(c)Hips & Salsa

Music is the best escape. Actually dance, to be more specific. So when an opportunity presented itself, I had to jump on that bandwagon because Lord knows I need it. What better way to shake off the last four months than salsa? New moves. New event. New start.

I felt a little foolish not knowing the band set to be performing. It might have been wise to research them earlier in the day like I had done for the last concert I agreed to attend. There I was, letting YouTube shuffle a playlist of Lil Kim and Faith Evans, as well as Puff Daddy, while I cleaned my room, to further educate me on their wide array of songs besides the total of three I knew. Still, I looked out of place at the Bad Boy Family Reunion concert and had a blast nonetheless.

But here, since it was salsa, I knew that it would give me rhythm no less, so I didn't worry too much. And as the night progressed, I found that their beats and sounds were as smooth as silk, needing no introduction. In between salsa steps, I sat back and watched the small world before me. It was amazing to witness how people of all ethnicities, all religions, all backgrounds and all ages came together peacefully, judgment free, to do what they love. No one cared about politics. There was no room for hate. All I saw were spirits laughing, ladies twirling, men clapping and over a hundred people united in happiness. Can we forget politics and just dance?

It was almost a perfect night (aside from frequently checking my phone for updates I knew wouldn't be coming from someone I knew wasn’t thinking of me) when an obviously Middle Eastern man made his way over. Aside from my girlfriend and I, he and his friend were the only other Arabs onsite and they had been eyeing us (eerily) for a while.

"Hello!" he shouted above the music in a thick accent, a mere three inches from my face. I smiled sheepishly as I nodded in response, only slightly oblivious of what was to come. This is the issue with men from overseas; not all but most, have this misconception that simply responding to a greeting is a green light to start naming our children. He immediately proceeded to tell me he's from Algeria, had only been in the U.S. for four months, studies in the Valley but lives in South Bay and needed to know my age. Because my life is seemingly an ongoing comedy, I obliged, curious to see how repulsed he would be with my response. "I'm 28," I replied over the music. His look of utter shock and disgust sent me cracking up near the dance floor.

"TWENTY-EIGHT?!?!" he shrieked. "Really, twenty…eight???" he said again, this time like it were something he was tasting and forcefully trying to swallow. "Hmm, twenty-eight. Fine. Okay, we make work. Now me, you guess me." For those confused, let me clarify. By Middle Eastern standards, 28 is past old maid status. I’m like ten years late to the game. Imagine his reaction if he found out I was divorced too. Ya wailee!

I wanted to unleash the inner b**** considering his childish behavior and everything else piled up on my plate of life, but I just shrugged. “I don’t know,” I said lackadaisically, “Same as me?” He smiled slyly like he thought he was succeeding at the art of seduction. He shook his head and gestured that I aim higher. “Thirty?” I asked with obvious impatience. He laughed and said, “Nooooo!! Thirty-one! Come. We go outside. Talk. Music not letting me hear you.”

He grabbed my hand aggressively and started to drag me across the room. That was my defining moment where the utter sense of fear was reawakened within me horrifically; remembering what it was like to be touched without consent and being too overpowered with terror to fend for myself. It was a 30 second mental and physical battle as I realized how deeply internalized it is for many of us women, that even after enduring and escaping abuse and violence, we find moments where we suffer extreme anxiety at disappointing or discomforting another—especially if it’s a man—that we bend over backwards and inconvenience ourselves instead. What if he’s offended? What if he thinks I really am a b****? What if…?

At the end of that 30-second mental epiphany, I felt the anger within rise and pulled my hand away assertively. His look of disappointment and offense shook me because it reminded me of the many moments I saw that cold death stare from the eyes of my ex. The difference? This time, I had the courage and conviction to stare back confidently at the jerk before me with a “Screw you if you have a problem with a woman who respects herself” look and it felt so good. I guess unfortunately it is much easier to do with a man who is of no value to you. When it’s your fiancé/husband/father/brother/boyfriend/loved one, it’s not that easy.

“You have boyfriend?” he asked. Shortly I said, “No,” and proceeded to walk away. “You want to make halal boyfriend with me? I want to make relationship with you.” I shook my head and moved on when he asked, “But why?”

I could almost pity him for being so ignorant as to why. What’s wrong with you, Dania? Here is a man who wants you, who is attending a Salsa Concert so, clearly he loves music and dance! What more could you ask for woman! He’s 31, just landed in America less than half a year ago and hates it here (as he expressed), doesn’t speak English or even Arabic for that matter (the majority of Algerians speak Berber versus colloquial Arabic), thinks he can put his hands on you, hasn’t finished school and believes you could make such a halal relationship. Come on!

I will give him credit. Following my second firm rejection, he tried to fist bump me and scour the hall for the next victim. Like all men who come my way and leave, he walked away unfazed. Now if only I could walk away unscathed from those my heart beats for.

The night was still salvageable thanks the beautiful sounds of a Boogaloo Assassins—ten amazingly sounding sharply dressed men bringing to life the invigorating sounds of salsa. I will admit though, all I was craving the rest of the night was some chips and salsa, and yeah, some freshly made guacamole! I also started craving to get back on the formal dance train and further expand my choreography, a project I set my sights on years ago, and can proudly say I am finally going to make happen!

I can hear the cringes of the religious police, but nothing has been able to break me away from dance. Second to writing, dancing is the single greatest healing element I’ve come across in my life. It’s the one expression I cannot put into words, and that’s what makes it even more mesmerizingly beautiful.

One time a Facebook friend posted this extremely interestingly worded question for the world to ponder that she heard someone ask on a radio talk show: What are you doing when you feel most beautiful? I don’t know why, maybe it was the gravity of all I had been enduring, but that question left me in awe for three full days. Deep in contemplation, I realized I rarely feel beautiful. Maybe there are days where I think I may kind of sort of look beautiful because my makeup was “on fleek” (as the kids today say) but ten minutes into the day, when the concealer smudges, I don’t see the beauty. Every hour of those next three days I paid extra attention to my routines and wondered when do I feel beautiful. Feel.

Then, on that third day, in my ten second water break during my dance workout, facing the wall mirror with a completely shameful looking frizzy Shakira-wannabe hairstyle, sweaty forehead, red cheeks and drenched tank, I saw the aftermath of feeling beautiful. Emphasis on that phrasing: the aftermath of feeling beautiful.

The elevating sense of liberation created from every dance step is indescribable. When that choreography finally clicks and flows the way it should in synchrony with the song I’ve been studying for weeks, I feel beautiful. It’s like I’m lost and found all at once and that’s the best oxymoron to be engulfed in when you’re losing what you want to lose from yourself and finding what you’ve been searching for.

There’s something absolutely powerful about a woman who feels beautiful because it means she is ready to face the world with confidence in who she is internally. It is when that music takes over that I feel invincible, quite similar to the sensation of writing that last sentence of an article or closing a poem. But I guess I can see why the religious police finds this equation concerning. Feeling Beautiful + Woman = DANGEROUS POWER. I look forward to the day when that power is not labeled an intimidation. A day where we’re constantly enabled to feel beautiful instead of expected to only look beautiful, and allowed to stand on that platform of confidence.

Until then, bring on the chips and salsa and let’s celebrate the dangerous scandal of feeling beautiful, finding our courage, remembering our worth and dancing!

Will Lady Narrator Ever Stop Narrating?

For as long as I can remember, there was a voice inside my head narrating the world. I know I’m not the only one who wishes there was a soundtrack playing in the background of life. It would just make total sense, fitting in to the never-ending shenanigans that continue to unfold. This is how and why I started Lady Narrator, as explained by my very first post: http://ladynarrator.blogspot.com/2010/06/men-i-ran-into-at-mall.html.

Last year I made the intention to revisit each published post and make some edits to the most likely existing spelling and grammatical errors, as well as the overall presentations, but then I decided against it. I thought it would make more sense to let it be and indulge in the metamorphosis of my writing, my outlook as a woman (with crazy experiences) and as a writer over the last six years. My work may have improved, but that lady narrator within remains, ever the sassy and ever the same.

But many have asked, having followed my posts so intently, what ever will I write about if I do one day find the one? Let me begin by saying, I’m not holding my breath. My heart is past the point of weary. I accept the reality that some people are destined to be alone and while it’s a struggle, it’s not the end of the world. I wasn’t raised to value my worth as a contributing human being based on my marital status, though society likes to think so. Whether or not I ever do find a legitimately worthy husband, I will keep making deep imprints upon the sands of this earth. It’s what I do. I’m like that inflatable clown that never really stays down, no matter how much I’m knocked over. Sometimes I wish I could, you know, stay knocked down, to nestle in the low points and avoid another fist jab in the ring of life, but where’s the risk? Where’s the living? Which brings me to the main point of this post: the subjects of my work.

Somewhere down the line in the relationship with my ex-husband—I cannot recall if this was during the engagement or after marriage—he asked me why I was still “wasting” my time on the “stupid” blog when I could be doing other more meaningful things in my life. At that point I had reached the level past exhaustion that I no longer fought back, talked back or defended myself. I think that may be defeat? I’m not sure, but I just shrugged and decided against entertaining the question of what “meaningful” meant to him. I had already quit my post with the LA Sheriff’s Youth Leadership team, I had already quit every social networking group out there that could keep me sane or help me find a job, I had quit my friendships and practically quit my family, and I had already quit my dreams. What was left? What made it worse was when he said that, I reminisced back to one of our early dates, when he took me to a private dock in Newport Beach, had us put our feet in that calm cool Pacific Ocean and started serenading me with sonnets of love about my blog.

“Dania, what made me fall in love with you was your blog. You are an unbelievably talented writer and no one should ever take that away from you. Writing is like the oxygen to your soul.” I looked at him, sun illuminating his smile, and I thought I may have found the one. Someone read my words, saw my soul and loved me. Fast-forward and there we were: me giving, him taking, and wondering what to name the hurricane that hit us so hard. He followed up his sentiments regarding my wasted time by saying, “And you already got me. You’re in a relationship. Why the hell do you need to write in that blog anyway?”

I think I blew a fuse somewhere in my cranium because I reacted with a chuckle that then evolved into a belly aching laugh. Do men out there really read my work and think this is my attempt at soliciting suitors? Oh my god I’m actually cracking up right now as I write this sentence. “Um, habibi, I wasn’t writing to find a husband so even though I’ve got you, doesn’t mean I’ll stop writing. Remember, once upon a time, you said writing is my oxygen? That no one should take it away from me?” I slipped up, I opened my mouth, and that night I faced another episode of his anger and I tallied another metaphorical chalk mark in my mind under the category: NUMBER OF TIMES I ACCIDENTALLY FORGOT TO SHUT UP.

So, what will I write about if one day, by some elusive miracle, a man comes along who is not creepy, pushy, rushing me, desperate, trying to simply sleep with me, is actually ready to be in a relationship, loves me, isn’t trying to break me down, is not intimidated or emasculated by my dreams and accomplishments, is not offended that I think Coke tastes way better than Pepsi, considers a late night run to Jack in the Box for jalapeño cheese poppers and curly fries romantic spontaneity, is patient with me, and most importantly, feels like home?

To those who ponder this very wordy question, I must ask you, have you actually read every piece I published on Lady Narrator? I assume you have not because not every piece revolves around men, relationships or my personal experiences with those aforementioned points. To some’s surprise, I have indeed written pieces where I call out women for their behaviors towards men, having witnessed firsthand how high maintenance attitudes and ridiculous jealousy have caused unnecessary strains on marriages/family relations.

There are pieces on religion, more specifically on the Islamic practice of wearing the head cover and the personal experiences I, and many others wearing it, have faced in the past few years. (Imagine what more will come under the Trump presidency regarding this subject and religion overall. Heck, add the issue of women’s rights under Trump, along with immigration policies and these topics, in and of themselves, can give you four more juicy years of blogging!)

I have pieces on humanitarian activities, domestic violence awareness, interfaith events, spiritual journeys, poetry, and of course, Syria. This year I was blessed to be able to touch the sands of Damascus after five years of believing I would never see or smell that magical land, and there I was, home again. On what was supposed to be a six-week experience that turned into three months, I documented numerous encounters and adventures experienced throughout the stay. Those were some of my favorite pieces to write; my top being this one http://ladynarrator.blogspot.com/2016/03/six-weeks-in-syria-first-battlefield.html, which, if I ever meet you in person, I will tell you of the riveting socio-political chaos it stirred!

My ex-husband was right; writing is my oxygen. It calms my insomnia, provides me with the greatest sensation of pleasure, allows me to formulate the whirling thoughts in my head so eloquently that I have people from around the world—known and unknown—who email me to thank me for putting into words what their hearts can only beat.

Culturally, as women, we’re berated for being confident and so for years I never introduced myself as a writer. I thought if I didn’t make it to the New York Times Bestseller list or the Huffington Post, I was a nobody; and to be honest, the many people I sought counsel from to publish my first book, 91 at 19, told me I was a nobody and therefore refused to help me. At 19, a recent college graduate, feeling so close to the possibility of being an author, it was a perfect slap to my face. So I persevered and did it, learning to navigate contracts, lawyers, graphic designing, marketing, advertising and sales all by myself.

But there was one particular individual in my past who shone a spotlight on my talent early on; someone who saw what I thought I was seeing in myself but refused to acknowledge. I was thirteen when I started high school, one year younger than everyone else in my class, thanks to early enrollment in kindergarten. That explains my baby face! Just kidding.

Walking through the halls of an oversized, very dim high school building was intimidating, until I entered Mr. S’s English class. I actually ran into him unexpectedly five years ago at an event discussing the early elements of the Arab Spring. The overwhelming amount of joy I felt was indescribable because I had not realized the impact his class, and one action in particular, made on me till after getting published.

Months in to the school year, we had to write an essay, as would be expected in an English class. However, this particular essay was open to any subject of our choosing. Sometimes when there’s no structure, I do get lost. What do I write about? Where do I even begin? The possibilities were endless but then something hit me, literally. It was my cat, whose name was Lucky II—though in hindsight neither he nor Lucky I were that lucky towards the end of their nine lives.

Lucky I was a surprise; an unbelievably ridiculously amazing surprise my mom got for my brother and I. It was one summer, about fourteen years ago. My brother and I spent the entire summer break in Syria with our grandparents, and while it was a turbulent experience being there without my parents—dealing with the culture shock of suffocating Arab traditions I was not fully accustomed to as the little American—I carry some fond memories of that trip. Returning home, however, was the highlight.

We got home from the airport late at night. Being in my mother’s arms after so long and smelling her was the best feeling ever, though I recall telling her I will never forgive her for sending us away that long. (I totally forgive her now and grant her full permission to send me to Syria to stay with her parents any time for as long as she wants.)

She handed my brother and I little presents, which we opened quickly. They were petty because I don’t even remember what they were—clearly elements of deception to exacerbate what was to come. She walked us over to the garage door and said, “Now, I have one big present for you both to share.” My brother and I looked at each other, eyes wide open, smiles from ear to ear and we squealed, “You got us a bike!!!” She laughed and shook her head as she opened the door, and told us to stay where we were and wait.

From the small open dark crack emerged the smallest most precious kitten on this entire planet. He could fit in the palm of your hand and was a beautifully spotted black and white kitty with gorgeously sparkling blue eyes. To this day, I vividly remember how loud we screamed, my brother and I hugging each other, jumping up and down with extreme excitement. (I believe I forgave my mother for sending us on the summer trip right then and there.)

The weeks following felt like heaven on earth. Those were the days. No social media, no cell phones, just afternoons and evenings of playing with our kitten, running outside, rollerblading beside him, sharing him with the neighbors and enjoying the extinct world we once called childhood. But poor little Lucky, he was a feeble kitty, who was on a few different medications for being born premature, and one afternoon, he was hit by a car, too weak and unable to move away in time.

This was fourteen years ago and I haven’t thought about it in so long that regurgitating this story has actually brought me to tears. It was legitimately a scene from a funeral at my home. I woke up late that morning after a late night with my cousin who was sleeping over. He, my brother and I were up till 4:30 a.m. playing Monopoly and I remember beating myself up for days, thinking that if I had only slept early, I could have woken up early and been with Lucky all morning and saved him from his death. That is one of the worst feelings to have, that helplessness and regret, the wishing you did one thing differently because it could have changed everything. It’s a moment of faithlessness though because in the end one can never go back in time and destiny is already set in motion. But God how that feeling sometimes can be so overpowering in our painful experiences of life; that “if only I did/didn’t….”

My father came home from work super early that day to find us all on the couch in tears. As a doctor in intensive care, who sees a boatload of extremely horrendous incidents at work on a daily basis, and only just met this kitten a few weeks prior, I know he couldn’t handle seeing us all a hot mess. He got us into the car and drove to the nearest pet shop. “Alright, let’s look around,” he said as he walked me through the shop. “None of them are Lucky,” I said with utter surliness. They weren’t and no other cat was going to be and that was that! (That’s how I handled grief and sometimes I think there are remnants of that approach in my adulthood experiences until the pain subsides.)

A few moments later, my brother and mother saw a cat. He was much larger than Lucky but that was because he wasn’t born premature. He was all black with white paws and a white stripe on his face. I look back now and think we should have named him Socks (but spelled S-O-X) because it was more fitting, but the majority vote was Lucky II.

He looked at me with his olive green eyes like he hated me, and when I moved in closer to try and pet him he whacked my face and cut me with his nails, causing me to bleed. I hated him back. Somehow though, he was in the car with us, heading home.

Every time I went to feed him, he’d run away. Whenever I wanted to touch him and pet him to reminisce about the sensation of lovingly petting my past baby, he’d hiss. I was too young and too hurt to recognize that he was scared as hell, being a baby himself and thrust into a new environment. With time though, everything changed. We became inseparable. Soon enough everyone knew Dania was Lucky’s favorite. Every morning he’d wake up and run to my room, jump on my bed and sit right on my pillow, breathing on me. At dinner, he’d curl up under my chair and just chill.

Lucky became more than family; he became a part of our souls. He was wild, rebellious and carefree, yet he was extremely affectionate to his loved ones. My mom literally had four children at one point. She even called him, “Mama," which in Arabic, just like Spanish, is what moms usually use to call their children, just like fathers would say, “Baba.” One time I caught her talking to him, scolding him actually, for when he sat on her prayer rug, something he knows not to do. “Lucky, mama, shoof. Hone, ma feek ti’od, okay?” I still crack up remembering that.

Unfortunately, Lucky II had an unhappy ending as well. His wild spirit meant he was both an indoor and outdoor cat, and while it worked well for many years, one year it didn’t. He went missing and we went hunting with posters and search parties. After a ten-day absence, one morning he limped into our backyard and I saw him as I was heading out to school. I called my mom, hysterically crying, because I could tell he was badly injured, blood all over his face. The vet told us he had broken ribs and a broken jaw but no evidence as to suggest what had exactly happened.

The next month we kept him indoors, nursing him back to health, and there he was, good as new. Our vibrant and energetic baby was back in action. But it was no more than a few months later that one night, he didn’t come home and the next morning someone had tossed his lifeless corpse on our doorstep without a word. My mom broke down and vowed to never again get a cat. The loss, the second time around, was unbearable.

Why this long-winded journey through my cat stories? Because I had written an eight-page essay on the emotional experience my family and I endured losing Lucky and welcoming in Lucky II. I submitted the essay thinking it was some mediocre teenager’s take on how much she loves her current cat, because this was before his passing. It turned out to be the day Mr. S acknowledged I was not only a writer—with room for technical improvement—but also a storyteller.

He was walking up and down the aisles of desks, handing back everyone’s graded essays. When he gave me mine, I looked at it and my heart broke. A medium sized B+ sat at the top of the cover page, above where a regal photo of Lucky II lay. I looked at Mr. S with eyes of sadness and he said, “It’s okay, and don’t put it away just yet. Keep it out.” Bitterly I obliged, beginning to skim each page to find what red corrections were made to justify that B+ status.

Mr. S made his way back to the front of the class, dragging over his famous stool to the center, and began speaking. “Everyone, I went you to pay attention. Dania is going to read her essay to us.” I was floored. I mean seriously my jaw was on the floor. Suddenly I didn’t give a crap about that B+ because I was suffering from stage fright, wondering why the heck my teacher thought my lame story was worth reading to the entire class. But when I reached the last page, ended up crying in front of everyone, I understood. What I had underestimated as a simple compilation of letters reiterating a reality I lived, ended up moving my teacher and myself.

I was honored, hoping to one day show Mr. S my utmost appreciation for that moment, when he dusted off the label on me that read WRITER that I neglected to recognize for so long. Then I got the opportunity five years ago, when I saw him, dashed to my car where I had three copies of my first publication, and handed it to him. As I signed it, I explained to him that I truly owe a big part of this creation to his support and encouragement freshman year. I look forward to sharing with him a copy of my two upcoming publications!

Anyway, I’ve gotten off topic, way off topic. The moral here is that I am not only a writer, I am an artist and that means that everything, even something as mediocre as my footprint upon the carpet, can inspire a poem, a story or a post, which literally just happened two hours ago. Yes, a poem about footprints is in the making.

There is no need to worry about what works I can (and will) produce if I find the one. And if you’re the one (lol) and you’re concerned about being the subject of said future works, I assure you your concern is unnecessary. Trust the process and trust me, I’m a writer. And if you can’t trust me, I can trust you’re not the one.

And hey, for all we know, I may not find the one, and if MRS. Narrator doesn’t happen, I believe I have perfectly demonstrated the excellence of my ability to become Cat-Lady Narrator. Get it?

Me-ow!

Haunted Heart

Halloween may be over but there seems to be an ever so slightly lingering spooky vibe, no? Just take a look at this past week and the results of our election! Pair that with the aftermath of a frightened America and what do we have? But let me steer clear of politics (for now) and veer back on to the clichéd path of Lady Narrator—love or, better yet, the lack thereof. Stay tuned for an upcoming blog post on the ever so notorious question I’m frequently asked: What ever will you write about once you actually find “the one?” Until that comical, political and social piece, here’s the usual nightly special.

October is a time for ghosts and ghouls and a great many fools—emphasis on the latter. It’s a month that brings to life my beloved (closeted) gothic desires and welcomes in the autumn winds far better than September ever does. But oh those autumn winds, what surprises they blow in unexpectedly, like…wait for it…my ghost from scorching hot July [read here for further clarification: http://ladynarrator.blogspot.com/2016/07/the-perfect-crime-remix.html].

After three months of finally healing, it literally felt like a knife carved open the wound I managed to close without closure. Suddenly all of my curiosities were reawakened and I refused to go down without a fight for my right to know. Why? Because that’s who I am and I’ve finally accepted that I don’t walk the same path as a great majority of those around me. Any other woman would have easily said, “Bye Felipe,” from day one and moved on to the next guy and then the next and then the next and so on. My problem? I approach people with absolute genuineness, possibly more than they deserve, and so I unconsciously invest kindness and faith.

Recently someone reminded me that compassion hurts and nice guys/gals finish last, so I believe it comes with the territory of being a third generation humanitarian. I start with humaneness and often forget that it may not be reciprocated. Anyway, I digress.

The night finally arrived and there we were, my ghost and I, standing beneath that crisp October night sky, having so much to say yet not knowing where to begin. But I think he knew; he sensed the weight of the words I had bottled up for three long months, and so he started.

“Were you offended,” he began, breaking the gut wrenching silence I lost all courage to break, “that I had only reached out to you for sex?”

I suggest we all take a sincere moment of silence to mourn our sanity.

Let it register.

…

No, you’re still not ready to read on? Take another 60 seconds. Go ahead. Re-read it.

Yes, you read it correctly, I promise.

I stood there flabbergasted, wondering how well my facial expression resembled the utter shock and violation I was overcome with. Did he just say sex? Did he just say that three months ago his three-hour confession was a very well worded attempt for a one-night stand? Wait, is he still expecting a one-night stand? Wait, is it even a one-night stand or is he asking for a repetitive ordeal? What the @^%$ is going on?

People had warned me about this shortly after my divorce, I just never thought it was possible considering who I am, who my mother is, and how I carry myself. Suddenly this man had me second-guessing my entirety as a woman and I found myself further suffering for yet another month. I cannot express the toll that this disrespectful revelation made on my sanity and perception of life, religion and men. But what made it weirder? Within the next four weeks it was like a tsunami of men had flooded my world and now I’m wishing I knew how to swim.

Left and right there were men suddenly sending me messages to ask me petty questions that were obvious attempts at making small talk and I could no longer distinguish between who legitimately wanted to get to know me as a human being or who wanted to sleep with me. Men who had known me for years and never once looked my way suddenly wanted to know about my day. Men who met me for a few minutes and suddenly were convinced they had to have me in their lives…and I don’t know what that means anymore. Had this become my status? Is this what I had been reduced to because one unstable already divorced man decided to take a virgin and spit her back into society as a divorced survivor of domestic abuse?

For weeks I struggled between anger, disgust, depression and finally a state of surrender to hopelessness, all while trying to stay alive. The irony? I had lost so much weight people were complementing me on how glowingly beautiful and thin I looked. Apparently stress suits me! It was like this ghost catapulted me back into the coffin of worthlessness my ex-husband had built for me and hammered in the final nail to seal it shut. Two years of moving on and I found myself back in that darkness I believed I would never be blinded by again.

At one point, I asked the ghost something, out of sheer genuine curiosity. I knew I was not the only option on his menu, but I wondered, of all the women he can (and does) get, why me? The relatively moderate—not too conservative yet not THAT liberal—head covered woman, daughter of a religious educator, the passionate outspoken feminist author, why her? He sent me a “LOL” followed up with the claim that I measure above par of all the others he’s had.

Was that supposed to flatter me enough to yield? Could it have? Maybe that was the plan. Push me into such a disorienting state of vulnerability, after knowing my story, and expect that I’d lose all sense of self worth and value and run into his arms. This segues into a chapter I have in my upcoming book where I speak about this very sickening fetish or attraction some men have about taming the wild women because they find absolute pleasure in that challenge. Something about that confident vibrant ambitious woman turns them on because she’s this exciting opportunity for breaking.

I remain at a loss for words, not just for this particular incident but at the state that the Muslim community has sunk into. Religion has become such a watered down concept in life I have found myself at far too many crossroads lately. I’ve adjusted without sacrificing my own practices, but I never in my life imagined reaching a point where this, this was such a norm that men felt comfortable enough to expect/demand it, and from women like me. Me, of all people! And yes, I do think of myself so highly because I am not that kind of woman. And damn, even if I was, I’d still have standards and expect that only a man courting me or dating me would be the one I’d give it up to.

Then people ask me why I’m not optimistic about men and relationships. Here you go.

But I am grateful because it was through this experience that I found myself reassessing my relationship with God again. I’m learning that trauma sends one through a roller coaster of connectivity with the Creator. There are ebbs and flows that we need to navigate and it was something my mother said to me, about two weeks after the ghost dropped this bomb on me, that reminded me. Amid our conversation about the evolving implementation of religion in society, she paused, let out a sigh and said, “May God protect you and your brothers. It’s a frightening world.”

If you’re Arab, you know that growing up there are those repeated phrases parents/grandparents say as prayers for children/grandchildren. All my life I heard my mother frequently say, “Allah Yirda A’laikon,” (May God Be Content with You) or “Allah Yiftah A’laikon,” (May God Open Paths for You) but I never recall her ever saying to us directly—maybe during her own prayer sessions she does—“Allah Yihmeekon,” (May God Protect You). And for the first time in a long time I felt my heart say, “Ameen” before my lips gasped it.

A resonating pang hit my soul hard and it was like a wake up call for the dead inside me. How had I let someone so worthless, so dysfunctional, manipulate my self-perception? Had what I endured in my previous relationship left a broken essence within me that no amount of therapy or time would heal? I pondered this thought deeply as I miraculously allowed another man from the tsunami to have a chance.

There was something utterly appealing about his exciting and eccentric demeanor that made me agree when he asked to meet, despite feeling an emotional hangover from my heart’s previous hauntings. I felt like I could trust him. He was the opposite of every man I ever agreed to meet and I was pleasantly surprised, I mean much more than I expected, and yet I nervously anticipated the other shoe to drop, because, doesn’t it always? And then, there it was, the rainfall of other shoes pouring down. Apparently the tsunami was over, the wave had retreated and I found myself on the shore of contemplation alone again, wondering whether or not I should even attempt to rebuild all I had previously mended together over the last 730 days.

Then Trump was elected president and it was the cherry on top of this hot @^%$ sundae! Just like the rest of my fellow Americans I wanted to fall apart (maybe I sort of still do) but I stumbled upon another Godly reminder I needed; a verse from the Quran that states, “You may hate something, and yet Allah has put therein much good (4:19).”

I’m a firm believer (even if I need reminding) that everything happens for a reason, regardless of whether or not we discover that reason. I’m also a firm believer in fate—whatever is destined to be will be regardless of how much we try or don’t try. And I say this regarding both the path of love and the path of politics. So as a teaser to that next piece on what I could possibly write about if I ever do find true love, simply know that this poet will eternally find inspiration from the grand adventures life takes her on, whether or not there is the presence of a solid supportive partner.

Lady Narrator in SF

A Syrian and an Egyptian walk into a bar. It’s 12:45 a.m.…

Sounds like such a strange statement, but I must admit, it looked even stranger. Walking in we attracted the stares of bewilderment. What were they doing here? The girl that mirrors the fearful sights depicted in the media and a guy with a laptop case. Here’s the story.

I’ll start it with the ever so infamous statement: I met a guy. Actually, I met twelve to be exact. (Ladies, apparently the Bay Area is where they’re all hiding!) Let me clarify though, this statement I don’t mean entirely in a romantic gesture—I mean okay, maybe I’ll admit that three of the twelve caught my eye and I have hoarded a small beacon of hope somewhere in the back of my mind, but of the remaining nine, four are engaged and/or married and then six were simply remarkable beings whose company and acquaintanceship still resonate appreciatively.

It all began when I received a wedding invitation early this year that I somehow misread. For months after confirming my RSVP, I led myself to believe that the wedding was in the next county over, Los Angeles. Then three weeks prior to the wedding, the bride to be burst my misconstrued bubble when she offered me helpful suggestions for the Bay.

The Bay? Woman, why on earth am I going to the Bay? Then I double fact checked and realized that banquet hall I had Googled in LA was actually far more north than that.

It’s really amazing how fate works, how it braids together various series of events for a greater purpose than one can imagine. Considering the distance and how late it already was to find affordable transportation and housing, I assumed this weekend getaway wasn’t going to happen.

Guess again! An open mic/story-telling event I had been dying to go to for years was miraculously happening the night before the wedding. I signed up. The day after the wedding was the last day of the Ghirardelli Chocolate Festival, one I had been eager to attend since I first heard about it. I bought a ticket. In between the nook and crannies of my day, I looked up museums, landmarks and restaurants to explore. I decided why not? Why not invest a little of my savings on myself after all that I have been through? Was it not long overdue after three excruciatingly long years?

A part of me was nervous. How safe was the Bay? What’s a BART? How do I use Lyft? Would I find myself alone often? Would I suddenly find it difficult to socialize or would I be able to dive in wherever I go and spark up conversations? Self-doubt had been eating away at me for a while, more than I recognized, and it must have been one heck of a long lasting side affect of domestic violence. Instead, I decided to simply breathe and have faith in God that this was coming together because it’s meant to be.

There has to be something in the Bay Area water. I’m sure of it. Four nights and something has changed. My skin and hair got even more silkier than usual that I spent a good majority of my time in the Bay playing tug of war with my scarf against the wind. And had it only been the physical elements of me that felt a change, I probably would have stopped smiling ten minutes after landing in SoCal. That hasn’t happened, but serious NorCal withdrawals have.

But it’s no mystery. It began on my first night, when I found myself walking alone to a neighboring Italian bistro at 9:00 p.m. to get dinner and having the chef spend time talking to me, sharing meaningful conversations about culture and business development. It only evolved further in the following days, when I was submerged into a beautiful Muslim community I had only fantasized about for 27 years. A community where the lack of blood relations was replaced with an even stronger bond of friendship. Everyone was related in spirit and I felt at home in a way I didn’t realize I was longing for. In a depth I didn’t think existed.

Aside from the overwhelmingly loving hospitality every single person I met showed me (in ways other people I’ve visited never did), I found a community that didn’t make me feel like too much or too little of anything. On the contrary, they helped me forget the existence of that scale; allowed me to feel the value of the knowledge and wisdom I already possess and yet enabled me to feel the blessing of the ability to see an opportunity for growth.

There’s a stunning difference being made to feel like ‘you still have a lot to learn’ and ‘you can still learn so much’ and my new friends helped me dive into the latter, discovering new depths to all I could potentially explore in both myself and the world. That was one big takeaway from this trip: self-awareness. I always believed I had that down but I stand corrected as I learned even more than I knew.

It began the night before the wedding. I met a great majority of these friends at the story-telling event, where I shared my recent experience in Syria. A guy nearby was talking who gave off a bit of a condescending vibe. The girl beside me let out a grunt, similar to the one I let out, and it sounded a little like judgment. It was a knee jerk reaction because one of my biggest pet peeves is conceit. The kicker? This guy turned out to be one of the best friends I met. It took one hour to change everything.

That was also the night of the bar, where a stranger (turned friend) offered to drive me back to my hotel to relieve our mutual friend of driving out of the way. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly concerned, but at the same time it seemed safer than taking Lyft or BART across the Bay and it was an opportunity to practice more socializing. And boy was I glad I did.

We arrived to my hotel and I found myself saying, “If it weren’t almost 1:00 a.m. I’d have suggested we keep this interesting conversation going over coffee or tea.” To my surprise he said, “Let’s go!” And there we were, two beings sticking out like sore thumbs, drinking the best non-alcoholic Irish coffee in a dim pub talking about anything and everything that I never imagined being the basis of a normal conversation with a man.

Someone mentioned to me, upon my return, that I need to keep in mind the Bay is the hub of intellect and innovation, therefore only top quality people are selected to work there. While it’s a generalization he made, I agree to a certain extent. The group of individuals I met were mentally stimulating in such a way that I wanted to soak up every minute possible. I believe in the four days I was there, I got a total of six hours of sleep. That was the one downside. I was so exhausted I restarted my coffee addiction and have not been able to stop. But I was around a cohort that inspired me to value time even more than sleep.

Along with that, something very interesting about NorCal is that feminism is not only a known concept, it’s a freaking norm, even amongst men, especially Muslim men! I think my jaw is still dropped somewhere on the streets of SF. This is not to say that sexism is nonexistent up there, but from the community I interacted with, the one I frequent in SoCal—the Muslim one—I found a huge cultural shift. The vision is cleaner, brighter and much more mature.

Hence, the late night conversations that segued into my first lesson of self re-awareness. Amid the subject of our past relationships and experiences, we reached the topic of ghosting. For my newcomers to the blog, please refer to this link for more info on the matter as pertaining to me: http://ladynarrator.blogspot.com/2016/07/the-perfect-crime-remix.html. Anyway, heated in the conversation I exclaimed, “It was just so frustrating because I thought, jeez, he could’ve been man enough to say anything.” That’s when it happened, so naturally, so nonchalantly, I was blown away.

“Maybe you could say adult enough? Like he could’ve been adult enough to give you the courtesy of an answer?” He said it with such a kind matter-of-factly demeanor I was taken aback, in a good way. He left me speechless with this simple yet obvious note I overlooked for years that I told him, “Wow, I need a minute to process this, because you’re right. That’s perfect. That’s exactly what needs to be said!” And what made it all the more better? He left it at that and continued listening to me. He didn’t harp on about my misspoken word or begin a long banter on anti-feminism and how we’re all psychotic emotional man haters. Rather he saw right through me to what I meant, what I was aching with and made a minor correction to the wording to give it a more accurate delivery. I still find immense value in that one moment and it will probably stay a lifetime.

This is not to say that I discovered an entire lack of self-awareness. On the contrary, it was a journey of further self discovery, as well as a journey of self-remembrance. One afternoon, on a walk with one of my friends, he said he was glad he got the opportunity to actually talk to me in person versus our typical online communication because it gave him the chance to see my full personality, which was more “cheerful” than my blog. I chuckled.

The words “pessimist” and “negative” surfaced a few times in my life (and on the trip) regarding my outlook. I regard myself as a realist, and yes realism is subjective, but at the end of the day I write about my realities. And I won’t apologize if it sounds harsh or sharp. After all, a sharper pencil writes better than a dull one and I’ve been sharpened by the blades of life since I was seven.

The most valuable gift of this trip was the reminder that a first impression is only a small piece of the bigger picture, something we need to keep in mind. The key is to keep seeking the bigger picture before making judgments. Recently, a woman told me that upon first seeing me she was utterly intimidated by how I carried myself. She said a combination of my stature and my attire made her nervous, yet she was glad she had the chance to get to know me entirely. I remember the night we met, vividly actually. I was wearing old jeans, a random forest green shirt with a black blazer and my black heels. I was feeling utterly insecure, going to this event alone and knowing no one. I nestled in the corner by myself and had a very low level of confidence. Somehow I gave off an intimidating impression? It was intriguing and reminded me of the trip and all the first, second and third judgments passed around from both my end and the ends of those who met me.

I’ve been told many times that my stilettos and my writing make quite the impression, and while I find that strange, I think people need to recognize that those are only two elements of what make me, me. I share raw pieces of myself through my writing, but the world knows nothing of the bigger picture if they do not take quality time to explore the rest of me. So it is with genuine gratitude that I thank everyone I met on this life-changing trip who reminded me to keep seeking the bigger picture wherever I go while also sharing the bigger picture as well.

Till next time San Francisco…

Crossing Two-Foot Borders

“Where are you from?” he asked with a thirst for exoticism. I hate disappointing people but I tend to do so whenever I answer that question. “From here, Surf City.” He was let down, I could tell. “But actually,” I started, bringing back the spark of hope to his eyes, that maybe, just maybe, his original stereotypical assumption was correct. “I was born in LA but we moved here over 20 years ago.” Disappointment again.

I was at a mixer for young business professionals attempting to raise awareness on both my writing career and our now official nonprofit organization A Country Called Syria. “So is that where your family is from then?” he eagerly asked after I gave him my business card. I smiled and nodded, “Yes.” He tilted his head and softened his expression. “It’s awful what’s happening there, I just don’t get it.”

To be honest bro, I don’t either. It’s been a little over three months since my return from our impromptu trip to Syria and I realize that of all my “visits” there, this was the first time I experienced Syria. Even during my six-month stay almost six years ago, I got to explore the place of my roots but I never experienced it.

Not that I ever really forgot the piercing encounters of those six weeks turned three months in Syria, lately however, I’ve been having a great deal of flashbacks, specifically of the families I met at the shelters.

A family friend arrived from Syria today and it was so refreshing yet so strange to see her because it instantly transported me to the memories I witnessed two seasons ago. Staying with us, my room was by default converted into hers for the week. As I cleaned it thoroughly this morning, emptying out drawers and closet space, I felt a sense of heightened attachment. How am I going to give up my room for ten days? My bed? My drawers? My space?

I grabbed my laptop, my makeup box, my hard drive, my notebooks and a few other essentials and headed two feet over to my brother’s room (a.k.a. what used to be my room before he came into this world). The extra bed was now crowded with my belongings and I stood there for a solid 30 seconds staring at what items I had prioritized to bring along and which ones I had agreed to “leave behind.” Then I thought of the other Dania, the one I met at the shelter in March—a beautiful 17-year-old high school junior living in a classroom-turned-apartment that housed three families separated by blankets on clotheslines as borders.

Imagine the lack of privacy. Strike that. Imagine the nonexistence of privacy. I had originally slightly resented the idea of sharing a room with my brother because of the loss of privacy and space, then I remembered Dania, halfway across the world sharing an entire room with her parents, siblings, another set of parents and their children, and then an entire other family.

This thought gave me goose bumps as I started organizing my tiny collection of belongings. “Alhamdulilah,” I said aloud, grateful to God for the blessings that I’ve been showered with. Not only do I have an entire house that is our own, but I am also literally only crossing two feet of borders and easily have access to my room during the day to grab whatever else I need, unlike a majority of refugees who can never go back and get what they forgot in the bookshelf by the closet. But this was a reminder to keep things in perspective. This was a wake up call to answer the question that almost everyone asks me, “Why don’t they just all leave?”

I hear that often, especially when people find out I still have plenty of family members remaining. Besides the fact that Syrians are now the most despised of people, being disregarded and put on low priority in the eyes of every nation, prohibiting them from even entering their countries, there’s this reality, this notion that surprisingly many seem oblivious to and that is the fact that this is home. Just like California will forever remain home to me—SoCal specifically. Who wants to wake up in the middle of the night, go through all their belongings to select only the few that they can carry and leave?

And leave where? Only God knows—whether it’s the sands of another unwelcoming place or the waters that may house their sinking graves, they just go, but only when times get desperate, like when the house they were living in has been demolished. I heard of stories about families that came home after work or school and found there was no home, just rubble.

Syria is almost entering its sixth year of this and I remain baffled at the world’s silence and I cry often wondering if we’ve reached a point of helplessness. Governments have tied our hands and so all we do is post and share. This was one of the essential reasons of why we founded A Country Called Syria, an organization with the mission to educate the greater public on the rich history and culture of Syria, as well as its valuable contributions to the world. We want to give people the opportunity to connect with Syria on a deeper level so that they recognize the gravity of what is being lost. Not only is this the core of civilization’s history (like did you know that Damascus, the capital of Syria, is the oldest inhabited city in the entire world?), but its people have brought to the world a great deal of trades and treasures. The very first linear alphabet in the world was discovered in Syria and from it came Latin, Greek, Arabic and English; which later enabled the documentation of musical notations.

A great fountain of talent resides within the blood of Syrians, the blood being spilled on an hourly basis, and the world doesn’t even know it. There was this one shop we went into one afternoon in Damascus. A beautiful handmade carving caught our eye in the window and we rushed in to ask the owner about it. We wanted to bring back so many artifacts to share the beauty of Syria and its talented people with the world at our exhibitions and this one was breathtaking. He smiled and said, “I’m sorry, but this one’s not for sale. It’s my last one and the factory where we made it by hand is no longer functioning. I can’t make anymore so I can’t let this one go.”

I wish he was the only one to tell me that but the fabric shops, the paint shops and the wood shops all notified us that what we see is all that remains. Between factories being bombed and factories being threatened into closure, work is at a standstill. That wave of helplessness runs deep and it has seeped into the veins of even the children on the streets of Syria that one day, in front of my grandparents’ home, a young boy around 10 or 12 tried to slit his wrists. He had gotten tired of the life he was coerced to live for no reason; the life of begging on the streets with busy cars in the morning and then begging in front of the restaurants at night. A huddle of concerned Syrians gathered around him and stopped him, but then that was it. Everyone was on their way after making sure he didn’t follow through…this time. There is no place to send him, especially not during a time of war. It’s become a world of every man for himself, living a life of unpredictability.

At the moment we’ve been brainstorming ideas for projects to make a change, something to break this helplessness for Syria and we welcome ideas and volunteers. Something is currently brewing and we are eager to share it with the world once it comes together, but in the meantime, I urge everyone to carve some time out of their day to visit our next exhibition and events, which will be launching October 1^st 2016 to December 21^st 2016 at the California State University, Fullerton. Details to come so follow us on Facebook/Instagram: @ACountryCalledSyria and Twitter: @ACCSyria to get all the updates.

And always remember, please pray for Syria and pray for the world.

Peace & Love

About Last Night

Fact: You’ll most definitely be catcalled if you’re wearing cat ears in Downtown LA, even if those cat ears are made of pink flowers from @floralromance. Either that or men in LA have never seen cats wearing electric pink stilettos before and were therefore utterly fascinated that they thought meowing and making air claws was the way to go?

Fact: Drunk men are the only ones who genuinely find me intriguing enough to approach. I learned that a decade ago in another downtown but the lesson was reinforced last night. Sober ones, the ones that are cute and well put together and can carry a decent coherent conversation with you, well they manage to throw in a, “Yeah, and my wife…” about three minutes and forty-six seconds into the flirtatious chat. Suddenly, everything around you gets put on mute and you’re wondering why he started chatting you up like that in the first place and where his wedding ring is. Drunk ones though, they start bowing to you, calling you a goddess, neglecting the White Jesus who made a grander entrance than you did on 5^th and Spring.

Fact: I laugh way too loud, way too hard, way too fast, and unapologetically I’m way too unapologetic about it.

Fact: Nowhere is the spirit of art more authentic and alive than in Los Angeles.

            Fact a: It’s also my hometown!

Spring Street looked breathtakingly vibrant and animated. As I made my rounds up and down the bright blocks, I came across the souls behind the artists, and not just the artists who had paintings and handcrafts on display, but the artists who create the masterpieces that keep LA going every night, all night.

While at the same intersection I had crossed quite a few times already, waiting for the light to turn green, a petite young woman wearing black t-shirt, pants and an apron walked up. She was carrying two full trays of large sized Starbucks drinks stacked atop one another. “Do you need any help with those?” I asked, worrying about her crossing the uneven street. With a smile she said, “No, thank you. I am okay. We’re just working the closing shift tonight and we need coffee. I love coffee.” We laughed and made our way across the street to what turned out to be the same café I had Yelped earlier. I stopped at the register and she headed to the back.

Nestled in the corner, waiting for my divine looking pastrami cheese fries, I thought of this woman and every other hard working individual currently striving in Downtown LA making a living by making the wheels of life turn in LA. Like the craftsman I met earlier who hand carved wood and used recycled metal to create beautiful candle and plant holders that could accent any home [@funkforest]. Like the painter who told me the story behind his art—a manifestation of his frustration with the hate often spread in closed-minded organized religions’ frequently misinterpreted teachings. He wants the world to know that “God F***ing Loves You.” All of you, and White Jesus agreed.

It was magical meeting the young lady who handmade the gorgeous exotic jewelry at the corner by Joe’s Parking Lot on 5^th, that sold me the beautiful crystal and chain headband [@cuatrourbandesign]. I was mesmerized by the gothic appeal of @urksdesign’s work that mirrored my inner goth—the one not always expected (or welcome) but definitely very much alive. I loved walking into The Last Bookstore and getting lost in its every corner. For a writer, this is my home. Once a performer on their stage, hopefully an author on their shelf.

On another round of Spring Street, a woman called out to me. “Excuse me, I asked another woman and she was able to help me with a dollar. I’m trying to get to the domestic violence shelter.” That was it. She had me at “domestic violence shelter” and all of a sudden I had no appetite, no desire to go treat myself to anything. She asked for only $2.46, just enough to cover the bus fee to the shelter two hours away. “If I can’t make it tonight, I’m going to have to go back to the hospital because I’ve never slept on the street before and I don’t feel comfortable trying it. I’m too scared.” She said that as a man, previously sleeping on the nearby corner, got up and started screaming as he banged against the wall. I rummaged through my wallet, knowing this is why God had me walk three and a half extra blocks in five-inch heels to the ATM. When I handed her the money she asked me, “But why? Why this much?” I looked at her and wondered how I wasn’t going to cry. “Because I know what it’s like to have to leave him like that.” She grabbed me and hugged me, then asked, holding back tears, “And how did you do it?” With heaviness I said, “My family took me back in.”

As we exchanged names and prayers, she thanked me again and said that now not only would she be able to cover the bus cost, but she would also be able to finally enjoy a full meal. A full meal. Let that sink in. Hence, I settled for a side order of pastrami fries versus a real sit down dinner. It was hard to walk away. I wanted to collect all of these souls living on the streets and help them. It’s been a focal point of my life working to help homeless in SoCal—specifically those who are victims of domestic violence—and yet I feel like I am not doing enough.

Quite a few of the artists I met and shared deep discussions with were homeless themselves, literally using all they scavenge to create masterpieces that they hope will bring them stability and strength. Never underestimate the power of art, and God how I wish more people would carve out an evening from their month to walk through this art district and watch the masterpieces come to life, hear the stories behind the creativity, imagination and hands that create them. Like the story of the young man who had one short stool and twelve various coffee/tea cups he converted into planters. The story of the old woman with her very young daughter selling polished gemstones. The story of the three brothers selling incense on the corner.

Considering this had been my first experience at the DTLA Art Walk (I’ve visited a few in OC and SD), I had no idea where the starting point was and I actually made it there at the very end. It was there that Diego Cardoso’s vibrant art was being featured, the highlight of this month’s show. The simplicity of the inner gallery where his paintings hung only further brightened the essence of his work; paintings that left me in awe as I recalled literally experiencing LA in its depth fifteen seconds prior to walking through those doors. He captured the colors and the sights with such gravity that I almost heard the sounds accompanying each picture. The sound of that woman’s voice, thanking me as she nestled by the bus bench. The sound of artists greeting me and sharing their stories behind each work of art they invested a piece of their soul into.

A friend of mine works as a chaplain in the LA county jails and one evening after work she was telling me that an inmate she visits gave her a flower. “Guess what kind?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders and let her tell me. “It was a paper towel, wound up and folded in the perfect shape of a rose. The petals were dipped in red colored soap while the stem in green.” She ended the story but my mind had just begun. For a good ten minutes I thought about it, about this man’s efforts, behind bars, to show his appreciation for the work and faith she was investing in him. He managed, with what he had handy, to create something to give her as a token of utter gratitude, a piece of him, and nothing could be a more beautiful gesture. And that’s what it felt like to walk past each of these artists last night. I felt like I was seeing their souls in complete raw form and nothing was more beautiful.

So I wrap up this post with a plea, calling all SoCal peeps and tourists alike, to set aside some time on the second Thursday of each month to explore and support the colorful diversity and beauty that is the Downtown LA Art Walk. And if not, then go out and explore the Art Walks of your neighborhood. Take a night out to journey across the most exciting city and mingle with the artistic souls that make up the colorful diversity that is our world. Encounter the drunk, the divine, the girl in floral cat ears and electric pink stilettos, swim in the graffiti art, dance like no tomorrow in the sounds of drums and guitars, or get lost in the dark eyes of the portraits who have just as many stories to tell as their makers. Remember, never underestimate the power of art.