reggae music.
If you think that people don't mind others appropriating their culture or religion, think again. This link was posted on Facebook and when I read it, I felt horrified. I had read similar stories before, especially about Native Americans, because their culture has been so openly twisted for popular culture. It still exists in sports logos and Halloween costumes. Actually, I believe Halloween costumes are generally the worst. Look at their "Harem Girl" outfits. They even sexualise culture so shamelessly...
Enjoying a different flavour or culture is one thing. Taking it and changing it for your own benefit, especially for something as superficial as fashion or costume, can be hurtful. It may be meaningless to us, but it is meaningful to someone else. Yes, the woman in the supermarket liked my outfit, but a Rastafarian in another place might have laughed at me for being so ignorant or might have felt that their religion and way of life was being treated like a fashion trend rather than a real spiritual practice. I don't think I want anyone to feel like that.
Friday, September 3, 2010
A Foreigner's Guide to Surviving the Foreign
Having to adapt to a new place is hard. Having to do so all alone is absolutely terrifying. I know veyr well that navigating a place that looks and feels different to you takes a lot of strength, calm, and courage.
Since I have been here in MA, I feel like I have been successful. I have never been here before, and no one in my family has lived here either. One of the reasons I was feeling so damn anxious earlier is because I knew that I didn't know who to call if I ever got lost or...something worse. The truth is, it's really worrying when the people who can help you when you are in trouble are either a) Many miles away or b) acquaintances. I completely understand the uneasiness of being alone. I was very lucky to have good friends help me settle in - but that is not always the case for people first living on their own.
Of course, being in a new place is also extremely exciting! This is your place now. But first, you have to make it yours! Here is my little guide to surviving a new area on your own and doing exactly that. Keep in mind that I am sticking to a place which has a population of people who speak the same language as you.
1. Rely on experience
If you are trying to navigate a place for the first time, think back to any travels that you have had before: have you ever taken a vacation abroad with your friends, family, or by yourself? Have you ever been far away from home for a prolonged amount of time? What precautions did you take? Remember your past experiences; especially the moments where you screwed up. I am going to be the first to tell you that I hate remembering my cringeworthy experiences, but you have to learn from mistakes. You have made them before and they will be made again. Don't worry about it. Just make sure you remember not to repeat them.
If you have never travelled on your own, or have never had to stay in a strange place for too long, don't worry. Listen to other people. They have plenty of stories of their own! Talk to family members and friends about travelling itself (what it is like at an airport, what to expect when sitting on a bus for 6 hours, etc.) and also about how to use public transport in the area that you are going to. Even if they have stories of countries and cities that are not the one you are going to, don't worry - anything they tell you can give you an idea of how to reason with a new place; how to deal with challenges.
2. Understanding public transport means understanding the layout of your city/town
Public transport is a wonderful thing. You spend less money on gas and car maintenance, it is better for the environment, etc. It is also designed to be convenient for people who need to get to important places. Bus and train stops are usually based on landmarks that are used to help people understand where they are in relation to other landmarks.
Do you see where I am going with this? You can use google maps all you want, and drive to each desired location, but the truth is that you will not learn the about the soul of the city unless you understand its places of interest and public transport. Another thing you will learn is the nature of the people who live and breathe the city already - are they courteous, friendly, abrasive, or cold? Of course every person is different, but you'll get a general idea of what people are like in public - something that everyone going to a new place should know.
3. Use the resources around you, including information kiosks and local authorities
If you are extremely proud, introverted, terrified of people, or ashamed of yourself, you just have you grit your teeth and bear it. No one really likes to ask for directions or help, unless they are trying to distract or flirt with whomever they are asking (trust me on this one). However, you will need to do it sometimes. People who are just walking by may have things to do, or may not be willing to help, so if you see someone like a policeman, or someone who works for the transportation authority, asking them might be a better idea.
The reason I say this is because it is their job to help you. No question is a stupid question, I promise. Even if the answer seems obvious to them, so what? You're new here. It's okay. Please throw your pride out of the window and throw a little caution to the wind - if you are lost, or if something bad has happened to you, for the love of God ask for some help.
4. Keep in contact with people who care about you; you might need their help
Now this one is going to make me sound like a douchebag, but hear me out. Your family and friends love you (most of the time). You know who you can trust, and who you can't. You also know who you would immediately take a plane over to whenever they needed you, if you had the money and the means. Because you are sure of who you really appreciate, let them help you in your direst hours.
You darkest times aren't always about being lost or out of money; or anything to do with practical matters. When you go into a brand new place, you will need some kind of emotional support. You cannot do everything on your own.
You are sometimes going to feel very lonely, especially in the first few days or weeks when you don't have any friends in the immediate area. Even if you are a loner like me, sometimes you will want to rant about silly things just like you used to be able to when you had friends or family closer to you physically. Don't let the distance bring you down. There will always be somebody willing to listen to you, if you call the right person.
Sometimes the person who listens to you and is there for you isn't who you think it is. Don't be disappointed by the neglect of whomever you thought it would be - focus on the other person who surprisingly showed a lot of kindness and warmth. Use media you wouldn't normally use, either: Facebook and phone calls don't always work.
5. Write about your worries and fears in a coherent manner
Now you can probably see where I am going, and why I am writing this! You don't have to start a blog in order to write about how you are feeling. In fact, I think it is much better to write to a specific person with whom you feel more comfortable; someone who actually knows you well. If you don't really have that, then a blog might be a good idea - I know it has helped me! Or, perhaps, you could write a note on a social networking site like tumblr or Facebook - even tweeting about things can be therapeutic.
We all hate the narcissistic fools who tweet and Facebook constantly about their stupid woes and their nonexistent problems. However, being alone in a strange place is not a dumb reason to write. In fact, it is one of the best! Even if no one reads it, writing it down in a way that is understandable to you and other people helps you figure out what is really bothering you. The process of writing or rereading it might make you realise a) how small some of your problems are and how easy they are to fix, or b) how badly things are going and how much you need to figure it out now. Realising either of those things for yourself is the key to surviving.
6. Let yourself be a little overly prepared if you need it
Some of us are worrywarts who freak out at the smallest thing. We are the people who are scared of being lost, losing our keys, getting hassled in a bar, etc. Some of us are completely the opposite - we thrive on adventure, and let our hearts lead the way despite the dangers.
A little something I have learned through various means, usually religious, spiritual, and health-related is that you need to have balance in your life. You cannot let yourself be scared of everything, otherwise you will not get near enough to the water to test it. On the other hand, you should not throw yourself right into the pool if you don't know whether it is empty or not. You need to have the courage to put your toe into the pool to check the temperature (or presence of water!) but the rationality to not take it too far, or do it too fast. If the water isn't there, or it is scalding hot, you need to know when to get yourself away from the pool.
Okay this water/pool analogy is going on for too long. Basically, if you think you need to write down every little direction you read on mapquest, as well as print out a copy of the map with directions, and THEN keep repeating the directions to yourself and constantly checking all three are the same - go ahead. You'll look really silly at every intersection and on the bus, but you know what? At least it is getting you somewhere. After a few times on the same route, you'll get it and you won't need your safety blanket anymore. Safety blankets are not bad at first, but to create another corny analogy, they shouldn't keep you wrapped up for too long.
So, that is all I have to say for my survival guide. I am sure there are many other little things I could tell you: be careful with money, keep a phone on you at all times, etc. but those are things you have probably heard before. I tried to write about things that were just a little less obvious to the new traveller.
I think everyone should go to a foreign place, whether they know the language or not. The language barrier can be a fun and difficult thing to deal with, something I will write about another time. However, even with people who speak the same language, things can still be foreign to you as it is still a complete unknown. For those who fear the unknown, you will find that the best way to eradicate fear of what you don't know is to learn about it. Then, the unknown becomes...well...the known!
Since I have been here in MA, I feel like I have been successful. I have never been here before, and no one in my family has lived here either. One of the reasons I was feeling so damn anxious earlier is because I knew that I didn't know who to call if I ever got lost or...something worse. The truth is, it's really worrying when the people who can help you when you are in trouble are either a) Many miles away or b) acquaintances. I completely understand the uneasiness of being alone. I was very lucky to have good friends help me settle in - but that is not always the case for people first living on their own.
Of course, being in a new place is also extremely exciting! This is your place now. But first, you have to make it yours! Here is my little guide to surviving a new area on your own and doing exactly that. Keep in mind that I am sticking to a place which has a population of people who speak the same language as you.
1. Rely on experience
If you are trying to navigate a place for the first time, think back to any travels that you have had before: have you ever taken a vacation abroad with your friends, family, or by yourself? Have you ever been far away from home for a prolonged amount of time? What precautions did you take? Remember your past experiences; especially the moments where you screwed up. I am going to be the first to tell you that I hate remembering my cringeworthy experiences, but you have to learn from mistakes. You have made them before and they will be made again. Don't worry about it. Just make sure you remember not to repeat them.
If you have never travelled on your own, or have never had to stay in a strange place for too long, don't worry. Listen to other people. They have plenty of stories of their own! Talk to family members and friends about travelling itself (what it is like at an airport, what to expect when sitting on a bus for 6 hours, etc.) and also about how to use public transport in the area that you are going to. Even if they have stories of countries and cities that are not the one you are going to, don't worry - anything they tell you can give you an idea of how to reason with a new place; how to deal with challenges.
2. Understanding public transport means understanding the layout of your city/town
Public transport is a wonderful thing. You spend less money on gas and car maintenance, it is better for the environment, etc. It is also designed to be convenient for people who need to get to important places. Bus and train stops are usually based on landmarks that are used to help people understand where they are in relation to other landmarks.
Do you see where I am going with this? You can use google maps all you want, and drive to each desired location, but the truth is that you will not learn the about the soul of the city unless you understand its places of interest and public transport. Another thing you will learn is the nature of the people who live and breathe the city already - are they courteous, friendly, abrasive, or cold? Of course every person is different, but you'll get a general idea of what people are like in public - something that everyone going to a new place should know.
3. Use the resources around you, including information kiosks and local authorities
If you are extremely proud, introverted, terrified of people, or ashamed of yourself, you just have you grit your teeth and bear it. No one really likes to ask for directions or help, unless they are trying to distract or flirt with whomever they are asking (trust me on this one). However, you will need to do it sometimes. People who are just walking by may have things to do, or may not be willing to help, so if you see someone like a policeman, or someone who works for the transportation authority, asking them might be a better idea.
The reason I say this is because it is their job to help you. No question is a stupid question, I promise. Even if the answer seems obvious to them, so what? You're new here. It's okay. Please throw your pride out of the window and throw a little caution to the wind - if you are lost, or if something bad has happened to you, for the love of God ask for some help.
4. Keep in contact with people who care about you; you might need their help
Now this one is going to make me sound like a douchebag, but hear me out. Your family and friends love you (most of the time). You know who you can trust, and who you can't. You also know who you would immediately take a plane over to whenever they needed you, if you had the money and the means. Because you are sure of who you really appreciate, let them help you in your direst hours.
You darkest times aren't always about being lost or out of money; or anything to do with practical matters. When you go into a brand new place, you will need some kind of emotional support. You cannot do everything on your own.
You are sometimes going to feel very lonely, especially in the first few days or weeks when you don't have any friends in the immediate area. Even if you are a loner like me, sometimes you will want to rant about silly things just like you used to be able to when you had friends or family closer to you physically. Don't let the distance bring you down. There will always be somebody willing to listen to you, if you call the right person.
Sometimes the person who listens to you and is there for you isn't who you think it is. Don't be disappointed by the neglect of whomever you thought it would be - focus on the other person who surprisingly showed a lot of kindness and warmth. Use media you wouldn't normally use, either: Facebook and phone calls don't always work.
5. Write about your worries and fears in a coherent manner
Now you can probably see where I am going, and why I am writing this! You don't have to start a blog in order to write about how you are feeling. In fact, I think it is much better to write to a specific person with whom you feel more comfortable; someone who actually knows you well. If you don't really have that, then a blog might be a good idea - I know it has helped me! Or, perhaps, you could write a note on a social networking site like tumblr or Facebook - even tweeting about things can be therapeutic.
We all hate the narcissistic fools who tweet and Facebook constantly about their stupid woes and their nonexistent problems. However, being alone in a strange place is not a dumb reason to write. In fact, it is one of the best! Even if no one reads it, writing it down in a way that is understandable to you and other people helps you figure out what is really bothering you. The process of writing or rereading it might make you realise a) how small some of your problems are and how easy they are to fix, or b) how badly things are going and how much you need to figure it out now. Realising either of those things for yourself is the key to surviving.
6. Let yourself be a little overly prepared if you need it
Some of us are worrywarts who freak out at the smallest thing. We are the people who are scared of being lost, losing our keys, getting hassled in a bar, etc. Some of us are completely the opposite - we thrive on adventure, and let our hearts lead the way despite the dangers.
A little something I have learned through various means, usually religious, spiritual, and health-related is that you need to have balance in your life. You cannot let yourself be scared of everything, otherwise you will not get near enough to the water to test it. On the other hand, you should not throw yourself right into the pool if you don't know whether it is empty or not. You need to have the courage to put your toe into the pool to check the temperature (or presence of water!) but the rationality to not take it too far, or do it too fast. If the water isn't there, or it is scalding hot, you need to know when to get yourself away from the pool.
Okay this water/pool analogy is going on for too long. Basically, if you think you need to write down every little direction you read on mapquest, as well as print out a copy of the map with directions, and THEN keep repeating the directions to yourself and constantly checking all three are the same - go ahead. You'll look really silly at every intersection and on the bus, but you know what? At least it is getting you somewhere. After a few times on the same route, you'll get it and you won't need your safety blanket anymore. Safety blankets are not bad at first, but to create another corny analogy, they shouldn't keep you wrapped up for too long.
So, that is all I have to say for my survival guide. I am sure there are many other little things I could tell you: be careful with money, keep a phone on you at all times, etc. but those are things you have probably heard before. I tried to write about things that were just a little less obvious to the new traveller.
I think everyone should go to a foreign place, whether they know the language or not. The language barrier can be a fun and difficult thing to deal with, something I will write about another time. However, even with people who speak the same language, things can still be foreign to you as it is still a complete unknown. For those who fear the unknown, you will find that the best way to eradicate fear of what you don't know is to learn about it. Then, the unknown becomes...well...the known!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Finale: Sandcastles and A Full Closet
 |
| My new dresser with random toiletries and ceramic artworks I made for a class previously. |
I am here. I'm in Massachusetts. This is my second day and I am content and exhausted.
When I first arrived, I have to admit that my anxiety was at its peak. I tried to mask my fear with laughter and jokes about my journeys with my best friend and his mother (who is indeed also my friend), who helped me settle into my new room in my new apartment. However, there was this terrible pounding in my chest the whole time. I am sure they could see my nervousness and lack of ease, but they were nice enough to be quiet about it and help me out. They are very, very good friends.
We arrived in the area of my new building and I was confronted with the fact that this was my new place to live and thrive. This was the place that I would have to not only get used to, but actually work with in order to get to other places in my life. This new, unfamiliar place was supposed to be my new home base for a while; a new brick in the road.
The first thing I felt when I got into my room was the harsh impact of missing my parents. You know how it goes - when you are with them, you complain and nag and are nagged by them, but when you are apart, it's the hardest thing in the world. When I was speaking to my parents on the phone for the first time since I got here, I burst into tears at hearing my Dad's voice. I was sitting in an ice cream parlour eating a very cold, very sweet crushed ice treat. He sounds naturally melancholic all the time, and when he said he missed me, I realised that he was so far away, and his voice got to me. It really dawned on me that I wasn't even just a phone call away. It slapped me in the face when I thought it was so late at night where he and my mother were, but where I was, the sun was still shining and the heat was still stifling.
That is the biggest difference here - although Saudi is insanely hot, Massachusetts is extremely hot and humid, which is hard for me to deal with, as I am not used to it. I prefer the dryness of Saudi in this way. My hair sticks to my back and no longer has the bouffant appearance it did in Saudi. I think the water I wash my hair with itself is different. The mineral content is not the same. Just like being without my parents is not the same. At least I do not need to drink that much water.
Many things are different; little things that take adjusting. I now have to make sure that no hair goes down the drain in the shower. I also have to schedule 2 times per week that I can do laundry. I have certain weeks of the month where I am in charge of cleaning the kitchen or bathroom. I have a room with a huge, huge closet but no desk whatsoever. I can't play Dragon Age until I figure that one out.
I think I can do this. I feel optimistic despite the change, especially since I had the help of my friends. They helped me so much, I don't know how to thank them. I bought them lunch, but seriously, what the hell is that? Their help means more than lunch - even if I do love food. And yes, I need to stop and say that the food was delicious - it was American-Italian, and for the first time, I ate full garlic cloves on pizza. Actually, they are insanely delicious and not too strong - a pleasant surprise.
I am glad for the help of these wonderful people, and for the kindness and consideration of the house owner. All of them understand just enough about how difficult it can be to move in from very far away into the unknown. The house owner even lent me bedsheets without me even having to ask. I still haven't seen her yet, and my thanks to her are only by email and very briefly over the phone.
If I didn't have these small blessings, right now I would be a wreck. I would be writing about the difficulties of adjustment as well as the sadness of being alone. Right now, I am alone in my room, but I don't feel alone in the world. My friends, and certainly my family, have made this new start a great success.
Some of the little things said by my parents about missing me did bring tears to my eyes. But then, I realise this is the wake up call - they need to know that I am okay, and I need to be genuine by making the most out of everything I have, so that in the end I really am okay. I also need to let them know regularly about the little things in life that I am up to. That is something that I did not do during the period of my undergraduate degree - 3 whole years. It was very, very wrong of me.
While things were very difficult at first, once I started speaking to other members of my family, things got better gradually. I spoke to my cousin and grandparents in New Jersey, and today I spoke to my sister and my aunt in Chicago. They showed concern for me as any family member would - asking me how I am, how I was feeling, and whether I liked my new area. It may seem like small talk and nothing special, but just knowing that they are at all interested is very meaningful and relieving. I have family, I have a roof over my head, and guess what, everyone? It feels really, really good.
So far, the time I have spent here has been put to use. Some of it is about resting from that long, almost sleepless journey across continents, but some of it is about putting together pieces of my new life. I needed to buy things I don't really think about too much - scissors, markers, envelopes, things like that. Then, there are new home things: bedsheets, air fresheners, cups and plates. I needed cutlery but all I could get was plastic ones - Kohl's only had these $40 sets and the ones in the supermarket were all plastic. In fact, I was FOOLED by Shaw's because they had cutlery in a packet that looked silver at first glance, but were really plastic! How dare they make me believe such lies?
In the end, I have everything I need for now. I have everything I bought above, and this morning I went on my own to a Greek grocer. He sells many things I am familiar with, and the closeness to Arab cuisine makes me feel warm and fuzzy somehow. As usual, the way to my heart truly is through my stomach - I hear it's in my blood. It really pleases me that I can buy hummus, greek yoghurt, feta (if I feel like it ever; I usually dislike it), pita, zatar bread, or any of the many frozen greek foods every day of the week - before 7pm. Everything in the immediate area closes around that time.
So, here I am. I'm sitting on my double bed. I'm leaning up against a wall. I'm looking at my poor excuses for decoration, while wondering what else I can do to make the room my own.
 |
| I tied my jingly scarf on the doorknob of my huge, endless closet that was able to fit 2 suitcases and my big green monster. |
Like it was when I was leaving Saudi, I am full of mixed feelings. I'm sighing at the thought of eating soft, delicious Saudi lamb. I'm smiling at the prospect of tomorrow - I buy my books for my grad school classes, which is a small thing but a way to learn more about the lay of the land. I will eventually start classes in a program that looks more fascinating the more I learn about it.
I have a bright tomorrow, a wonderful family, and amazing friends. No matter how I feel, adjustment will be made easier with these three things. I am made safer from the desert winds by the shielding hands of my loved ones and the strength to put up my own hands; a strength bred within me from years upon years of constant change - the gypsy life which is in my title.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)