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!