Miss Goody Two-Shoes

Back in my days of naivety, I thought that was a compliment. You know, Miss Goody Two-Shoes. Having just transferred over from a private school to a public one, I thought people were merely complementing me on the school-girl uniform and shoes I wore. My mother thought that changing schools did not mean changing clothes; so the attire continued. Perfectly (and I mean perfectly) pressed blouses. Navy jumpers. Plaid jumpers. Navy slacks. Ankle high white cotton socks. And two pairs of typical school girl flats. You know, the ones with the thin velcro strap that goes across the top of the foot. With the rounded toe front and half inch heel. (If that little girl only knew that those days of half inch heels would be far behind the now permanent four inch minimum stilettos).

So naturally, I thought people were complementing that gorgeous natural effortless shine that my mom created on the tops of those shoes. Those two pairs. One black. One navy. Three years into the public school system, and I finally got it all down. Those kids weren't referring to my shoes at all. And when they said, "Teacher's pet," I no longer needed to search under her desk during recess for the gerbil or puppy I assumed existed. No, they were talking about me and my behavior. Somehow though, amongst it all, even after recognizing their derogatory statuses, I was never insulted. In fact, I was proud. I wore those names with honor and realized I was going to make it work for me. And till this day, I maintain said vow.

The world is dwindling; no one can deny that. Morality has decreased far below zero, and the odds of finding an extinct animal have turned in our favor compared to the odds of finding truly decent human beings. And I can't believe I am going to say this, but I actually blame peer pressure and the lack of true inner human strength. It's become a disgrace these days to be moralistic. To maintain standards and abide by your own personal set of limitations. It is laughable. Shameful. And you are exiled from so many social networks you start to wonder which of your principles you can toss out the window to get back in. I've been there. But it makes it harder to swallow when people of your own faith group, from your own community, are the ones doing the shaming when they should be supporting.

It all started when I was seven. Innocent little seven year old me. Well, innocent probably isn't the right term because I don't think there was ever any real innocence. Naivety, maybe. Innocence, no. I chose to practice an aspect of my faith that many people thought I was too young for. I chose to wear the Islamic head cover. Gasp! At age seven? Why? First it was my mother, bombarded with those questions and harassment. And when she tried to explain that it was my choice, their focus shifted towards me. "Are you being forced sweetie?" I shook my head and the one piece white scarf that was a little loose swayed back and forth across my head. "Did your mommy tell you to wear this?" Again, I shook my head, taking with it that scarf I had eight replicas of, that I wore each day proudly and eagerly to school.

When the situation reached an all time concern, I was asked to explain. Finally, they wanted to hear my side. The tiny package spoke. "I want this. I chose it. I know that one day I will be practicing it. So why wait?" The mutters were muffled, but never silenced. I got the pity stares. The concerns. The explanations that it would irreversibly impact my self-esteem and restrict me from ever doing what "every young girl deserves to experience in life." By the way peeps, for those of you who said that, I'm curious, what is it that I missed out on? With a scarf on my head, I have still been able to: (1) go to school, (2) dance, (3) write poetry, (4) publish a book, (5) attend parties, (6) go out with friends, (7) enjoy time at the beach, (8) smile, (9) make new friends, (10) work out at the gym, ... need I go on?

If only it ended there. This was just the beginning. It was also the beginning to the realization that somehow, subliminally, people were trying to tell me to disobey my parents. That abiding by their advice, influence or opinions would oppress me into a life of regretful unhappiness. And this, this is where my blood boils.

First, since when was it a shame to actually listen to your parents? Second, just because I choose to follow the rules in many aspects of life (note, I said many, not all) why is it an automatic assumption that my "mommy" or "daddy" twisted my arm to do so? I can proudly say that I have had the greatest upbringing with two people who ensured that all my needs, and most of my wants were provided; who showed me the difference between right and wrong; and then handed me the baton to pursue my own path in life. Sure, their advice is still given, and it will always be welcome, even if not solicited. And if at times it is the advice I find befitting my current issue, I'll take it. Why not? People are foolish. Seriously. I just am appalled by the guile of people with the way they try and poke around at my lifestyle and my parents' parenting.

After the metaphorical shoes (of the Miss Goody Two-Shoes) were shined and ready to persevere, it came to the high school years. Ah, high school. The worst two years of life. Where drama and immaturity unite. (Thank god for http://chspe.net/). Yes, it was in those two mediocre years that I recognized the meaning of friendship. It came from my mom. When things got tough, I found that she was the best and only person to turn to. And before I knew it, I had found my soul mate. The girl I loved to go shopping with. With whom I had to text about a scenario that just occurred. Or a boy who had just said hi. The woman I could be held by in the toughest of times. The human that would never judge me, belittle me, or refuse me; the way that many others had. Suddenly I realized, there is no other best friend like a mother; at least like mine anyway. And that was it. That was enough to fuel the fires of those fools.

"Oh no, no, your mother cannot be your best friend. That's unhealthy. You must entitle someone your own age to be your best friend." I kid you not, these words came out of a 50-year-old woman. She was saying them straight to the face of a 14-year old. I looked at her with an utterly confused expression. "Well honey, your mom is your mom. She cannot get you like someone in your age range. You need to be free. To do what you want and enjoy your life." There it was. The subliminal psychosis again. Mom + Friendship = Dysfunctional Domination. Ten years later and I still don't see how that equation fits into my life.

If only it stopped at words. People did harass me. Try and purposely arrange events or things to keep me and my mother apart because they were so deeply concerned. And that's when I knew, at the young age of 15, that I needed to be a sociologist. When I found that I, a little adolescent in these senile people's eyes (and I say senile even if they were between 38-55 because their behavior sure resembled it), could easily assess and analyze the situation for what it truly was: These women were the mothers of the same girlfriends I shared my spare time with; the young girls who were constantly in horrendous fights with their mothers, arguing, yelling, cursing, hating, suffering, running away, lying; and they...they were...(take a deep breath in)...jealous.

Gasp! Did I just speak ill of the dead souled? I must have, because that's when I knew. When I saw how eager each one of those women was to drag me down when I revealed that I was graduating early and going to college at 16. When I had to endure, silently listening to their rants about how my family was influencing me without my knowledge to just suffer in excess unnecessary studies instead of being a free rebel in high school, with the ability to screw up before life gets tough (no joke, these are the words I was forced to hear). Back then I was far more respectful to my elders. Needless to say, that is one aspect of my goody two-shoe-ness that I have eliminated. We give older people far too much credit. When a child says something rude or inappropriate, we brush it off with an innocent, "Oh kids will be kids." Yet when an adult says the same rude thing (and you truly know that was not a sincere piece of constructive criticism) why on earth would I let it slide? Because you're from my mom's generation? Think again lady. I am a woman too. Maybe not your age but I am one indeed. I have my own free will. My own mind. My own choices. Don't badger me. I know, for a fact, that your intentions are not sincere, and so that advice you just handed me, or that awful yet sly insult you just threw about my mother/father is totally unwelcome. Say it again, and just beware of my tongue's anticipating back-lashing.

If only it ended there. Time for university applications arrives. Community college managed to end abruptly in one beautiful year. The best year of my life till this day. I was only seventeen, and personally (personally, should I say it again, personally) I did not feel like moving away was a good choice at this time. Did people agree? Oh no, of course not. "Dania, you can't be dragged down by your family. You need to get out. Spread your wings. Be free." I looked around. Wondered where on earth my broken wings were, or that ball and chain that they were referring to. What made it worse was that now the evil spew of lingo trickled down from those mothers to their daughter...my peers.

"Don't you just wanna get out and be free? Not have a curfew? Not be asked where you were and what you were doing and who you were with? Don't you just wanna have your own place? Your own freedom?" Call me crazy but the truthful answer to all of those questions was, "No." Not because I was being held back by family and enjoying it. No, but because in the years that I lived with my family I was never bombarded with such suffocation. I was raised with two things: Trust and respect. Both of which were treated as mutual rights. My parents gave me their utmost trust and respect; I owed them the same. That is MY standard and it will not change. The question is why does that bother people so much? Why are they so keen to believe that it is the doing of a family's hidden agenda to cage a girl, rather than the sincere appreciation a girl is doing for/to her family out of choice?

So I bashed everyone's dreams when I got my B.A. in Sociology from CSULB. Good old local Long Beach, just 25 minutes driving distance. Two years of commuting and people were silent. But then it returned. "Why don't you apply to grad school outside of Cali? Or at least outside of SoCal?" Again, I reiterated my choice to stay local. I was born here. Raised here. Grew up here. Worked here. Experienced life and its inspirations here. And the only people who care for me are here. Why would I want to abandon it all for an education I really could get anywhere? At the end of the day, I believe it's not where you get the degree from, but what you end up doing with it! And before I could hear anymore of it, I submitted the applications, received acceptance from both local universities, and chose CSULB once again. #Loyalty #BeachPride #49er

The same cycle repeated when I applied to PhD. programs the first and second time. But I've disappointed the world once again. And it just surprises me how intense and deeply rooted people's nosiness is in other people's lives. My mother comes home one day last year, after I got a rejection letter from the first PhD. program I applied to the first time around. "I ran into Lana* today." I didn't look up from the mail that I was strumming through. Call me old fashioned, but I still get the jitters when I see a pile of mail and anticipate a letter just for me. Now it's all technological. #Fail "And...?"

"We were talking about you and your PhD. applications and how this first one didn't work out." Junk mail. Macy's Coupons. Sur La Table magazine. Gap discount card. Nordstrom's bill. "Then she asked me why you didn't apply outside of SoCal." Now the mail was no longer an attention grabber. I looked at my mom and eagerly waited to hear the rest of it. "So I told her that you didn't want to, and Lana asked if you really didn't want to apply out of state or if I wasn't permitting you to." Was laughter the wrong reaction? I couldn't help it as the envelopes fell from my lap and onto the tile kitchen floor. "Seriously mama? She said that to you?!?!"

My mom smiled and shrugged her shoulder as she headed to hear the messages on the answering machine. But as she did so, and as the laughter died down, I suddenly was overcome with surprise again. "Wait, wait, Lana said that to you? Like that? So boldly?" My mom nodded. "Yeah, why? Haven't we heard this broken record before?" I semi nodded as I realized how absolutely inappropriate that was of Lana. "Yeah we have, but mama Lana is from my generation. How did she have the guts to actually say that to your face? You're not her age. You're one of her elders and educators that she supposedly respects and attends classes with." The smile my mom gave me is one of the smiles I love about this woman. It is a smile that speaks volumes. It's that Are-You-Seriously-Saying-That-Thinking-That-People-Give-A-Crap-Or-Respect-Anything smile. And before we knew it, the conversation was over.

It seeped into my social life a long time ago as well. A few of my girlfriends were planning a trip to a festival a few states away. It was last minute, of course; because Arabs don't know how to do anything early. (Which is another thing I face; if I arrive to something on time, it's a shame lol. Damn it, make up your minds!) Well it sounded like fun until I found out we would be traveling via a large cargo van, across an icy road, with a bunch of young girls, and one of us would be driving. I don't trust other people's driving. And if you've ever driven through California, you'd understand why. People are psychotic. Mix that with a large van, an icy road, and potential need for tire chains, and what do you get? So I passed.

While the girls were on the trip, I ran into one of their families at the mall. "Dania, hi!" I approached with a smile. We began talking when our conversation shifted into the trip. I asked if they had heard from them and how it was going. This was the response: *head hangs low* "Ugh, your dad was so smart to keep you from going."

My head made one of those mini instant double takes and somehow I held back the, "What the hell? Ex-cuuuse me?" First, if they were so anti the trip, why did they allow their women to go? So those girls disobeyed and went? They are abiding by the same rulings you're applying to me to disobey and do what I please? HA! Second, what on earth gave you the idea or impression that my father refused me this trip? He was willing to actually gift me a fully paid round trip plane ticket! I just didn't think it was worth it for two days.

It continued. If I RSVPd no to parties, people wondered if my family was prohibiting me from attending. Maybe I should have revealed that I just got so sick and tired of sitting around people who couldn't talk about anything but food recipes and tupperware. That I wanted to go to parties where I could sit with intellects and discuss matters like social issues. Education. Poverty. Projects for change. Upcoming seminars or travels and exciting things.

If I left events early, I constantly faced the crude jokes about curfews. How I would be in trouble for not getting home on time. If I chose not to get up and dance at parties, people asked if it was because my mother was sitting there and I was too afraid to do so in front of her. That was enough to inspire me to get up and not only dance, but steal the flipping spotlight. And damn did I do well!

Why is it so hard for people to grasp this concept? That if I choose to leave early and make sure I arrive home safe and sound instead of getting stuck with a flat tire or in a car accident at midnight; it is my choice. My etiquette. Why is that a shame? If the idea of getting up and shaking my body in front of everyone really isn't always my desire of choice, why is it because my mom made me a prude? What if I love being a prude all on my own? #Prude and #proud baby! Nothing is more attractive than someone who stands by their morals and principles. Maybe I'm the only crazy one to believe so, but oh well. Nice guys may finish last, but hey, at least we finish with #dignity!

I found that this was only increasing with time; and to tell you the truth, I know it will never end. In high school I heard this allegory that impressed me: A man, his son and their pony were traveling. In the first village they walked through, the father let the son sit upon the pony so that he could rest. The villagers began their gossip. "Look at that selfish boy, making his father walk on his old feet while he rests comfortably on that pony." As they continued onto their travels, the father and son switched so that now the father could rest. As they passed through the second village, the gossip began. "Look at that awful father, forcing his young son to walk upon those feeble feet as he rides comfortably." The duo continued and upon entering the third village, both decided that they were feeling like walking. But the villagers saw otherwise. "Look at those two, making that poor pony carry all their luggage as they walk freely."

I realized that people will always judge and even interfere in your personal affairs. Don't know why I was created to be its utmost victim, but I finally surrendered to that challenge. It will only be the fuel to my efforts towards change. So bring it on. Miss Prude Goody Two-Shoes is so ready for you!

Be careful what you wish for...or go on and wish recklessly!

His ego was bruised. I could see it, so clearly in his eyes, as I poured out line after line from the most intense poem I ever created. Anger makes for the greatest fuels, and I will continue to use it for the wisest of fires. The irony was that this poem wasn't about him. He was a random audience member, and I, an impromptu performer. But when you're put on the spot, you know you need to make the deepest impression, and this poem was it.

"Excuse me, can I ask you something?" He approached and I smiled already knowing what he was about to say. "Is that poem real? I mean based on a real story?" The 14 year old I used to be would dance around the truth and explain that was just a mere expression of what goes on in this world to save face. The 24 year old that I am no longer hides. It has become my philosophy to be me all the way. To not hide in fear of my opinions, thoughts, feelings, expressions. If it bothers someone, so be it. Why does the world hold the right to express themselves so clearly (and rudely) to me, yet I have no right to be honest?

"Yes, it is." His eyebrows raised. His eyes widened. "Wow...um...well." Speechlessness floated across his mind, while every ounce of speech drowned in mine. "You didn't like it? I heard you say something right at the end there." He blinked. "No, no, I was kidding. It's just that was intense you know. The anger. The emotion." The innocence or malice that dripped from my smile completely mimicked irony as he spoke to me of something that no one would smile of. I felt like the Grinch smiling in an evil like manner at something that didn't deserve smiling, but the truth was I proudly believed that I should be honored at such words. Not only have I mastered leaving an impression, on a man no less, but I got my message across! Why can Taylor Swift publicly express her anger in cheesy lyrics and state that men shouldn't near her if they don't want to be "track number 12" but I can't? How does poem number 237 differ from track 12?

Four years ago I worked with a man who was obsessed with Kanye West. To me that man is like hearing a cat scraping its awful white nails across the blackest and driest of chalkboards. It's not his voice...it's everything else. But four years ago he released a song that this coworker always had on repeat, "Heartless." By the 15th time of hearing it, it rubbed off on me. Not the beat. Not the singer. Just those lyrics. While people heard it, nodding their heads to the tune of the bass and sympathizing with West on his heartache, I envied the woman he was singing of. "The coldest story ever told...a woman so heartless."

And there I was, driving home after a long day, uttering simple words of a wish I didn't know would come true just a mere year and a half later and last for almost a full three years after that. "I wish I could be that girl that Kanye sings of, the heartless one that could make such an impression. At least then I will be remembered...and safe!" The magic lamp had been rubbed. The words spoken. The heart erased. And once upon a time I awoke heartless.

When he let me go, I changed. A lot. I'm sure deep down at the pit, in my core, an essence of who I am remains, but everything else changed with his absence. I learned to become...heartless. I learned to keep it from healing into a whole object again and let it be. Broken. Dysfunctional. A robotic shamble of pieces mechanically beating because that is their essential duty and nothing further. I learned to be tougher, in the worst of ways. I learned to stand up for myself and no longer take any abuse. So I was suddenly being courageous enough to defend myself with my boss. To say, "No," when necessary and explain my discomfort if needed. I was brave, so much so that we ended up clashing and I had to quit. Never in my life did I quit something, and suddenly it was becoming a habit. I learned to no longer take any crap from the so called friends I thought I had. And so I found myself shying away from them the more they appeared disloyal and careless. And every man that came into my life I pushed away, because he wasn't...him. But I also pushed them away because I was afraid each one would be him. The metaphorical sense of potential disaster and ache that cannot even be put into adjectives because of how horrifically painful it all was. So I learned to be, alone. Safe, protected, and miserably alone. And I realized that when you finally stand up for what you deserve, you get nothing!

They told me, "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." (Dang it, another Kanye reference!) What they forgot to mention was that for some reason, what doesn't kill you may only make you more evil. Harden your heart. Change your perspective. Manipulate your reality into a nightmare. Hinder your potential to thrive. And that's what happened to me. The metamorphosis I unconsciously endured after his blessed departure.

Six years ago, sitting with a group of my girlfriends, trying to avoid the horrid heat of Irvine, a friend of my mother's approached me and began complimenting me on how I had "blossomed" into a beautiful woman (a.k.a. puberty had finished running its entire course and now I was beginning to show my potential birthing hips that she could recommend to all hunting suitors - no joke). When we began discussing the recent trend in my peers finding their "perfect matches" and marrying, she immediately tacked on the infamous, "Your time will come soon."

Six years ago I was naive. I wanted love. I wanted a man in my life. And so I said, "Inshallah." (Inshallah means, "God willing," in Arabic, but I must have not "wished" those words because they didn't come true). Her facial expression distorted upon my innocent yet sincere words. Instead she replied, "Well maybe you should tone down that arrogance then, hmm?" I didn't realize that putting my faith in prayer to God to bring me my soul mate was arrogance, but apparently I was wrong. But now, six years later, I am more than ready to oblige to make her assumption a reality. Arrogance. Confidence. Me. Why not? After all, what remains?

Why not believe I am worthy of most if not all? Why not demand my rights, even if I get nothing? I've witnessed enough women who devolve upon their brainwashed mentality post-love and they forget who they ever were and intended to do with their lives. Their education. Their ambitions. Their dreams. Girls that I had spent years with, hearing about their visions and plans, and it all gets thrown away on a white dress, a big ballroom, and years of complaining thereafter. It's a turn off that I can't support. I want to see a woman who finds a man that only supports her of her dreams. Proves to her that upon their union, things won't change for the worse, nor will she be forgotten. But he will be a perfect scaffold to hold up her principles. I guess that is something overreaching these days? (I bet you were about to roll your eyes at the word "perfect" weren't you? Ha! No one is perfect.) So I find myself drifting away from the girlfriends I once knew as they try and show me the beauty of bubbly love where imaginary hearts twirl above our heads as we go cake tasting, wedding dress shopping, in-law gift shopping, and so on and so forth. The sadder part is that the crash from that high they are in may be far more painful than that crash I felt when he let me go. At least there was no ring on my finger to remove; no awful tan line to physically remind of what once was.

It probably is selfish to say all this, but then again, it's what's become of me. At first I told myself to keep away from the toxicity of the environment around me, to watch out for the dangers of getting sucked in. And all this to only discover that I've been infected with another disease all along. As tacky as it may seems, it reminds me of that Black Spiderman. All it took was one touch and I was a goner. Slowly becoming comfortable in this indulgence of carelessness and arrogance. Believing that I deserved something when nothing came. But when I wanted to slow down, take a breath and reconsider this new philosophy, all I could conjure up was this:

With every connection, relationship, friendship I always gave. I gave all of me. Everything I could. My time. My money. My sincerity. My efforts. My love. My heart. My mind. My ideas. My loyalty (yeah, that's a big one). My commitment. And I never asked for anything in return because I decided to wait. Patience is a supposed virtue? I thought deep down if they love me (friend/guy/relative/etc.) they will remember at some point. When it didn't come I put the blame back on me and said it was selfish to anticipate anything in return. Love isn't about taking is it?

I learned that lesson the hard way. Let's face it. That unconditional "I don't need anything from you" thing is bull. We are all humans. And it's only human nature to desire some form of reciprocation or acknowledgement or appreciation. So it was only human nature to feel worthless with the way it all dwindled. Because I used to never go down without a fight. Trying and trying again to grab hold of whatever could be salvaged until I finally awoke to the realization that I was cheap (in their eyes). And so I stopped. Stopped everything with everyone.

Pulled away from the society I thought I knew. Pulled away from the friends I grew up to. Pulled away from the idea of love and its twisted fairytale delusion. That's when I discovered that to be remembered, you must be forgotten. And to be cared for, you must become careless. It's this sick game of life. Men want the chase. Apparently friends want it to. I surfaced from hibernation at a few events recently and people had to actually take a few seconds to recognize me. "Where have you been?" I smiled and shrugged my shoulders. What excuse did I have? I couldn't find a job. Post-graduate schools had been as good as men in rejecting me. So where have I been when I RSVPd no to every invite?

The truth? On what seems to be an everlasting trip of self rediscovery. Swaying back and forth like a ship lost at sea wondering who I will become internally as well as externally. A long time ago I put this community at the forefronts of my to do list. I wanted to work for it. Give them all that I had. Help them with my studies. Be a part of them forever. Even, dare I say, marry from within to stay grounded and raise a family here. And if the latter was a fail, I urged in hopeful prayer that God would send someone who didn't mind moving here. Well, a majority of that has changed as I found myself quickly distancing from the "here" crowd to find new ones. New friends. New connections. Even new men.

It seemed the oldies were not into me or what I had to say or do or feel. They still aren't actually, even though now they somewhat seem to value my presence as I appear here and there after a long long absence. But what good does that do as it remains a shallow expression of, "Oh, hey, it's been forever. Hope all is well." Well, all is surviving, if it matters to you. I've learned what independence means and apparently the world is cruel enough to define it as: Knowing what you deserve and realizing that you'll get none of it...while the world thinks you are just an over emotional female that needs to be broken in by marriage ASAP.