The Greatest Loss

The greatest loss anyone can ever encounter is the loss of themselves. Not a loved one. Not a job. Not a relationship. The loss of themselves. But usually one loses him/herself on the threshold of losing someone or something else; because when that happens it’s only human nature to lose a piece of yourself or everything you ever believed you were.

If I close my eyes I can almost remember that girl from my past. She never smiled, but she was happy. Her ambitions surpassed anything anyone ever assumed, and her dreams were more like goals she could check off a list. But that didn’t please anyone. Instead she was reprimanded for everything she aimed to achieve and scolded for not being a child. Then, a rebellious adolescent. Then, a free spirited young adult. That was until she experienced her greatest loss—the loss of every aspect of who she ever was.

The one thing we as adults cannot deny is the memory of hearing these words while growing up, “You don’t want to grow up. Life is hard.” What these careless adults forgot to do was provide us with advice to slightly ease our way into the future. But after reaching adulthood myself I realized they didn’t forget to advise us, they chose not to. Almost 20 years of experience have brought me to the saddest conclusion, that deep down people don’t truly wish the best for each other. Instead they root for your failure; and rather than sharing helpful tools from their own experiences to help you in yours, they leave you hanging off a cliff, on the edge, telling you, “It only gets harder.”

My greatest loss started right after graduation. Nineteen and hopeful with a Bachelor’s in Sociology and a Minor in Child Development & Family Studies, the world seemed to gleam with potential for a fresh, energetic and creative mind like mine. Step one: Get a job. Done! A local nonprofit I knew for years was willing to welcome me in, but only as an intern. To me a job doesn’t necessarily entail money—at least not in the beginning. I knew I needed experience and so I agreed. But three months into the position they hired me on for a temporary project I had no experience or interest in. First crack.

Step two: Fulfill the lifelong dream of publishing a book. Since childhood I excelled in poetry and so I yearned to put together my best poems into one book. The backlash from that goal is still scalding me but at least I have the feel of a hardcover with my name on it to be somewhat proud of. Deepened crack.

The year before publication was brutal. I spent every evening on Google trying to research decent publishers that would welcome a book of poetry. Then I decided to turn to community members who had remotely similar experiences with their publications and instead I received this:

“You can’t just go publish a book out of nowhere. You’re a nobody. It takes years of establishing a real reputation as a writer in the literary world before you can even think about producing a work of your own.”

The good news? I’m one of those rare females that finds fuel in opposition and so I worked even harder only to find that after publication the support would dwindle further. Farewell to more pieces and hello to the wake up call that unfortunately my own people nestle with popcorn in anticipation of my fall. That’s when I decided fine, I will fall, with a zing. And I fell in love. Let the biggest piece get in place.

No it wasn’t planned or purposeful. It wasn’t the act of rebelliousness they all called for. It was an unconscious wrong exit I took on the freeway of the life I thought I wanted, steering me into the confusing state no one warned me I’d be stuck in four years later. But when he (never) bid me an unwarranted farewell six months later at his departure, he took with him almost all that was left of me, and that’s when everything changed.

He said goodbye, graduate school said hello and I found myself in a hazy state of disillusionment. My work experience had misled me to believe that the public sector life was where I ought to be and so I suffered through two years of a disorganized unprofessional graduate program, got my graduation delayed a year and spent two and a half years afterwards job hunting in places that repeated the phrases “Budget Cuts” and “Hiring Freeze.”

When my family offered their warm welcome to take a break I began to reassess everything I ever dreamed of. Every position I applied for required a commitment to a lifestyle in government that I ultimately did not want to be trapped in. The dream to become a marriage and family therapist was extinguished when I was introduced into the deeper realm of the marriages and families surrounding me. The desire to work towards a goal of gender role reform became far-fetched and laughable in this century. And suddenly everything I believed, everything I wanted, changed. But that’s when I realized it was possible that everything I thought I ever wanted, I only convinced myself I wanted.

The scariest part is the sensation of feeling lost. Suddenly realizing the map you drew out for your future is now void. I’ve read numerous articles and overreaching quotes about needing to lose yourself in order to find yourself. And maybe, just maybe, once I find my stability I can say that’s true, but until then where does that leave us? And I say us because I know I’m not the only one who suddenly hits a dead end in life and wonders what is this all for?

For 12 years I strived for a future to serve others at the expense of serving myself. I was convinced that providing human services through marital therapy or public service was the key to my happiness only to feel otherwise today. It’s not that I don’t want to help people, I do, but I’m beginning to find different avenues to do so that could possibly lead to my own personal happiness as well.

Some may call this selfishness because I keep worrying about myself, but at the end of the day shouldn’t I be concerned about myself? After all, if I don’t take care of my mental and physical well being, how can I serve others? So far the paths I am desiring to take don’t match what an average Muslim woman would do, but I ask myself the question if I’m not breaking any legal or religious laws where’s the problem? If life provides you with the wake up call you needed and gives you a second chance to catch all the dreams you thought you could never chase, why not?

It has caused a stir though, all of it, this loss of myself, my visions, my path and my current shift in gears. What about the education I wasted so much money on? What about the more prestigious paths I was planning to take? What about the girl I used to be?

In the past three years that I suffered through job hunting, PhD. program rejections, and the personal life drama that cannot help but occur I’ve reached a few different morals from this jumbled story. It truly is unfortunate that society fails to give you a proper facet to life, and maybe that’s because no one has it. They told us go to college, get a Master’s, then get a job. They never told us that in order to get a job you need a minimum of 3-5 years of experience. They told us the 9-5 routine was the most stable routine towards retirement, but who wants to live for that? Why not develop a plan that provides stability with passion and joy? A plan that actually makes your heart skip a beat like it did the first time you felt real love. A plan, that like any other has its risks and potential to crumble, but is worth pursuing nonetheless. I think I may have found mine but it feels like such a battle to take the first step and convince those around me of the seriousness. But I think those who truly matter, those who have seen my conviction of things in the past and my true effort to reach those goals, those are the people who will help me through this obstacle course and to my ultimate dream.

I pray that if there’s one thing this 21^st century changes, it’s the misconstrued method of how we raise our youth. Giving them mixed signals when we say, “Slow down but hurry up,” in life. Putting money before happiness, and undermining the potential of believing in a dream. Even if it is a childhood dream that still burns through adulthood.

Being Blessed vs. Being Lucky

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The Pacific Ocean stood right before me in all its perfect blue glory. If it weren't for a slight reddish line that sat between it and the sky, it would have been hard to tell where the two separated. I had worked hard at keeping my composure for the sake of supporting my mother in her upcoming speech on the Surf City Pier for the 6^th Annual Blessing of the Wave Interfaith Event. For more than six years I have been by her side at almost every interfaith/public speaking event, feeling supportive, proud and enamored at the words of praise people offered me for her efforts. But today it was slightly harder when I wanted to be a little selfish. Dwell in a bit of sadness for losing someone recently, and my mother, bless her soul, only knew that all too well and let me indulge.

Before we headed out to the Pacific Ocean (of which I was reminded by many different interfaith leaders that it was named after its peaceful demeanor that I now envied) she held me tight as I let out the tears that had clearly not run dry. And as I stood at the mouth of the Pierside Plaza, looking out at the crowd in front of me, the gorgeous sands I wanted to just sink into, and the mesmerizing cold blue water I wished I knew how to swim in, I released the tears I knew I had waiting. As my thoughts moved in and out of focus, between taking numerous pictures of the event and trying to temporarily ignore my reality, I wondered could our ocean be composed of human tears? Salty tears spilt into this large body of water collected over centuries and ages of painful years? I felt a poem coming on, but instead the next interfaith leader walked to the podium and I had to get my camera in place. Another thought came to me right then, at how easy it could be for me to be a photographer and hide my emotionality behind large black equipment in that career. My tears however, were not so invisible. And when one impromptu speaker got up on that podium, I found that he was sent to speak today for a reason—me. He was right up there speaking straight to my heart, leaving me no choice but to fall prey to a really good cry.

His words were so powerful and breathtaking that the entire audience, even the passersby on the beach, stood in silence taking in the much-needed spirituality of being one with God. Longing for His presence and His blessings, and I felt it the most. Having lost two loved ones in one week, continuously witnessing the world play with my land of origins—Syria—like it were some trinket they can do away with, while hearing my grandparents’ voices across a 21^st century Bluetooth speaker in my car pretending to assure us of their safety over there, and a friend from Egypt explaining her recent visit to that land of turmoil with explosions, riots and fear, I lost it.

However, amidst my tears I did notice one thing: The way a crowd of maybe 200 people gathered on a gorgeous cool Sunday morning in September to unite in the spirit of God, ask for His blessings, while indulging in the beauty that is water—the utter source of our lives and apparently our human unity. I wondered if we could do it here why can’t we do it everywhere else? Why can’t we remember God and our good deeds and love? Why can’t we deal with each other with the best manners rather than always looking for the worst? Assuming? Presuming? Judging? Hurting? Even killing?

The wheels were spinning faster and faster as we all bowed our heads in prayer, asking God for blessings, and that’s when another question came in mind. Once upon a time someone told me I had no right to ever be sad because I was a lucky girl. It stuck with me but in an analytical manner. I don’t think I’m “lucky” but I think I have been blessed. There is a difference. I recently met someone who has had a lifetime of honest to goodness bad luck but an eternity of incredibly miraculous blessings. Often however, people like him (and myself) don’t recognize it till a sudden moment of calamity. When our faith is tested and our patience is lost and we have nowhere to turn but up, to God, the One we almost neglected.

I spent the rest of the day in a daze: One third from remorse, another third from an official sleepless night mixed with tears and forced in contact lenses, and the last third from the overwhelming sense of spirituality. They say spirituality is something you can only feel but I could have sworn I witnessed it. I witnessed it crushing me in a way that I hadn’t felt in years, and maybe even more so this time around. I witnessed its threatening reminder to not let it go like I had before, that although I may not have all the luck in the world I have the blessings. I have the blessings of God (God-Willing), I have the blessings of my family, and most importantly I believe I have the blessings of myself. That conviction that although I will stray on and off the right path in life, my end result will always be returning to it in some way, shape or form.

I really do hope that the sincere heartfelt prayers made at this event bring the blessings needed to every human on this planet filled with some bad luck. To you. To me. To every innocent civilian suffering for someone else’s behalf. May we all be blessed in our hours of need.

Unheard, Yet Listened

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Sometimes some people are created to be magnetic creatures, more often to those unexpected, and most often never to those desired. So when I found myself on board a planning committee I initially declined to join, I knew that at the end of this chaotic tunnel, a light would be awaiting me.

It was ridiculously hot for a California summer day that you didn’t even have to move to feel exhausted. Sitting beneath a canopy that reminded of my childhood circus dreams while chugging down bottles of iced tea and water didn’t help either. Before I knew it there was no separation between my clothes and my skin and I began to contemplate how painful it will be to change into my pajamas that night.

I had twelve hours ahead of me and I wondered what colorful encounters were to come as I sat patiently at the elusive Info Booth everyone kept questioning. By hour number four I had come to the conclusion that at a predominantly Muslim/Middle Eastern Festival I was bound to (and did) encounter the following scenarios:

-        The ever so famous male stalkers that passed by my booth in a manner they believed was oblivious while everyone else knew was obvious

-        The even more famous elderly females who were devoted to setting up their sad sad sons

-        The obtrusive remarks about how “too white” I am to be outdoors

-        Unconsciously becoming EVERYONE’S human punching bag for no apparent reason while surprisingly keeping my cool

-        Finding myself in the midst of a man’s presence I never expected to enjoy

The day was as energetic as the carnival rides and the music that blasted through Downtown Anaheim. I was beginning to see the hard labor of our committee finally coming to life. As I laid back in my plastic white chair, soaking in the weather that was slowly beginning to cool down as the sun reached the tip of the west, I noticed a woman a few booths down.

She wore a pair of torn shorts, a plain white t-shirt and had her soft long hair braided in a single braid down her back. She held a large trash bag in her left hand and rummaged through a trash bin with her right. I realized she was searching for recyclables, the way that many did earlier that day. Suddenly I was humbled, far beyond my expectations.

In the previous three weeks our group had been drowning in the stress of preparing for this festival, almost forgetting the very reason for this event—celebrating the achievements of Ramadan, the fasting month for Muslims. For 30 days we fasted from food and drink during the day to do more than just the clichéd answer of “feeling what the poor feel.” Removing the distraction of eating and drinking gives us clarity when taking the even more difficult path of self-revolution. And this year, I will confess, was the hardest Ramadan I have ever encountered. Having experienced quite the rough patches that life loves to offer us all, I found myself facing a battle I wasn’t sure I would win, and that’s when Ramadan rolled around. So I took the chance, faced the monster in the mirror, and renewed the intention to redefine my life and myself. I took it as the opportunity to re-write the person I want to become and hoped to finally give myself a better plot to the life I had found myself stagnantly living. Re-write the convictions I had yet to convince myself of, whether it was love or work or dreams. Explaining this to people has been even harder, but a part of my new resolutions was learning to let go of this need to make sure that people understand, because I realized most often people around me don’t want to. They just prefer to argue.

When she gathered a few plastic water bottles the woman neared my booth. She caught me watching her and we smiled at each other. I suddenly felt the plastic beneath my very own fingertips as I tensed up. Quickly I finished the remaining droplets and waited till she came to my table. When she got closer I noticed the hearing aids in both of her ears; and as she began to speak slowly in a different tone I became even more humbled, thankful to God for my health, wealth and life, obstacles or not.

“Hello,” she said. “What is this? A…festival?” I smiled and nodded taking a split second to remind myself to articulate my words clearly because she immediately took an immense focus on my lips and I realized she was going to read them. And as I spoke in such a slower pace than my usual banter, for the first time ever I actually got to taste the sweetness of deeper articulation. What things we take for granted!

Her next question was about my scarf, and not why I wear it but how. So with a mixture of gestures and vivid articulation I showed her how it was a long rectangle that I wrapped around my head twice before tucking the rest underneath my shirt. She immediately had a worried expression and said, “Wind? Wind!” as she gestured the potential of losing my scarf with the brush of winds. I laughed and said, “No it stays put,” although I remembered how instantly my scarf flew off the first time I rode Silver Bullet at Knott’s Berry Farm. Of course that had to be the exact moment the camera flashed and caught the picture. I’ll never forget my cousin’s laughter as she rolled on the floor when she saw the picture at the end of the ride. Clearly that day I had forgotten to secure it tightly. That’s what happens when I’m forced to wake up too early to be the FIRST human being at the park’s entrance, as my mother desired.

The woman went on to ask me about other Islamic things she’d seen at this festival. With a mixture of hand gestures and mouthing things clearly I explained the different foods, the rides, the entertainers and the unity of diverse cultures. She was enjoying the conversation thoroughly, and when she went on to explain how collecting recyclables helped her pay the bills, I felt my heart wrench at the realization that her moments with me were true moments of forgetful bliss. That was especially so when she thanked me and asked if I would be available the next day. I nodded and said, “Same place all day.” Her smile was filled with excitement as she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Be back for more bottles tomorrow.” I nodded and said, “Looking forward to it!” She shook my hand and headed for the next booth.

I won’t lie, by the time we started closing up for the night I had completely forgotten about her and the humility she left within me. I was too consumed with keeping my eyes open while securing the money, the decorations and then driving myself home safely.

But when I returned to my booth the next morning, trying to obtain as much caffeine as possible, I found a plastic water bottle abandoned at my table and it all came back to me. It was like I found gold and quickly I dashed towards it and placed it in one of my storage bags. I decided from now till she came back (if she came back) I would collect every potential recyclable in sight for her. So as passerby after passerby left behind their trash and drinks, I found treasure and collected each one. Pretty soon I had a hefty bag of bottles set aside.

My thoughts were stolen again when I ran into company I didn’t realize my soul kind of missed all this time. And for what seemed like a beautiful eternity we escaped the heat and chaos of the festival and divulged into whatever it was we shared. But all good things come to an end, and after what life has shown me (and after what I tried to train my mind and heart on this past Ramadan) I forced myself to say farewell without flinching. And that’s when she returned.

From afar she waved at me with a large smile and I waved back, getting my bag of collectables ready. This time she wore a polka dot white and pink shirt with her shorts and it only made her look more youthful. Her hair, still braided back, gave her the simple yet elegant touch. We exchanged how are yous like we had known each other for years and began discussing the better weather Anaheim gave us this time around.

As we communicated, we got around to the bottles, and when I handed her the bag I had filled up for her, she was utterly touched. She put her hand to her heart to thank me and then gestured it in sign language. I never learned the signs, but I understood this one perfectly. It’s almost universal, or maybe love is. And love can be contagious, especially on days like this one. Just an hour earlier a friend treated me to dinner, while another friend went off in search of a brand new mustard bottle for me to use on my chicken burger. I felt the need to do the same for this woman, whose words, “This helps pay the bills” echoed so loudly and painfully in my ears.

So as she turned away, bidding me farewell and thanking me for my help, I touched her shoulder and handed her a meal ticket valid at our food vendors. When she saw it she didn’t understand what the small colorful ticket was for, but I explained and she was in awe. Her mouth gaping open and her eyes in sincere appreciation. She let go of her bottles and reached over to hug me. I leaned in happily to share an embrace I think we both needed.

Her direction changed, from left to right as she headed for the food vendors instead of the remaining trash bins. But two minutes later I found her back at my booth. “Hi!” I said with a smile, wondering what was wrong. “Where?” she said. “Any of the food booths,” I answered thinking she was asking which vendors accepted the ticket. She shook her head and pointed at me. “You, where?” I then realized she came back to ask for my recommendation. “Oh where do I recommend?” I asked to be sure. She nodded incessantly. I pointed straight ahead to the food vendor I had eaten at for the past two days. “They are very good,” I said. She thanked me and headed straight over to wait in their line.

Ten minutes later she had returned with an extra bag in her hand. She showed me her chicken shawerma, French fries and soda. My heart wrenched again as she demonstrated such excitement at being able to have three food items for dinner. I felt awful at the realization that that very same weekend I had Starbucks three times (yes it was THAT hot), shawerma sandwiches, burgers, fries and crepes. I immediately made an internal prayer of thanks to God and wished her the very best before she left.

I realized then that she was the biggest reason God put this festival in my path, despite my attempts to somewhat avoid the planning phase. But in the wise words of my mother, “Don’t you know your destiny Dania? God will always send you interestingly comical encounters and lots of events to plan.” And until the next one, I will ensure to enjoy the encounters to come, while also working hard to remind myself and those around me to enjoy the beauty in every aspect of simplicity in life. It is our greatest blessing and our greatest link to sanity.

Destructive Criticism (part deux)

And let the lines of destruction blur...

With the continuing terror in Syria, I have found that Syrian Americans have become more and more vocal on their stances. Some good. Some bad. Most ugly. Back when this travesty began I expressed my concern about a certain aspect of the revolution that didn't sit well with some peers and I faced quite the backlash. That's when I learned a very important lesson that I hope all Syrians will learn.

If you are keen on degrading and cursing one another here, in the land of freedom where you should be working to unite and support each other, how can you expect the Syrian world to unite and make peace? I'm confused. And when I read the harassments of four people, in response to what I expressed as MY own personal opinion, I realized we will never ever attain peace within our ancestors' country. We cannot even give each other peace or treat each other with some sense of decorum.

The silver lining? One of my "attackers" left me a piece of solid and useful advice that I immediately applied to her. She said, upon my response to her first insult, "If you can't handle someone disagreeing with what you have to say then: (1) stop talking/writing publicly or (2) run along and surround yourself with people who agree with you on everything." And with just a touch of a button, Facebook Unfriend became my new best friend.

I don't hold it against her. Two months later I ran into her at the mosque and she held her infant so innocently and squealed, "Oh Dania, how nice to see you!" and I realized, "Ah yes! The two faced syndrome. It runs in her Arab genes."

But I thank her for giving me the shake I needed, the reminder that I had long forgotten. Surely you understand, I don't mean I want to be around people who always agree with everything I say. No; but I realized that I also DON'T want to be around people who are constantly criticizing me, constantly degrading me, constantly prohibiting me from voicing my opinion, let alone having one, when they run around gallivanting their ridiculous thoughts. I can't post a quote or an article or a blog piece on this godforsaken media without immediately being bashed by two or three "constructive" criticizers. And how it makes my skin cringe when they do it with the condescending and fake "I'm just trying to make you a better and more optimistic person sweetheart" approach.

Sometimes, I will admit, I'm human. I fall prey to believing the doubts they sew within me. I wonder, "Really? Did my years of education and writing truly fail me? Are my words a joke? Should I resign from my post as a blogger, poet, and future novelist?" Then I'll see my father's facial expression after reading one of my blog posts for the first time. And then I will hear his words of praise, his words of conviction that no soul on this Earth should pass without experiencing my work, and I feel my first sense of reassurance. And my father, let me tell you, he is one classy man with super high standards. There is no such thing as sugar coating.

Then I receive the first, second and third message from random strangers who thank me, with tears and sincerity, for writing such hardcore honest words that they have so longed to hear. And I am reassured yet again.

Then I begin to notice praise being given to familiar quotes and excerpts, all being posted on people's walls and linked to strangers' Tweets and I excitedly realize, "Hey I wrote that!" and I begin to become just as convinced as my father.

This pattern will probably continue. It's a day in the life of a writer in the 21st century. Back in the old days I'm sure contradictory writers had pitchforks and flames coming at them; today there are cyber-attacks and unfollowing.

It helps when I take a step back and assess who these people are that feel so confident in branding me a failed writer, grammatically and contextually. It helps even more when I come to the conclusion that their advice, when given in such ugly methods, is useless. I can't value the words of a man who told me my poems are moot and petty. Especially when he says so after I refused to go out with him, which happened after he confessed his recent addiction with LSD. Yes, yes, just a glimpse into the colorful world that is my love life!

I can't value the words of supposed long time friends that have to hide behind the mask of "Anonymous" in order to bash a few blog posts because they didn't sit well with him/her.

I can't value the words of a male who can't handle the reality that females go through in this day and age; who must pity the male species and begins to make it sound like they need support groups and justice.

But I can value the words of a new friend who tells me, "Why haven't you posted another article yet?!?!" The value of the words, "This is remarkable, brilliant and exactly captures the essence of the situation." I can value the words of a stranger who tells me that after reading my work she is re-inspired to have faith that women can stand strong today. That their broken pasts and shaky presents can become solid grounds in the future with writers like myself.

And these, my dear criticizers, are the people I choose to surround myself with, because these people will know how and when to properly keep me in check...if need be. And I'm confident it will be without spite or bitter destructive criticism or that fancy fake rosy colored glasses attempt.

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Red, White & Blue. RESPECT.

The value of respect has vastly depreciated in this day and age. Youth don’t respect their elders, men don’t respect women, those who are “different” aren’t respected, and the cycle seems to go on and on. Without respect however, life becomes a little disgusting to tell you the truth. I miss the days when humanity had a standard for etiquette. When people had a sense of personal space and boundaries that they wouldn’t dare trespass. But I do wonder if that time ever existed?

We walked into the comedy club and were greeted by the hostess, who was a small pretty girl with black hair that matched her outfit. She walked us to our seats and I realized that we were making our way to the very front of the club, near the stage. “Right here,” she said as she gestured towards the red chairs to our left. It was one row away from where the performers would be and I knew that this was going to be interesting. At amateur comedy shows, I noticed that more often than not, comedians get their work from picking on various audience members and then they go off tangents. Some succeed and some fail. As my friend and I took our seats, both in our headscarves, I looked around and realized that even on “Middle Eastern Comedy Night” we were the only ones covered. Probably even the only Arabs there. The rest of the group varied between Persian and Caucasian.

The night of comedy started off well with an unbelievably hilarious emcee, really good jokes and the right sweetness to the Cherry Coke. As expected, our black and turquoise scarves made the headlines of almost every comedian that landed on stage. From Al-Qaeda references to desert and camel bits, we heard it all, and at that point nothing had seriously offended me. On the contrary, I was impressed by how well they spun the various jokes and were able to get all of us Americans laughing. That was until one comedian stepped up to the plate.

His cocky demeanor was the first turn off. Being some new actor on a Comedy Central show had clearly made his head swell, and he walked onto that stage thinking that he, his Ray-Bans and his moustache could win the night. He didn't. As his jokes kept fading in and out he decided to focus on the girls with the head covers. Sure, his first attempt seemed like the ones we had already heard during the show; but then it was like an addiction and suddenly all he could do was bash us. Even the Jewish comedian didn’t stoop to that level when he used us as his punching bags—he had class.

It began with his assumption that we were sad little fob girls—fresh off the boat. I guess he didn’t realize that our parents flew to this country, and that some of us were born right down the street from the comedy club. Then he began to explain to the audience that our current attire is vastly different from what we used to wear back in the desert land; that once we got off the supposed boat we stripped off the face cover and black robes and slipped into jeans and floral dresses.

At this point I couldn’t laugh anymore, because not only was he serious, but he was piercing me with his eyes knowingly as he spoke each word, letter by letter, truly aiming his arrow at us—the targets. I saw it as a sign of desperation as he continued to use us. I wondered why the whole Justin Bieber making a surprise appearance at the club just 20 minutes earlier didn’t suffice. (Yeah, seriously, he was there!) I guess after he talked about Bieber’s ability to get sex with a simple tweet, it all went downhill for the guy.

His jokes continued and made their way into the raunchy world, as he described that next week we’d be back, with less naïve gazes and making our way into strip clubs using our scarves as dance accessories. He went on to mimic what we supposedly would look like dancing, and increased his voice to a false girly pitch saying, “Oh, haha, we’re free? We don’t need to wear this anymore? Haha!” and he gestured to the removal of the scarf.

Although I couldn’t see myself, I knew the look on my face was terrifying, and that probably fueled him even more. Luckily his time was up and his unattractive aura was off that stage. But he left me thinking, despite comedy and desperation, what on earth drives people to believe that (1) if I wear a scarf I’m from some far off desert land that just arrived to the blessed Americas, and (2) I’m oppressed and in need of liberation?

It took a lot of courage to remain silent because he kept haggling us and pausing to see our reactions and responses, but I knew it would do no good. He would find another way to shoot down the reality that I was born in LA and raised in OC. That I probably have more freedom, class and Americanism than all his years combined. And that I will never, ever, ever want his kind of liberation or freedom because this scarf is an aspect of my faith that I chose to practice and I choose to keep.

As we walked to our cars, trying to remember the humor from the better comedians, I kept remembering a similar incident, but slightly less offensive. It was four years ago in down town Long Beach, as my friend and I made our way to the car after dinner. At 11:00pm we stood at the traffic light waiting to cross the empty street with two other guys who waited beside us: A tall heavy built guy and a slightly shorter and skinner guy. As I began bidding my friend farewell the taller heavier man approached me. “Excuse me, can I ask you something?” Almost thirteen years of wearing the scarf, I had assumed he was yet another eager person asking me why. I was wrong.

“Do you wanna be free?” I was confused. Was he preaching? “What?” I asked. He smiled and his friend began pulling him away and apologizing to me. Now I was curious and couldn’t help but wonder if they were drunk. “Listen, I understand it, you know, all of your rituals and I respect that very much. But don’t you wanna be free?” I laughed, innocently thinking he was talking about my scarf, not realizing his freedom meant a lot more than the layer on my head. “I am free,” I said, “Last time I checked America still allowed us our rights.” His friend was impressed and said, “Damn! Give me five!” I laughed and began trying to make my way to my car.

“No, no wait!” the taller man called out. “I mean don’t you want to be really free? I mean come on. I know you think you’re free but you’re not. I wanna show you real freedom with me. I totally respect you and all that you believe in and all that stuff so that’s why.” His irony was brutal. Respect? There was no respect at 11:00pm at night while his drunk self hit on a female Muslim stranger, harassing to show her “freedom” in the back of his car or apartment.

His friend started to realize that boundaries were being crossed and he felt uncomfortable. “Man, she’s cute and all but come on, let’s go. Enough!” He said it in a hushed tone so that I wouldn’t hear, but the scarf doesn’t make me deaf. Nonetheless I was beginning to see a bit of respect in this skinny guy instead of his friend. But he didn’t listen. “Nah man, she’s not cute she’s gorgeous and that’s why I want her!” Gorgeous? Why is it that only the drunken sailors find me gorgeous and sober ones can pass right by? Once I was on my way to a party when I stopped at my friend’s house. As I got out of the car, her male neighbor noticed me. “Dania! Dania! Is that you? Oh my goodness you’ve changed!” He was clearly drunk, as usual, so I merely smiled, said hello and made my way to the door. Contrary to my belief, the conversation was not over. “Wow, you look…beautiful! Amazing! My god you’ve grown so much!” I thanked him, realizing that this was reaching the cross streets of awkward and creepy. A man my father’s age, following me into the street to tell me how I’ve “blossomed” and have become “unbelievable” was not what I expected of the night. I started to sympathize with Amy Lee in regards to the whole, “Call me when you’re sober” ordeal. If I really was unbelievable, I needed to hear it from a sober man. Instead all I hear from them is “cute.”

I’m not sure if it was entirely the alcohol or what, but I wondered what made Mr. Drunk in Downtown LB think showing me his “freedom” was a sign of respect? Why isn’t it respectable to be clean and pure? Or to have chosen to keep hold of your faith even if you’re American or in America? Sometimes I’m confused at this whole land of the free thing because sometimes people are so keen on freeing me their way, they forget that I’ve chosen my own freedom, thanks to the freedom I’ve already been given. And I wish everyone would just respect that!

(Unfortunately) She's Just That Into You

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Or she's not! But either way you won’t get it or accept it. Either way we women are screwed. Screwed I tell ya! Nothing we do is ever satisfying enough. Yup, I know we've heard this broken record from men about women before but I've got a few recollections here to prove otherwise; and, well honestly, a call out to men and women. Don't you think it's time we cut the crap? These sickening dysfunctional mind games that put no one at ease at the end of the day?

What a ridiculous world we live in today where a woman’s feelings are not as valued as a man’s, but then again where in this world is a woman valued as much as a man? It becomes such a frustration when these double standard type situations arise and no one recognizes the significant impact they place upon societal standards and upbringing. Since when was romance biased? Only a beautified rush when a man conducts it and not when a woman?

Why is it welcome with open arms when a man confesses his feelings for a woman but not the other way around? If a girl merely expresses just a slight interest in a man who appeared worth her valuable time she’s dubbed a “crazy, emotional, obsessive stalker,” despite the fact that she really doesn’t do anything excessive. You know, treats him normally, like a friend, says yes when he invites her, manages to smile a little more when she’s around him, and enjoys his presence. Somebody call the stalker police, all hell seems to have broken loose!

Now let’s take this one step further. She’s interested, so by some unknown standard of some invisible law, he automatically has to be turned off, right? Because apparently men only want the chase. The mystery and confusion of the elusive character they mistakenly called woman. The sad truth is most of us women are pretty straightforward and decent, we just run around in circles trying to comprehend the elusive creature called man. But see here’s the first piece of crap we need to cut. I don’t believe this whole “men are from Mars women are from Venus” shpeel. At the end of the day we are both human, living on this poor earth that has enough damage and suffering. Why must we add on to that with such ridiculously petty useless games? We are people with hearts and minds and all we have to do is just use them. But we don’t…or most don’t.

Just last week I spent an evening at Starbucks enjoying a warm summer-like breeze. After a good ten minute inside out search of my purse I came to accept the fact that I really did forget my headphones at home and so I had to settle for the musical tunes of the various conversations each surrounding table was having. The two older Persian men in front of me were having a heated debate—only bits of which I understood thanks to the similarities between Arabic & Farsi and the fact that it was being drowned out by the obnoxiously loud women on the adjacent table. Then there was that one girl, sitting at the table behind me, deeply engrossed in the phone conversation she was having.

“I’m just like you Jason. We’re two peas in a pod!” She let out a small laugh before continuing. “Except different sexes. So honestly if you like her then just tell her. I mean she’s shown interest in you as well, so what’s the problem?” Suddenly I was intrigued. Were my ears deceiving me or was there a man out in this 21^st century struggling to confess his feelings for a woman, wishing she would end his misery and confess first? Ah what a concept! But dear sir, when we do such things you do not rejoice!

However, back to our original non-Renaissance scenario. So a woman is into a man, and he’s freaked out—just by that mere fact—and he slips into his awful moody rejection phase and either says no or acts it. (Look, I get it if she’s seriously stalking you, plotting out your wedding day after you just met, and already talking like you two are something, I definitely suggest running. I would do the same. But the bottom line is most women are really not like that, but most men take every damn nice thing a woman does as overkill. We women will forever suffer from a rare form of male PTSD.) Now our scenario girl has to move on and abandon the hopes her heart couldn’t help but generate. Her interests and feelings are of no real value because, well, she’s a woman.

If it was the other way around (which it has been in my and many other women’s cases) and the woman says no, we’ve sinned. We’ve made a stupid decision and rejected an opportunity we may never receive again—like these men were just doing us a favor. And you know what, those men actually treat us that way. At first our rejection is laughed off, denied, then they try again and the sly backhanded compliments come out. So then when we try and defend our dignity and well-deserved self-respect we are dubbed b*****s with attitude problems. Ridiculous! Those kinds of b*****s you don’t want? Just the cold Kardashian looking vixens?

It’s far worse when we are reprimanded by other women for not having mutual interests in those men. “Why did you say no to him?” she asked as we stood still in the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 101 Freeway. “He and I are not compatible with each other. I don’t look for love but rather a man I can envision my life with now and in the future. He’s not the one I see. Not my type.” She wasn’t impressed. “So?” she asked. I nodded my head as I looked away from her and back at the sea of red lights before me. I was nodding not in approval of her but rather in acceptance that this is the sad reality we are sinking in. In my head I wondered why every man I ever desired couldn’t just say the same thing. “So what if I am not attracted to her? Into her? Or her type? Let’s throw caution to the wind and give her a shot anyway?”

The funny thing is, from my experience, every man I had to politely decline was someone that I not only couldn’t envision my life with but someone that started to trail down that stalkerish, obsessive, controlling, flawed path. You know, messages six times a day, consistent attempts to try and change my stubborn refusal, creepy sudden awareness of my personal life, etc. So our rejection reasons were legitimate, but it leaves us women wondering: when we don’t take those disturbing paths ourselves with the men we are attracted to, what inspires them to head the other way? And what on earth attracts the shady characters to camp out in our way?

Is it because suddenly we can manage an unconscious Kardashian vixen cold front with the men we are absolutely turned off by? So they want us now? Because suddenly we appear like a chase-able alpha female? And then the men we do find intriguing, the ones we give time and space and wait for them to make a move, what? They mysteriously have some sort of sonar that senses the internal vibe of attraction we make such an effort to hide?

Here are my final wise words of venting. I believe in that Golden Rule: Treat people the way you want to be treated. Honestly I take it as literally as it could possibly be taken. The man that I don’t want to hear from, I can’t help but desire not talking to him. Especially after I made that fact clear and he doesn’t seem to comprehend it despite the number of years senior he is to me. And the man that I am intrigued by, that I’ve maturely deduced as a potentially decent value to life, well I can’t help but desire to communicate with him. And by communicate I certainly don’t mean hourly text messages, bombarding emails and surprise appearances at events I found out about through his Facebook wall. I mean just slowly getting to know him, trying to get together through social events and projects because the desire to see him will be natural, and just enjoying the passage of time with him till we reach whatever destiny has set for us.

(Unfortunately) she’s just that into you, and at the end of this 21^st century day, you just may not be damn well worth it after all because you probably won't care.

R.I.P. Normal Monday Morning

“You have beautiful eyes,” he said as he put his hand on the door. “You both do,” he added nodding towards my friend. “Beautiful. Even you in the back there, cleaning the mirrors.” In the coldest tone ever I muttered a thank you in hopes that it would get him out sooner. He lingered. Why do they always?

Some women have a special energy, an unexplainable aura that attracts the crazies, and it's usually the women that are truly brilliant females with beauty and brains. The ultimate catches. And I will confidently (and finally) state that we are: The three of us women that remained in the quiet Pure Barre studio after yet another fantastic session.

Lingering in the small and cozy lobby became second nature for me after almost a year of attending. It’s like a second home with another amazing family, especially when I get together with these girls. It’s like talking to my soul sisters. Different parents, different faiths, different lives but absolutely similar in everything else. And all it winds down to finding the humor in its simplicities and complexities. So as another seemingly normal morning came into a close so did our conversation…that was until Mr. Slim Shady walked through our studio’s door.

“What’s that guy doing?” Brit asked as she caught a glimpse of him through the glass windows before he came in. I dared not turn around having been used to the shadiest of characters in our lovely Seacliff Village. After all, just 24 hours earlier I was bombarded by a preaching member of some SoCal church congregation, eager to help me with a “proper placement in one of the churches per the Lord’s request.” Every other word was “Praise the Lord” and I began to wonder if she misunderstood me when I said, “Oh yes, I saw the signs [of the church] last week.” Her eyes widened with excitement. “Praise the Lord! I’m ecstatic!” I smiled and told her Pure Barre was about to start in two minutes. (Yes, I’m THAT addicted! #purebarrelife.)

But before I could even ask Brit what she saw through the window he walked in. The shadiest of characters, this man stood at 5’8, raggedy black plaid shorts, dark gray hoodie, ratty old beanie, various facial scabs and a tall almost empty iced vanilla coffee cup from our neighbor Starbucks. Brit and I exchanged the look of “Oh Crap!” as he walked in super jumpy and erratic.

“Hey! What is this place?!?” he called out with great enthusiasm. As if she read my mind, Brit whipped the most brilliant of white lies praying that this guy would get the message. “This is a women’s ballet fitness studio.” We failed. “Oh I love women and I love ballet. Can I stay?” It was clearly a rhetorical question as he found his way to a seat beside me on the couch.

After what felt like an eternity later but only totaled 20 minutes he had given us the most detailed backstory of his apparently magnificent life. An aspiring UFC fighter in training, this late 20s/early 30s something encountered quite a run in with the police due to his undeniable strength (having been able to get through fights as the champion in a matter of minutes), and a lovely 365 days within the state prison because he merely “shoved” his ex-wife out of the bathroom door because she wouldn’t allow him to take a shower. But of course that was only because she kneed his son in the back of the head. He also prefers using his feet verses a car—after all gas prices are still sky rocketing—and he generously invited Brit (and our boyfriends) to join him camping in his lovely beach pit somewhere between Laguna & Seal Beach.

Keeping a polite demeanor is quite difficult for me when I’m uncomfortable, especially around men so hats off to Brit who kept her cool during this entire unwanted exposé. But then again, she wasn’t inches away from him, feeling the smoky stench of his breath on her neck when he explicitly expressed how he is suffering from an awful sexual frustration. The one he has been unwillingly enduring after four awful heartbreaks (the last being a year ago, leaving his gentle heart shattered into thousands of pieces). Apparently ice chomping and fighting have been his release. The bad news was his cup of ice was three cubes away from empty! At that moment I needed a whole other release from this character who was far too close to my body. Kudos to Jay who tucked herself away safely in the back of that studio cleaning the mirrors over and over and over!

Little did we know that we were also in the presence of a literary genius who only stopped writing due to the fact that his works were being stolen and making everyone else but himself rich. “Where are my royalties?” he shouted. I smiled sheepishly wondering if this would end soon. Leaving those girls behind was the last thing I intended on doing but I had an appointment to get to.

“Why do all the pretty girls I meet end up having boyfriends?” he asked when we all alluded to their existence—despite the fact that all we’ve been able to really attract are the ones who put out every interested signal and disappear or are most likely related to this lovely character. “It’s a dog eat dog world out there,” Brit said so nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders. That’s when I knew we had to do something. My trusty iPhone was leaving an imprint in the palm of my right hand because of how tightly I held on to it. Calling Brit or the cops seemed ideal but seeing as how he literally could see what I was dialing I called Pure Barre instead.

The studio phone rang and I realized I should have texted Brit a heads up because as she answered eagerly thinking it was a client her voice came through my phone loud and clear. We exchanged wide eyed glances and I hung up, leaving her leeway to continue pretending she was on the phone with a customer. Of course this meant Slim Shady was now focusing on me. “Is that the iPhone?” Without even turning I said, “Yes.” He exhaled loudly. “Don’t you hate how they are tracking your every move? They know everything about you and what you do and say, you know that?” I pulled out my car keys and stood up. “That’s why I have all applications and GPS settings off. It’s merely my text and call tool.” He wasn’t impressed. “That doesn’t matter. They are still following you,” he said as he stood up closer to me.

If Will Smith is right and Fear Is A Choice I can tell you it was my number one choice here. I walked towards Brit, who was milking that whole client on the phone shpeel, my eyes begging for help yet my mouth trying to withhold the involuntary laughter that I knew was bound to burst out the moment he (hopefully) departed.

“Maybe I’ll come back when there’s a ballet session and watch all you ladies dance,” he said as he mimicked a plié and leg lift, arms movement included. Again, my sheepish smile. That’s when he finally made his way to the door, ice cup completely empty, and reiterated his fascination in our beauty.

Only after we ensured our safety and announced the need to lock that damn door did Brit get off the fake phone call and I let out the long awaited burst of laughter. “Holy crap!” was all we could say. From the back Jay called out, “Oh my god!” and that only sent me into a deeper laughter realizing she had found refuge in a bottle of Windex and paper towels. But she was not forgotten. No, Slim Shady did acknowledge her beauty and cleaning efforts as he walked out of our studio.

“Where do these people find me?” Brit asked. I shook my head and smiled. “Girl, it must be the vibe our presence together is sending because I attract his type as well.” I resisted the temptation to shout, “Praise the Lord” because no one would have understood the reference. But it’s true; I must admit it was something I would praise the Lord for. Only women like us encounter these experiences because women like us can fathom the humor and brilliance out of these adventures. Conjure up comedy, blog pieces and lessons to enjoy. After all, that’s why I started Lady Narrator. It’s my realization that I will forever make sure to find beauty, comedy and adventure in even the littlest of things I experience in my life. And although I titled this R.I.P. Normal Monday Morning, I will confess, normal is so underrated in my life. Instead I will go on being myself, recognizing the confidence that I have to dig deep for every day, and analyze every bit of it like I love to.

So after he left I couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “What are these men thinking when they graciously approach us? Are their expectations really high enough to have hoped one of us would take the place of his ice cup? Believe his ridiculous stories? I mean what?” But just like Brit said, Slim Shady is one of many. He’s not the first ex-con I’ve been approached by. I’ve even been lucky enough to get a man IN prison pursue me via email and phone. How the hell he got my information is beyond me!

I guess the morals of Lady Narrator’s story today are: (1) next time lock the door once class is over, (2) at least I’ve met my soul mates who can enjoy these experiences maturely and intelligently and (3) Praise the Lord! We are safe and sound…except of course for the fact that we all have iPhones and are currently being stalked by Apple Inc. and whoever else they work with on tracking their customers.

21 Types of Males Intelligent Women Won't Marry

True there are numerous articles out there with similar titles, but this one is dedicated specifically to the types of males that intelligent, ambitious and strong women won’t marry. This is not to say that any of the listed types below are unmarried, many are, but most probably not to the women this article is in reference to. Picky? Sure call us whatever you’d like. But we’re smart enough to recognize that choosing the man whom we'll spend the rest of our lives with is no walk in the park and therefore should not be taken lightly. So for all those nosy people who continuously ask us why we are still single, here are twenty-one glorious reasons:

1.  He’s already in a relationship…with a woman named Siri. This is a common 21^st century disorder (unfortunately). He’s that guy that’s glued to his cell phone, iPad, laptop and whatever other technological device comes into the market. He’s the man that’s uploading every aspect of his life on Twitter, Instagram & Facebook as well. And he’s also easily stalk-able because well, he checks in every step he takes! Makes us wonder what aspect of our relationship will remain sacred and private?

2.  He’s almost 40 but you’re ready to hire a clown for that upcoming birthday party. When you first meet, you find about 65 seconds of refreshing maturity. Then the jig is up and it all crumbles. Suddenly you’re wondering where the parent is that left this child unattended. Talk about the Peter Pan Syndrome! Visit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Puer_aeternus for more info.

3.  That elusive parent from Point #2 arrives and you realize “Mama’s Boy” is quite the understatement. When he starts talking about how his mom cooks him dinner nightly and does his laundry every weekend, intelligent girls know that this is one damn red flag. And if he has to run every little thing in his life by her for approval, then he shouldn’t really wonder why we said no.

4.  “No yooouuu choose for me.” If I have to hear one more guy say that to me, I may just vomit. Sharing in the decision-making of things in life is nice, but if you need to be babied and cannot decide on anything, go back to your mama boy. Intelligent women would like a man who is mature enough to have opinions of his own to share. (Please note the word share, not impose.)

5.  “I hate my job.” This is the guy that does not let a day go by without complaining about something regarding his job. Jeez, quit already! And if you’re not going to, then change something to adjust. This is the rest of your life and there’s no need to constantly live in misery and/or have a bad attitude. Do something about it.

6.  He’s reached level 12 on Halo 4. Nothing is a bigger turn off than the guy who values video games almost as much as reality. It was cute when he was 12 playing Tetris, but when he’s got that Law Degree on the wall behind him, his 5 0’clock shadow is two fold, his eyes are bloodshot and his greatest concern is how the hell to contact Infinity in the year 2557, there is a problem.

7.  Fifteen minutes of fame is not enough. Being the center of attention is his life goal. Not Mt. Everest, not World Peace but keeping the spotlight on him. So every joke, every loud tone, every pick up line, they are all up his sleeve. He even thinks throwing in a few F-bombs or $#!% or @$$ could be hot. It’s not!

8.  Gossip Guy could be his new nickname. Intelligent women can’t handle the chatty gossip from other women, so you think we’re going to take it from men? Besides the fact that it is rude and immoral, a man detailing the drama and issues of others is utterly unattractive. It’s even more unappealing when he begins to dig into the woman’s private affairs for gossip.

9.  A woman’s place is in the kitchen…or on the bottom. Yeah, this is the jerk who jokes so often about raunchy or offensive things it becomes clear that this is his real mentality. If he repeats the jokes about a woman’s need to be subservient or dwell eternally in the kitchen, it’s not only disgusting but it gives us a good perspective into life with him in the future. So if we never called you back, well, now you know why.

10. And bouncing off Point #9… If guys believe that women are second-class emotional confused beings who don't know what they want, don’t wonder why the intelligent goal oriented woman is not giving you a chance. She DOESN'T want you. There’s no mystery here.

11. Toots his own horn. It’s possible he thinks the sound of his voice makes the best soundtrack to life? But telling us how amazing he is, how cool his sense of fashion is, how attractive he is, how many girls he can get in an instant (and yet he's single?) and so on, is most definitely a turn off.

12. Hook-a-holic. This is the man that must end his nights with a one, two or three hour hookah session and tries to make it sound like a fun, “Hey let’s go chill at the lounge,” thing. One word: Yuck!

13. He (thinks) he’s sexy and he knows it. So he smokes but makes sure to obsess over his body, and let’s us all know about it. Then critiques our own bodies…and what we ordered off the restaurant menu. OH NO YOU DIDN’T!

14. “You’re paying! Right!?” Yup, they exist. Those men that rudely command you to pay instead of politely suggesting a split (though intelligent women always reach for their own wallets to pay), and then go on to critique your personal spending habits while still in the starting phase of the relationship.

15. Mood swinger. Whoever said women were the moody ones must have lived on a planet that did not have men. These are the guys that just zone out and suddenly have an attitude after being enjoyable company...which seems like most men. Talk about real PMS.

16. Blames global warming. Okay, maybe not global warming, but he blames science for his deficiencies in being the sympathetic human who thinks of others besides himself. He’s the guy that just shrugs his shoulders and says, “It’s biological.” No sweetie, no, it’s not. God created humans with free will. You can choose to care and make an effort, or you can remain a jerk. That’s not biology, that’s personal choice.

17. Richie Rich. You can’t see the dollar signs in his eyes, but you see them everywhere else. It’s that man that has the wealth flaunted so that everyone else knows it. Some even have the audacity to ask a woman why she’s working/job hunting when in the end she will submit to marrying a “sugar daddy” like him and end up staying at home to cook, clean and reproduce.

18. Can(not) commit. This is the guy that acts like he’s interested in getting serious but drops lines like, “Let’s just see where this could possibly lead us,” or “Let’s not ruin the nice friendship we have now but let’s stay monogamous.” Yeah, um, buddy, no!

19. The Walking Contradiction. We all know and (don’t) love this character. It’s the guy who has done everything and anything he possibly could in his past but expects his future wife to be a pure sinless virgin dipped in holy water. And of course, he has the freedom to pursue whatever desire he comes across later, but the wife must be the obedient good girl. And if he’s “religious” (somehow, with all that) he considers everything his wife desires sinful.

20. Slim Shady. So James Dean’s mystery is sexy eh? Not so much for the intelligent woman. A man who keeps things in the dark during the “getting to know each other” phase begins to raise a red flag or two. Especially if he’s divorced. Or if any of his life relationships seemed rocky (past women, parents, siblings, etc.).

21. “You’re the One!” And they say women rush into things! This is the guy that thinks he found his soul mate after just one glance at a woman. Two minutes into the greeting and he’s ready to propose. Two words: Restraining order.