Letters to a friend

My darling,

I hope this email finds you well. I've written this email many times in my head. In some versions, it's short and polite, and simply touches base to establish an agreement of a longer and more consistent exchange. In other versions, it is long and melancholic, and in that version I mostly focus about our inability to express pain. Why is grief beyond language? Are our lives exacerbating this muteness? The fact that we cannot speak, that we are indeed, in closets? I often wonder what it would feel like to just be, to fall in love without the fear that grips me every time. Not the fear of loss, that is quite inevitable. But the fear of endings, always arriving too soon and rather unwelcomed. 

I know that there will be no settling, no growing old together. Parents will not be intervening in our collective lives, and most likely, no children (adopted or biological) to give us grief. In a way, it is destined to end before it really starts.

I suppose this is not one of those emails. Perhaps it is the former, in which I ask you; How are you these days? I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours,

I Am Not One Of The

By Cheryl Marie Wade (Disability Activist)

I am not one of the physically challenged-

I’m a sock in the eye with gnarled fist

I’m a French kiss with cleft tongue

I’m orthopedic shoes sewn on a last of your fears

I am not one of the differently abled-

I’m an epitaph for a million imperfect babies left untreated

I’m an ikon carved from bones in a mass grave at Tiergarten, Germany

I’m withered legs hidden with a blanket

I am not one of the able disabled-

I’m a black panther with green eyes and scars like a picket fence

I’m pink lace panties teasing a stub of milk white thigh

I’m the Evil Eye

I’m the first cell divided

I’m mud that talks

I’m Eve I’m Kali

I’m The Mountain That Never Moves

I’ve been forever I’ll be here forever

I’m the Gimp

I’m the Cripple

I’m the Crazy Lady

I’m The Woman With Juice

On loneliness and traveling alone

It's a good thing sometimes, to be lonely. It's exactly like that scene from Friends, when Phoebe tells Rachel—who thought she was pregnant— that she isn't pregnant. Rachel is shocked, and she cries, pretending to be happy about the disappeared potential of a untimely child. But she is in fact, pregnant. Phoebe tells her "I was just kidding, but now you know how you really feel".

Airports can do that occasionally. Make you know how you really feel. Disconnected from time, friends, lovers you left behind and the sound of your mother's footsteps early in the morning, airports make you think hard about how you really feel. If you have enough battery on any device, you probably won't stray far from the comfort zones of routine, and the voices that you constantly hear over Viber and Skype.

But time zones. And lovers who can't be available at all times. Friends who sleep or party or both during those crucial hours. You end up thinking. 

Or doing your nails to distract yourself from thinking.

But you think anyway.

You think of her, and how she constantly frets. About how the sun and the sand peeled off the many layers of perfume she so carefully applied before coming to you. You tell her she smells lovely, as always. And it's true.  

You think of the time when she kissed your shoulder after rowing the both of you on a kayak. The serenity of that day, and the clearness of the sea. The unexpectedness of her kiss, and how it made you feel. 

You think of all the ways this could possibly go wrong. How your insides lurched when she told you that the flowers she sent you caused someone distress. How you wanted to shout but she gets 4 years and tickets and hotels and most of your fucking time. I don't care whether or not its quality time, it is most of your time. But you didn't, because it felt wrong.

You think of other people too. And other things. Like bills, new shoes, and disco balls. Tom Waits croaking in your ears. Whether or not you will let her read this. The estimated departure of your next flight. Whether or not your patience can endure. How thrilling it all is. How the last night together made you feel.

You most of all think about how you'd feel if things were different, but they aren't. So you think about  whether this is right for you. And like Rachel's pregnancy, having thought it a false positive for a few seconds, you realize that however untimely things are, small precious moments like that kiss on the kayak make you know that you can still hang in there.

On hijabs/niqabs and the 5 minute masquerade

#DamnILookGood is a collaborative performance art piece by Bolo, an artist duo consisting of Qinza Najm and Saks Afridi. Qinza Najm wore a niqab/hijab/abaya for two days in Brooklyn New York and proceeded to snap selfies with people in an attempt to promote tolerance.

The story has been making rounds on social media. Upworthy describes it as a "collaborative performance art project is changing perceptions, promoting tolerance, and encouraging self-confidence one snapshot at a time".

Stories of women donning a hijab or a niqab and facing an incident or two at the very most of racist attacks and then writing about it from the safety of one's home is entirely problematic. My issue first begins with the idea of using the hijab as a costume for a limited period of time. Taking selfies in this borrowed attire with random people promotes tolerance how? How is the psyche of a woman who wears this day in and day out the same to a woman who wears it for 5 minutes? They are not equal. You cannot pretend to behave the same, or act in the same manner. The looks you get whilst wearing it, don't stay with you. You don't have to go through the repeated hostility. So when you pick up a cell phone, and strike a pose, you are a. in an entirely different behavioral space b. you are acting. A hijab is not an outer layer of fabric, it becomes you, you become it. Your personality gets shaped by it, for the worse or for the better. 

The artists behind this hijab/selfie taking project state that "During this moment [of selfie taking] a hijab, seemingly a barrier, becomes entirely invisible to her". I entirely disagree with this totalizing statement. First of all, how does these artists, a man and a non hijabi woman, know what it feels like to be fully covered on a daily basis? It is never invisible, it is the marker of visibility. 

Another problematic aspect of their statement: 

When a woman covers herself this way, she can’t be judged on attractiveness, her jewellery or makeup. She isn’t ‘sized up’ and can’t be advertised to. This very barrier is her superpower. With it, she is in complete control of her sexuality, and ultimately, that’s what makes her so beautiful. By snapping selfies, she makes a point that she is much more than her sexuality. This performance art piece is about tolerance over anything else. At the same time, it questions several issues: Islamophobia, over-sexualization of women in media, the duality of modernity and tradition and longing for self expression.

Claiming that attractiveness and sexuality is downplayed because a woman is covered only perpetuates the misogynistic ideal of judging a woman on these very attributes. How is she in complete control of her sexuality because of her clothes? The statement indirectly claims that a woman who is not entirely covered is not control of her sexuality. Again, highly problematic. But back to the woman in hijab. So can't be 'sized up' or 'advertised'. Why is this language even used in a piece tackling over sexualization of women in the media? Negating sexuality does not mean that a woman is not being judged on it. Why aren't her brains or personality being mentioned here? "By snapping selfies, she makes a point that is she much more than her sexuality." The point is entirely lost, in my opinion, especially since the name of the performance piece is #damnILookGood.

Lost

I see it crawling against the solid walls of mine. Sometimes faltering, yet still finding the way upwards steadily. 

I look at your direction, and I know you will nod in agreement. Will you still listen to me, even if you can look right through me. 

I crane my neck upwards, I have finally lost site of it. I do not know where it went, but I do know that it is there. Went up in a broken line. 

I find no sense when trying to grasp any meaning behind this, though I know there is one, maybe even many. 

I wonder where it is. How far it went, and whether I can bring it back again. To the point where I can see it, and be fully aware of it’s existence. It’s size and shape. 

I hear you telling me there is no way around it. Sometimes things are meant to happen. In my mind, there is a way, but I cannot remember it. You say, don’t let your eyes be your enemy. You will see it, eventually.

I want to see it. I want to have the comfort of it being within arm’s reach. I don’t know if I can handle it being so far away, out of sight. 

I know you are smiling, and I know there are many things that will be left unanswered. 

I wait. Each night I wait to see it. I blame the darkness, and the starless skies. But I will eventually look at it at again. 

Tidal Waves: Necessary Fictions

I'm currently reading Michelle Citron's Home Movies and Other Necessary Fictions. It has moved me in ways that no book, fiction or not, has done in a long time. I picked it up for a film theory class, but little did I know that I would be unpacking so much of my personal anxieties as I go through Citron's.

In response, this necessary fiction(s):

She is like the currents. Fierce, unyielding, overwhelming. I struggle to overcome her strength, I want to prove to her I am not without my own, but I fail. I endlessly fail. And into her depths I surrender. As soft as I imagine, there are no edges or borders here. Only depth, and you I can only drown deeper. I let go willingly. I want to be forcefully detached and realigned. I long to drift, I want to be lost inside her. She knows. But pretends otherwise. Faults me for my haughtiness. I tell her, you remind me of Arab men, knowing rather well it will offend her. She and I know, that can be the worst of insults. I want her to lash out, to put me where I can no longer swim against the current.  I find her anger soothing, her frustration illogical.

It is not necessary that we fight, it is essential.