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!
