It appears that mAny Of yOu RandOmlY capitaLize LeTteRs when you write shit.
At first I thought it was perhaps a secret code, and so I pulled out the capitalized letters and tried to make out your secret language. Deflated, I discovered there was no secret anything.
Additionally. You seem to do shit like *~$this .*oO+ WhiLEsimUltANEously.nOt.sssspaCing;ProPeRleeee+*~*.
I was wondering: are you alright? …because although we are all dumb in the head occasionally, it’s not the greatest idea to be dumb in the head perpetually.
Editorial note: The following has been drafted on the fly via berry. Pardon the mistakes and the non-coherency if I am a little all over the place…it is an inspired piece (thank you, Clay!).
I have been watching women fight for women’s rights since the day I knew how to watch, because it started with my momma.
Recently, there has been a surge in this fight for women’s freedoms. Specifically, it has been about our (female) right to choose.
Abortion. We possess the right to choose whether we will or whether we will not. The refusal to stand for a Government that attempts to tell us we can not make this choice.
When the prohibitions against forms of hijab in some parts of Europe came to the forefront, very few ‘feminist’ sisters said anything. In fact, some of them actually nodded in agreement with this prohibition, arguing that the prohibition is a means to ‘free’ women.
Sadly, no one drew the correlation between a woman’s right to choose what she ‘aborts’ from her body, and with what she chooses to cover her body.
But they are both choices, no?
(And last I checked, we defend the female right to choose, not the female right to choose what only some of us see fit.)
Choices that affect a woman’s body. Choices that affect society. Choices that are extremely private.
C.H.O.I.C.E.S.
And yet, amazingly, there has been very little blow-back from self-proclaimed ‘feminists’. (Or have I managed to miss it? And if I have, then please post links here to those organizations or individuals so that they receive the necessary accolades.)
Don’t get me wrong. I am turned off by both the niqab and the burka.
But I will support and fight for any woman’s prerogative to choose how she covers her body.
Additionally, and to the core of me, I loathe abortion.
But I will support a woman’s right to that choice, and I will fight for her right to make that choice in a safe environment.
I have zero tolerance for the sisters among us who actively engage in furthering only their idea of what a ‘free’ woman is. If you fight for rights, you best be fighting for rights for all, and equally so, even if you don’t agree with it.
So then, this begs the question: Where do we draw the line? (e.g. How far do we defend this freedom of choice; is it ‘anything goes’?)
Naturally, I have a few ideas that are developing still, and I would really love your input to help along this development. (Keep comments clean and respectful of all opinions, please & thank you.)
The following is a 10:31 demo of an hour long documentary that is being edited. It follows Max (known at ofc (dot) com as ‘Maxi’) on a pilgrimage to El Santuario De Chimayo, New Mexico, where he goes looking for a miracle cure for his Cystic Fibrosis.
“You have to pick them before the birds do in the morning.”
“At 10?”
“In the morning…earlier, Maha.”
“9?”
“No.”
“It’s the weekend, ya seedo. The birds have to sleep too because they’re flapping a lot and they’re tired.”
“Birds don’t get tired the way we do. So how early do you think?”
“SEVEN?”
“No.”
“SIX!”
“One more try.”
“YA ALLAH! Fiiiiive?!”
“Around then. We have to come down here after salaat el-fajir and pick the figs that are ready or else the birds will have them for breakfast and you’ll have to wait until the next day.”
And so it was in this way that seedo convinced me to plop out of bed at the age of four, one year less than the time staring back at me from the digital clock in our room. This was the year that the tradition was born and though I became older and the small details changed, the ritual itself would remain for my summers in Gaza.
In my ruffled pink and yellow nightgown, he would carry me out of bed and sit me next to him on the green sofa in the living room while drinking his coffee. Leaning on him, I would slip my feet into my babooj and wait quietly while the aroma of his turkish coffee ran past me and we listened to the whisper of Qur’an through the tape recorder. We never spoke during this time, my grandfather leaving me to waking and I to his coffee.
Coffee he sipped from a treasured cup because it was the perfect size for my little hands. Daily, he handed it to me so that I would have the last sip; the sweetest and the thickest part of the potion were mine, a secret we never let outside of our early mornings.
I would clutch the cup in both hands while he placed his hand either on top of my head or on my shoulder to gently lead me down into the garden and out to the fig tree. (I was so worried I would drop and break the cup that if it were a person, surely I would have suffocated it with my protective grip.) In his other hand, he always carried the same ornate bowl.
At the tree, he took the coffee cup I so carefully handed over and placed it on the window sill. I never saw him bring the cup inside and so believed it to be made of majic just for him. Unlike the other cups, this one sat alone, not a part of a set I could ever find no matter where I searched in the house.
Lifting me carefully to where the ready figs hid, seedo would always wait patiently as my small hands struggled to grasp and pull free each one before letting them drop on to the soft ground.
We ate the figs while seated on the front steps of the house, never sharing them with anyone. Every morning that summer, he would take me back to bed and tuck me in, kissing my forehead and letting me sleep until the house’s natural order woke me up. He never left me awake, instead sitting on the bed next to me while I held one of his hands in mine, hands that remain the softest I have ever touched; little cushions brought together for comfort and safety, kindness and protection, I would keep pressing on the insides of his hands until I fell asleep behind my own back.
When I broke the seal and went to Gaza for the first time after he was done with this world, I said hello to everyone and then immediately went to his room. I turned on his short-wave radio, tucked myself into his bed and cried myself to sleep.
When I woke up, I went looking for the coffee cup and the ornate bowl, found in a box inside of which he kept only a very small number of his most important posessions. Among them, all of the letters my mother wrote telling him about me as a baby, his eldest an eternity away with a new child of her own. These letters I stole without the knowledge of anyone, letters it takes me hours to read because my Arabic simply isn’t good enough. But I have them in my drawer, written on soft paper made softer with the humidity of Palestine and time, serving as gentle reminders of seedo’s hands.
.1.A few weeks back, D told me that my m.o. is to cut. Her exact words were “You’re a cutter. You amputate. Someone fucks around, they’re gone and you’re lethal about it. Clean lines where you’re concerned. Like an emotional Jedi Master with one of those amazing lit up sabers, only you have emotions, not a saber. Know what I mean?”
The above paragraph was drafted in May of last year, 13 months back. Interesting that this is likely what Maxi refers to as “the shut off valve”. Others have noticed it, but he gave it the most interesting name; Maxi wins!
.2. Faith plays an enormous part in my life. Even when I don’t realize it, when I actively ignore it, when I am pissed off with it, when I am an idiot about it, when I am unaware of it, it is always present.
Conversations with friends have a way of eventually coming around to: politics, economics, relationships, Hollywood and faith matters. Naturally, there is too an element of Crack thrown in for good measure.
Someone the other day asked me what standards I would apply to choosing Islam on a daily basis. Because, no matter that I was born into Islam, no matter that my family is Muslim, but by me declaring myself a Muslimah daily, that is a choice made several times within a 24 hour period. I think, perhaps, this is why it is a component of prayer in Islam; a reminder that it is always a choice. That if you stop saying it, you cease choosing it.
So, then, why do I routinely and every day choose Islam (even when I am an idiot)?
It took me a while to pull together a very simple and coherent response. Finally this morning, en route to work, I realized the why of my choosing.
My starting point will be different from yours, but you may choose to engage in understanding your own process if for no other reason than pure awareness of your self.
I see Intelligent Order and Design and that to me is the starting point for Faith. Even in Chaos, I see that same Order. But this one’s easy; it can be any sort of energy as described by a number of faiths / philosophies.
So, the more important point then is that which draws me to an understanding of and existence in Allah.
Simply put, I can not believe that injustice can go unpunished; I can not believe that a child rapist will have the luxury of never being caught, and then dropping dead and not having to ever face the children they raped. Based on my political understanding and perspective, I must believe in Justice as it extends beyond the temporal. And so I believe there is a Judge in the divine sense, and that is what creates balance and order in my world. (Go ahead and call it a crutch. Or maybe opt for an imagination instead, silly. “Crutch” is so 1983.)
Those are my two simplest and clearest starting points.
Chime in as you see fit, please. (Too personal? Keep using the email addy…)
.3. When you have a daughter, be the first man to send her flowers. Do it on a random day and for no reason other than: She is yours, and you’re her Poppa. (Forget about the gender divide here; instead focus on the reality that she will be bombarded with the weird notion that the right man brings you flowers. We likely agree that this is awkward on many levels, so let’s leave it to another entry.)
.4. It is 42 degrees in my City tonight. I have soaked through all t-shirts, and am sticking to random objects passing by. My hair is a mess of curls and all I wish to do is lay around like a big carrot drinking ice-water. All of which makes me very happy.
(Tip & trick for those of you without a/c: run a towel under cold water; ring it out well; drape it over your fan; and, enjoy the cool breeze. You’re welcome.)
When in February of this year gorgeous T helped me move my blog from Blogger to WordPress, there were near 3000 comments that never made the cut as there appears a bug in the transfer of older comments. They have since remained within my blogger domain, but there appeared no way for me to transfer them over here seamlessly unless manually, comment by comment.
And though I love all y’all’s comments, there is surely no way in hell I am going to do that. So…all comments pre Sept 2009 I am cutting and pasting as one comment per blog entry. If you look at the entry Libra Girl / Scorpio Boy Compatibility, you will note two things:
- All comments after Sept 2009 appear, as normal.
- All comments pre Sept 2009 are, once you scroll down, grouped together as one comment.
I have over 760 entries.
Remove from them the earlier days when I had comments closed.
Subtract also the regular entries where I closed the comments field.
And further subtract all written pieces since Sept 2009.
That leaves 477 posts through which I must sort.
I expect to be done within the month, if all goes well.
Thank you to each and every single one of you for this exhausting task; it’s nice to know you’re reading, thinking, reflecting and offering your own lovely thoughts so publicly.
I have not done anything to dissuade him of this particular perspective as I don’t see it at all beneficial that he see me as ‘normal’, because sooner or later, I will behave in a manner that falls outside the preordained borders of that very definition.
We are all, to some degree, morons and I tend to trip into that particular category more than most.
Last night, while preparing today’s lunch, I started to sing. By no stretch of the imagination am I well equipped to perform this strenuous exercise, but in the privacy of my own home / car, I like to sing at a relative whisper. I also dance while singing, because I’m not performing operatic overtures and if I were, I would likely break things down a little interpretively because that’s crazy fun when you’re alone and pretend to be a professional interpretive dancer dancing for your own captive audience. I’m just guessing.
While baba was a few feet away from me, I quietly sang the lines: “Shake it shake it shake it shake it shake it like a Hollywood preacher shake it”, and because it’s what I do: I was smiling (what’s there to frown about, anyway?). I was likely also shaking my a** just like the Hollywood preacher because I enjoy practicing what I preach. (Wicked pun, there.)
When I looked up, baba had stopped paying attention to his email and was staring at me (because I’m nicer to look at, anyway). He queried: “What are you doing?” “I’m singing.” “Singing?” “Shake it!” “Stop it.” “Come on, baba…shake it! Shake it! Shake it!” “MAHA!” …and here I started shaking my head like a wild cat because I dare you to sing the above lines without eventually needing to shake your head like a wild cat.
Baba kept staring at me and when I offered “Would you prefer if I sang Nights In White Satin because you’re old, baba?” he turned on some really loud Oum Kulthum, an old school Middle Eastern diva who used to always sing with a handkerchief in her hand. She was too “proper” to shake her a** in public, so here’s to hoping she did so in private.
Offended, I gawked at him disbelieving that he would rather listen to a Diva from long ago when he had his offspring performing before him. I prodded “You used to love it when up until last year I was a child and I would do my dance routine to Lionel Richie’s All Night Long (Fiesta! Forever!), so what’s changed?”. He ignored me and so I stood using my brain power to send him this very question as loudly as possible, trying to mind-control him into turning down Oum Kulthum so that I may continue my performance. Only he did not and I was sad.
Until this morning when I held court as I took sips of my coffee and sang: Shawty had them Apple Bottom Jeans [Jeans] Boots with the fur [With the fur] the whole club lookin at her She hit the floor [She hit the floor] Next thing you know Shawty got low low low low low low low low…
He looked at me. Shook his head. Jumped straight into the air, spun his feet at lightening speed, generated a whole lot of dust and then zoomed off the balcony and directly into his car.
I’ve already sent him an email detailing this evening’s performance whereby I shall provide a taste of old school Tori Amos. I have no doubt he’s as excited as I am!
Comments closed because this was written so long ago…
We talk about it regularly, with relationships, but not enough in terms of friendships. Unusual this, as more often than not, relationships tend to be fleeting whereas one hopes that friendships aren’t so.
Friends to me are family. I have no brothers or sisters and so place a great deal of weight and worth on people I cherish and love. I am there for them at the drop of a hat, making time and finding energy even when I would rather curl into bed and not speak to anyone. If there’s one thing any one of my friends will tell you it’s that I am fiercely devoted and loyal to what exists between us. When I love someone, there is no end to it.
Sadly, on a few recent and different occasions, I’ve had to ask myself if I give too much of myself away to people. I don’t have an answer; maybe because the question hurts so much to ask and I can’t get past the asking. The mere posing of the question paper-cuts me and to even write this out has made me hurt because I feel a fool to ask it.
I’m not sure when giving too much of ourselves starts to happen, and I never used to think it was even possible to do so. Not in a real and viable friendship. But the disappointing reality is that imbalance occurs and it may be most brutal in this realm.
I don’t reign myself in emotionally; when I feel something, I don’t snuff it or shy away from it, but instead open myself up to it and let it run me as this is one of the defining characteristics of who I am. This is the case with everything in my life, including friendships. That I have felt nothing but a slow shutting down of this recently makes too much of me ache, and the reality is that because of the ache, it may very well be the first time I have ever thought the following: the only thing I’m interested in doing is shrugging, saying f*ck it, and walking away.
Life is too short not to have anything we put out reciprocated.
My friend Emily and I were recently discussing – within the context of her life – what it is about certain individuals that makes the idea of committing to them interesting and appealing.
Emily is – for lack of a better concept – sexually fluid. She toggles several sexual partners at once and has no desire to commit to anyone or even seek out commitment. I have already told her that whatever fulfillment one committed partner provides, she is in fact having the same needs met by several, only without any duty of serious responsibility; her partners fill the space that would otherwise be left open to loneliness. She has argued that it is not that she is incapable of deep love and commitment, but rather that she doesn’t currently care for it. A sentiment that makes me laugh while I respond with “bull. SHIT.” because even though she is seeding her needs from several sources, she is still seeding…the same need. (If Emily were standing beyond that scope of relationship / sexuality and arguing she doesn’t care for it, then her argument would stand.) And please note that there is nothing in this post which she has not already heard face-to-face, and that she knows just how much I care about her.
Our conversation was a mishmmash of pop-psychology that spanned…
…from asking the obvious: Do we seek out only what we believe we deserve? [Read: I am unworthy of commitment and so shall only seek out environments where rejection is not a possibility. Here, the fragility of character is a lot more aggressive than most would be comfortable admitting aloud. (And anyway, is seeking commitment a reflection that we deserve "better"? Is it human nature to nest with only one, or is it a societal construct? More complex still, is it a societal construct because it is in fact healthier for society and each of us individually?)]
…to wondering if it is the exact opposite: I am too worthy and no one can meet the worth.
…to poking: maybe seeking out multiple partners is just about actively – through the body – engaging in a little revolution against norms, expectations, religious / societal demands?
…to Zen and Motorcycle Maintenance taunting: we can’t ever really know.
…and then finally landing squarely on: What makes someone interesting enough?
During that conversation, and now still, I argue that to formulate the question in this way places the onus on the other, rather than ourselves. It absolves us of our contribution, and instead places us above the relationship itself as at its core it is stating: show me why you deserve me, and if you’re lucky enough, I may just grace you with my monogamous commitment, a not so innocent and entirely arrogant and entitled demand.
Through some laughter, the mishmash made us reformulate the question to: Why are we interesting enough to be sought out?
Only instead of engaging in this side of the equation, we were side-tracked to talking about music, only to eagerly come back and ask: To which combination of ‘us’ is it worth committing?
Years back, I wrote that it must be partially about the energy created between two people; that when you are in that individual’s presence, there is a new energy that comes to life and within which you wish to remain. I still strongly believe this.
Emily mentioned ‘inspiration’, and I agree that we need to both be inspired by, and to inspire the individual.
She also stated that we have to want to impress that individual, a critical point which I believe sheds light on something deeper – the reality that we need to feel we are worthy of the person before us. (Take pause and consider that when many relationships start to fall apart, usually the very first thing said is that someone felt as though “they were being taken for granted”, which is another way of saying that their partners stopped noting what they once found “impressive”.)
And so taking this last point, we come full circle, because we need to (gently and with grace) understand our own worth, to then wish to impress it upon another. And the more I think about it, the more I believe this is maybe one of the most important keys to commitment. When you stop wanting that, you stop wanting the relationship, and instead seek out another with whom that same energy and impression starts anew.
No doubt, there are all other kinds of factors that work together to see us to commitment. Not least of which is timing, laughter, trust, silliness, honesty, and the simplest of chemical reactions.
Ultimately, as a Muslimah, I was taught and believe that [He] “created us in pairs”; whether or not we find one another is a whole other reality…and all I can do is keep on this incredible egg hunt.
Are you bitter? Jaded? Cynical? Most always brooding?
Pleased to confirm that I am most definitely none of the above. (Truly sorry about your state, though. Also, why are you reading me?)
I don’t have “a gelatinous black ink that seeps into [my] heart”, recently said a dear friend. (Admired this sentence so much that I scribbled it down on my napkin.)
I still believe in Good (note the ‘G’), and I refuse to accept that other people can’t be Good, but instead that they choose to behave in shit manner. (Layer no1: Pre-destination vs Choice.)
Tangent: I think, perhaps, Goodness is a greater deal of work than not, and there are those who are either too lazy to take the extra steps, or who are happier seeing the seedier shadows of life and giving into them.
Take as example the following idea: Those constantly waxing philosophic about our need to be ‘free’. ‘People should be free to do whatever they want.’ Usually, at the core of such a sentiment isn’t a true Libertarianism, but rather an excuse to have sex with whomever, without accountability and / or obligation. Freedom from moral currency, as ‘morality’ defined in its general terms.
(Layer no2: Excellent idea in theory? Maybe not even in theory, but I’ll save this thought for a PhD dissertation.) Next time some one says this out loud, challenge them on the idea, as simple questions unravel this sort of thinking (Layer no3: Most always unique to the rich. Layer no4: Can one be monetarily rich and not morally bankrupt?) Questions such as: Should an adult be free to have sex with a child (under the age of 16)? Should a man be free to have sex with an animal? Should a woman be free to trade sex for money?
Then take it up a few notches and focus on one point, such as the following: Prostitution hits a certain demographic, certain social and economic means that give rise to prostitution (not to mention sexual abuse as a child – thank you NG for the reminder of this). As such, should these women be free to trade sex for money, or should only the women who don’t come from that background be free to trade sex for money?
Because the battle is always sex-related, right? We don’t need to kid ourselves on this one – the argument always returns itself to sex, as do most things. Every. Single. Time that someone has used that ‘I believe we should all be free to do whatever we want’ line, it has at its epicenter that individual’s need to fuck as they please. Amazing that they really become nothing short of slaves to their own physical selves, rather than being the commanders of their bodies.
I would welcome a challenge to this point, so please feel free to engage.End Tangent.)
So, yes. I believe that people can be Good…that they strive to be Good…that they give the cash register girl the dollar too much she gave them…that they don’t take advantage of others even when the opportunity presents itself…that they will place the welfare of others above their own comfort…that they refuse to play in the gray areas of honesty…that they’ll give money to the junkie rather than a lecture…that they’ll tread carefully when allowed into another heart…that they’ll work to be better & to do better…and…that they’ll be kind…and that they’ll be kinder still.
I like that I am still that girl. And to anyone whose attempted to shit on my parade? I just end up feeling sorry for you…
Infuriating, yes? Infuriating that you can’t make me into the image of you. You’re so sad. Really.
My life. My rules.
The above is not to say that I don’t sometimes just fkn hate people.
Take last week, as example. I was in a right state all last week. Anything said to me, any comments made or jokes attempted or courtesies extended? It took everything out of me not to be rude. For no apparent reason other than: I felt like it.
Some stupid asshole, not French used the word ‘chic’ to describe the image I have as my bberry screen saver and my brain launched WWIII against my arms and hands because all I felt like doing was smashing my ‘chic’ imaged bberry across his face, but rational thought kept interrupting…and winning.
Tangent: For all of the nice in me, I am equally volatile. I just control it and exercise it differently than most. End Tangent.
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