tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45938542982743916672024-03-20T16:34:52.158-07:00Lady NarratorLady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-18449326698171906522022-11-16T13:40:00.001-08:002022-11-16T13:49:57.647-08:00An Anthology of Lessons in Myths & Stories (Choosing Children Addendum)<p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbn50TQh8w2UR7Fxf-0VJkbE3lP5Zah2-gru5MRPqmFrSUZiIyiYt86sproFrBwHLYzNXT9SBUBg-Y5__wpUJfi8J2Zr5PexvFUYLR2eRnND_QLENMYjEU-8-1asMkBWBaCGpNfBVoskCkSI8qTcCV-EMxo0sVxm7kOze98qtkqlvwdPnEMZFotEF/s940/The%20Myths.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsbn50TQh8w2UR7Fxf-0VJkbE3lP5Zah2-gru5MRPqmFrSUZiIyiYt86sproFrBwHLYzNXT9SBUBg-Y5__wpUJfi8J2Zr5PexvFUYLR2eRnND_QLENMYjEU-8-1asMkBWBaCGpNfBVoskCkSI8qTcCV-EMxo0sVxm7kOze98qtkqlvwdPnEMZFotEF/w400-h335/The%20Myths.png" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><b><u><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TzOE8z1gCorHC8alonlt4AZYD-ONGbVQRm9jfHDVoVWslpgcJkzdM1XChHwIWl5_v01bF9HTk1QCmd3FnsHfAdTDcQvNIieDspimunxH8_EWlqfnyMpC7zHed8HF2uNlJ0yTjE3citU4khhyTXdMmWXOMuyHblCdcI5r_ovKquYVcY1CKMk-sfjk/s940/Myth%201.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8TzOE8z1gCorHC8alonlt4AZYD-ONGbVQRm9jfHDVoVWslpgcJkzdM1XChHwIWl5_v01bF9HTk1QCmd3FnsHfAdTDcQvNIieDspimunxH8_EWlqfnyMpC7zHed8HF2uNlJ0yTjE3citU4khhyTXdMmWXOMuyHblCdcI5r_ovKquYVcY1CKMk-sfjk/w400-h335/Myth%201.png" width="400" /></a> <br /></i></u></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><b><u><i>Myth 1: Childfree people are selfish, reckless, and living a life devoid of any valid stress or responsibilities.</i></u></b></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br />There was always this lingering doubt about whether or not I wanted to make this decision—leaving my job. The pay was decent, especially since I had recently moved back home following my divorce. The job itself was sublime, everything I was born to do: customer relations management, a decent amount of traveling for field work, and engaging with staff to bring the humanness back into the corporate. So why leave? Aside from the excruciatingly policed office environment (we were once punished for not having the lights on at 7:45 a.m.), I was commuting four hours a day with no accommodation to work in any of the three remote locations closer to home, upper management spent most of their time schmoozing instead of working and reprimanded us if we caught a mistake caused by their lack of efforts, and I was exhausted of the harassment (and by harassment, I mean I was being spied on meticulously, including in the restroom, so much so that I stopped using it at work and would hold it till my lunch break or my commute home where I’d stop at the nearest mall).<br /><br />I realized I had just come out of an abusive marriage and should not have to endure another abusive relationship for money. I took the bold first step and put in my notice and was immediately called into the office of my boss’s boss—one of my least favorite people at the company. He began his superficial spiel about the necessity of a hard work ethic and needing to be an adult, suggesting that I take some time to reconsider my decision more maturely. That’s when all lingering doubts vanished. “I have one of the hardest work ethics out there, sir, and with all due respect, I know what is best for me. My time has run its course here and I have made my decision. There is no need to rethink.” He sat back in his chair and cracked a condescending smile as he put his hands behind his head. “Wow, it must be so nice to live so recklessly and not have to worry about adult responsibilities, like bills and children. Once you have kids, you won’t make such rash decisions.”<br /><br />It’s been almost seven years since that day but it remains etched in my mind for two very contradicting reasons—he was so wrong but so right. Let’s start with the latter. It’s true, I <i>don’t</i> have to carry the burden of parenting responsibilities, but unlike him (and many others), I took the time to reflect deeply on my life and came to the conclusion that I neither needed nor wanted to carry those responsibilities. Maybe had he (and the many others) taken the time to do the same and <i>actively</i> choose parenthood, they would never feel compelled to use their children and the responsibilities that come with them as mechanisms to try and reduce someone else’s life.<br /><br />On the flips-side, however, being childfree will never mean my life weighs less in responsibilities. This is probably one of the most ridiculous and pathetic claims people with children make about us. I could have most certainly given him the laundry list of responsibilities I was carrying at the time (leaving an abusive marriage alone being the weight of the world), but I am constantly reminding myself I owe no one an explanation for how I live <i>my </i>life. One month later, I was free and embarking on what would become the next incredible phase of my life. I published my second book, built my poetry and copy editing career, invested more time in my nonprofit, and experienced the most revolutionary adventures that both this job and children would have stripped me of.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdy4ZNfzyelzuZPOTlRFSBNP-UYO5zthtQSp-WL91dQPkv57ARkCWhjH-nfh_TzsGzuvkQceysN8OyeIfwrE5o8tSHXiMVJzS0-JcQERz3gVflSTSTw82K8dHHSmBXQfQKn2cV4K2E_i-H3FT_xOCW4Z7XPdvXDpqxQeE9xllE0U8Vyu7yicNb2iGy/s940/Myth%202.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdy4ZNfzyelzuZPOTlRFSBNP-UYO5zthtQSp-WL91dQPkv57ARkCWhjH-nfh_TzsGzuvkQceysN8OyeIfwrE5o8tSHXiMVJzS0-JcQERz3gVflSTSTw82K8dHHSmBXQfQKn2cV4K2E_i-H3FT_xOCW4Z7XPdvXDpqxQeE9xllE0U8Vyu7yicNb2iGy/w400-h335/Myth%202.png" width="400" /></a><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><u><i><b>Myth 2: Childfree people are lonely and living boring, meaningless lives.</b></i></u><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br />I wish I could say this story was an isolated incident, but I had another boss, a woman this time, who threw similarly insensitive comments at me throughout my time at the firm. One morning she walked in and said, “You look tired, Dania,” (something no one should ever say). I said, “I am. Just dealing with a little stress.” She cackled loudly and replied, “Stress? Oh please. You don’t have children so you can’t even begin to know what stress is."<br /><br />A year later, I informed her that I was considering applying for a doctorate program and that if I got accepted, I would be leaving the position. With a confused expression she asked, “Why are you going for a PhD.? You already exceeded your capacity as a woman with the Master’s degree. You should be focusing on finding a husband and having children now.” Before I could retaliate to every dysfunctional word (<i>Exceeded my capacity? As a woman? Finding a husband? </i>As if quality ones are readily available in aisle 5 at Target? What in the actual hell?) she continued. “I look at my daughter’s life in comparison to her friends with Masters’ degrees and doctorates. They’re all living such dull, boring, meaningless lives with that education. But my daughter, with her loud, wild chaotic children in that messy house? Well she has the real meaningful colorful life.”<br /><br />I know what that chaotic household is like. I used to experience it every summer in Syria, but it was temporary. Beautiful family reunions, that yes, were colorful and meaningful, but when the break ended, I was glad to be home in my quiet haven. Also, why the assumption that there is only one way to live? Or that educated single and/or childfree women (women, specifically, this is never said about men) are bored, dull, lonely, miserable, etc.? Have you actually asked us? Did you read what I said earlier? Hello, writer, editor, poet, author, traveler, nonprofit cofounder, and adventurer over here, pursuing a SECOND Master’s degree and living a whole other world of colorful, joyous, chaos!<br /><br />But this is what really hurts me, when it’s women—those who should be uplifting us and supporting our empowered decisions to break oppressive cycles—who tear us down because of some clearly deep seated envy they have yet to heal within themselves. I stand by the belief that this is pure jealousy. We are choosing when they chose not to choose. This ex-boss is one of the most successful single moms in my community. She singlehandedly established an empire from the ground up, but was apparently still brainwashed with this backwards rhetoric. These beliefs are so deeply indoctrinated that society is more than happy to push women into abusive, incompatible, or unhealthy marriages, coerce them to reproduce just to ensure they cross marriage and motherhood off their lists. It doesn’t matter if they become widows or a divorcees so long as they got the wifey and motherly roles checked off.<br /><br />Society is the one labeling us meaningless, boring, and lonely. In relationships, I always ask the men who get angry at me for this choice why they deem the life of a nonexistent (and at this point, imaginary) human more valuable than the life of the real existent human being before them? They can’t answer me. They never can. So I tell them without hesitation, if that imaginary child is more significant in value than I, they never actually were interested in me, Dania. Just the potential of my body and what they expect it to do for their penises and future offspring. Most men are not choosing us for <i>who</i> we are, only <i>what</i> we are. Too vulgar? Not even remotely. The number of women I watched abandoned or cheated on by their husbands because they couldn’t reproduce (or did not produce sons, only daughters) is traumatizing.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBiCmRF1LEaAkShbhTbG0zaMbQG_f9qqP2NiazrUl2XYOMGUhb88Qqap0jrAyihQ2XhpSXkh-0JXWFu4MS4-3vaj4peslOCfzdaASq_mlKAZ51CD7bz0yw6Fp-QzjOicTD93O9eQWgBi7Fdjo4LpZIonZoB8Erj4pu8CY2JlC84z9_vhjNwkM4MyW/s940/Myth%203.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtBiCmRF1LEaAkShbhTbG0zaMbQG_f9qqP2NiazrUl2XYOMGUhb88Qqap0jrAyihQ2XhpSXkh-0JXWFu4MS4-3vaj4peslOCfzdaASq_mlKAZ51CD7bz0yw6Fp-QzjOicTD93O9eQWgBi7Fdjo4LpZIonZoB8Erj4pu8CY2JlC84z9_vhjNwkM4MyW/w400-h335/Myth%203.png" width="400" /></a><u><i><b> </b></i></u></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><u><i><b>Myth 3: There is something psychologically or physically wrong with childfree people.</b></i></u><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br />The only “wrong” thing I can point out about childfree/childless people is that we live in a world that doesn’t accept us. In the Fall of 2020, I launched an independent study on a subset of this topic. I have always had this theory about the nuances of postpartum depression and the possibility of its misdiagnosis. Ever since coming to terms with my own childfree decision and feeling so much relief, I began having reoccurring nightmares of being pregnant or giving birth. The emotions I felt in the dream mimicked a sense of suffocation and imprisonment. An “Oh shit, I’m stuck with this eternal responsibility that I never wanted. What do I do? How do I escape?” sensation.<br /><br />By my early 20s, I started to wonder how many women, who never took the time (or were given the space) to <i>choose </i>motherhood, entered this role and awakened to the realization at birth that this is not what they wanted but had no idea? While drowning in the emotionality of this revelation, they were swept under the rug of postpartum depression and told it would just go away, but it never did because the child didn’t?<br /><br />My independent study was only an introduction, but I learned that most women who did not have children felt a sense of shame and failure as women and members of society. Anonymous response after anonymous response, I read about the struggles of women coming to terms with childfreeness/childlessness in a world that never made them feel worthy as their own selves. Since childhood, girls are taught only to think of other’s needs and never encouraged to reflect on their own needs. Then we’re taught to look forward to the single life goal: wife-motherhood. That’s it. Achieving personal development, education, success, those are all pastimes to keep us occupied until the husband and children come. To read the painful responses from such highly accomplished and educated respondents to my study affirmed how society was the true failure, not women.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjKKBRgF930Wf0BVJaqPAnl-_Lw7_Sf89HBNMuq9OkQ6RtqCOHXwr3JM8KHNzi0Y1ULsFqn72c5wt-JCZo6Wcm3vpgb05p_VMr4dhal0uXIRMbgLW1mJyh8KHOmtov5cfhLDdF5a4E4zSW73Z741sHKO2y0EmAN3iZHQ_Z3RTrEwhtjPZSOs5o8pl/s940/Myth%204.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRjKKBRgF930Wf0BVJaqPAnl-_Lw7_Sf89HBNMuq9OkQ6RtqCOHXwr3JM8KHNzi0Y1ULsFqn72c5wt-JCZo6Wcm3vpgb05p_VMr4dhal0uXIRMbgLW1mJyh8KHOmtov5cfhLDdF5a4E4zSW73Z741sHKO2y0EmAN3iZHQ_Z3RTrEwhtjPZSOs5o8pl/w400-h335/Myth%204.png" width="400" /></a><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><u><i><b>Myth 4: Childfree people hate children and are incapable of being nurturing and loving.</b></i></u><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br />I am told this myth often in my life, both literally and figuratively. Literally, by men and/or their mothers. Figuratively, by relatives, friends, and community. A few years ago, during an annual trip to Syria, I found my cousin’s daughter sitting alone and looking bored at my grandmother’s kitchen table. She was about 6 or 7 at the time and she reminded me a lot of myself. Quiet, reserved, chronically thinking and intuitive, but often misunderstood by this demeanor. The adults always talked about how worried they were for her frequent preference to work or play in isolation and I’d always defend her, knowing exactly where she was coming from. (Y’all, I still prefer my solitude.)<br /><br />I grabbed a nearby puzzle and walked over to the table, careful to keep my space and not impose upon hers. After pouring out the pieces and slowly organizing them, I noticed her watching me. Jackpot, haha. I nonchalantly asked her, “Do you want to help me with this? It looks kinda hard!” Excitedly she nodded and scooted in closer and began helping. About half an hour later, her mom walks in and exclaims with utter surprise, “Wow, Dania, I’m so impressed you’re putting up with this, considering how much you know, you hate kids.” Taken aback, I asked, “What do you mean? Hate kids? I love them.” And that’s when I realized humanity’s ignorance. We make snap judgments and pairings without exploring the different degrees associated.<br /><br />Sure, there are probably a few childfree people out there who hate children, but I’m going to let you in on a secret: I know quite a few friends who hate children and <i>have</i> them! Yikes! The truth is many childfree people actually like, love, or feel relatively indifferent about children. No hate. We just don’t want any of our own for a variety of valid reasons. Believe it or not some of my favorite memories are of taking care of my baby brother, teaching third grade, and facilitating a pre-teen youth group for a few years. My entire undergraduate studies focused on the sociology of marriage, family, and child development so I know my way around handling children and adolescents, which is one of the reasons I came to this decision. I am a healthier “mother” when I can give birth to advice, articles, books, community service, babysitting and supporting struggling mothers, advocacy for survivors of rape and domestic violence, initiatives for equality, and so much more.<br /><br />I genuinely hope this series has been able to not only create a space of accommodation for the childfree folks—especially Arabs and Muslims—who never found their community. But I also hope it serves as an educational launchpad for people with children. An awakening to your role in perpetuating dysfunctional and discriminatory beliefs, as well as the efforts to start changing, beginning with how you treat your peers and how you raise the next generation.</span></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-84758831057580330392022-10-05T01:17:00.000-07:002022-10-05T01:17:08.456-07:00Intangible Tangibility: Identifying Abuse (Part I)<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Z68NdngerGpjtccmJ_omhpbB1vi5gmmTmRD6pc699jDjMwcdYB1uus2Mrt3a2drz0yjc3piOTvX83N25NUh_Jp3Yye5S8Adp2s8An3HPQ_JLtcZPTRYgoFGZ6fiHB-WPezNrKJmQr9AS_SXIfAkBXMpyjAfUiBG9dmGgBpCFiRxRSfG7tqMP1xI8/s1874/I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20was%20too%20s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1874" data-original-width="1071" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Z68NdngerGpjtccmJ_omhpbB1vi5gmmTmRD6pc699jDjMwcdYB1uus2Mrt3a2drz0yjc3piOTvX83N25NUh_Jp3Yye5S8Adp2s8An3HPQ_JLtcZPTRYgoFGZ6fiHB-WPezNrKJmQr9AS_SXIfAkBXMpyjAfUiBG9dmGgBpCFiRxRSfG7tqMP1xI8/w366-h640/I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20was%20too%20s.jpg" width="366" /></a></div> <p></p><p>A frequent question I get asked is how do you identify domestic violence/abuse? This is a really good question but it’s also a tricky one for two reasons. First, it’s twofold when it comes to actual identification—are you trying to identify abusive behaviors in a perpetrator or trying to identify a victim who might need help or support? Second, abuse is still so incredibly normalized that many people are completely oblivious that they are either perpetrating or experiencing it. The handful of times I answered, “What happened?” early after my divorce, I was met with responses like, “But that’s just men,” or “Oh, that’s normal. You let men blow off some steam and then they cool off,” or the worst, “What did you do to anger him?” Quick disclaimer, even if someone screws up in a relationship, it doesn’t give their partner rights to abuse, but let’s get into the identification. In this article, I’ll be discussing how to identify a potential victim of abuse.<br /><br />Over the years, I’ve noticed that survivors have a developed sense of awareness for abuse—be it a perpetrator or a victim. I know that’s not an answer, but it’s a reminder that we survivors have an untapped resource of diverse information on the matter. Personally, I’ve been able to recognize victims and predict oncoming divorces with ease since my own experience. On my wedding day, a divorced friend of mine came over early in the morning to help me get ready for the ceremony I never wanted in the first place (that’s actually a big identification factor—seeing someone severely alter their behaviors and/or lifestyles in a manner opposing their nature). I obliged to the wedding ceremony—instead of my city hall preference—after weeks and weeks of psychological and verbal abuse from my ex husband and his family.<br /><br />As my friend zipped up my dress she said, “I know there’s so much pressure with today being the big day, and it could feel impossible, but it’s not too late to change your mind if you don’t want to do this.” After my divorce, I asked her what inspired her to say that. She told me she recognized something in my demeanor similar to hers on her wedding day. Most people claimed we looked so perfect and happy together, but I was reminded that (1) people don’t know me and most were just excited to get their feminist muzzled and (2) people say things like that just to maintain the status quo. I heard these same sentiments repeatedly from everyone around me in my last relationship. At the end of the day, no one knows what’s really going on inside a relationship, but hopefully the following tips help provide some insight, whether you’re trying to identify and support a victim or protect yourself/someone else from an abuser.<br /><br />My mom often says, a healthy relationship is one that brings out the best in both partners, not the worst. She started saying this during my engagement and I knew that while she was offering sage advice, she was acknowledging a change in me. Not a good one, as would be expected for a victim. I was experiencing chronic anxiety attacks (real physiological episodes), I was constantly emotional and moody, and I developed insomnia that almost a decade later, I still suffer from. Witnessing the onset of these symptoms in someone you know after they enter a relationship is a sign. However, I have to stress that identifying a victim of abuse requires a great deal of sensitivity, compassion, and most importantly, patience. It is not <i><b>your</b></i> life and therefore you do not have decision making capacities. I can definitely relate to the frustration this creates, having worked with victims shortly after my divorce, and realizing every victim has their own timeline. We have to respect that, to a certain degree; if you see the potential for severe harm, intervention is a must. Otherwise, it takes time, identifying and supporting a victim.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheU7ZIZc4B2EfIlrEucN9cPHi1mwTs7WYjGe2Yd-RnSN4CBbTnqrr0rUUafdS6sBYMNTYZ90etwWxsAzx9KC9YjcZvMNFu_ifmf2HdMMGsj8yEejLGydsgnqkV1EBqcKn8uwKUyul9U6CV3_MDm7lj2ZyN2pyrJBwrJe1T5zbfroFbN9m2T3tfDaYd/s1872/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1872" data-original-width="1065" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheU7ZIZc4B2EfIlrEucN9cPHi1mwTs7WYjGe2Yd-RnSN4CBbTnqrr0rUUafdS6sBYMNTYZ90etwWxsAzx9KC9YjcZvMNFu_ifmf2HdMMGsj8yEejLGydsgnqkV1EBqcKn8uwKUyul9U6CV3_MDm7lj2ZyN2pyrJBwrJe1T5zbfroFbN9m2T3tfDaYd/w228-h400/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w.jpg" width="228" /></a>Some things to pay attention to are moodiness, increased seclusion or isolation or withdrawal (emotional and physical), and severe lifestyle changes. It’s totally normal if your friend is experiencing the euphoric high of a new relationship and getting a little busier than usual with this special someone, but when that friend is doing things completely against their nature, as well as becoming all consumed and way too soon, it’s a major red flag. I really want to emphasize this point because it’s the first indicator for both parties. The romanticism of that “all consuming life altering” love is one of the most poisonous propaganda every industry has fed us. People are finally starting to recognize this as a byproduct of love bombing. With my ex husband, it was impossible not to fall for. It was my first time experiencing it.<br /></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECRfoWNv1Dk1Hivj3tVcl6CVx-Yw6G8EkZkDKWaM6tdAeEUXuqBOSfpaKovl6iqnJnYjh6tpZsMVWXWmvTI1SV166E7GDssMmVk6noBeyiRn_i26Q6wpF5lld68x6HY3f_217vIVe3PqSnqwx0CEGU2gKaQkT5de-a1UEBUJRkASb-BopybjRCK_0/s1880/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w-2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1880" data-original-width="1064" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjECRfoWNv1Dk1Hivj3tVcl6CVx-Yw6G8EkZkDKWaM6tdAeEUXuqBOSfpaKovl6iqnJnYjh6tpZsMVWXWmvTI1SV166E7GDssMmVk6noBeyiRn_i26Q6wpF5lld68x6HY3f_217vIVe3PqSnqwx0CEGU2gKaQkT5de-a1UEBUJRkASb-BopybjRCK_0/w226-h400/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w-2.jpg" width="226" /></a><br />We are constantly taught that we must find that one person who “sees” us and values who we are beyond just the looks, and sadly, that's become such an easy act for people to put on. My ex husband played the role so well and proclaimed, repeatedly, this love and wholehearted acceptance, even when my intuition kept feeling otherwise. However, the second time this happened, in my last relationship, I caught it immediately and called it out, eventually ending the relationship. A healthy relationship grows organically. It should not exhibit severe intensity or time consumption. If you start consistently missing deadlines, events, work; if your eating habits and routines drastically change; and if you find that quality time with family and friends suffers, there’s an issue. That’s not romance or love, it's the early signs of a potentially harmful relationship.</p><p>I write this and feel disheartened and a little betrayed, realizing how little we are taught about healthy wholesome relationships in life. And this part has nothing to do with religion or culture because my white friends, my Asian friends, my Jewish friends, and my Catholic friends, we are all suffering the same way. Discovering that sometimes, the only way to identify abuse is to sadly experience it, which isn't the most uplifting note to end on, but a realistic one. When I started my advocacy and educational work on domestic violence, I often shared the following disclaimer: I am not promising or expecting to prevent abuse, I am just hoping that I can accomplish the following goals:</p><p>(1) Help victims recognize they're being abused and leave sooner</p><p>(2) Be an ally and supporter to the best of my ability for survivors</p><p>(3) Educate the community, my community specifically, so we can overtime reduce this until we eventually break the cycle or make it far less prevalent</p><p>These are the reasons that for eight years, every October, I am here writing, publishing, recording videos, sharing posts, and praying that one day, I won't <i><b>need</b></i> to do this anymore.<br /></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-78142402503575592492022-09-30T23:17:00.002-07:002022-09-30T23:26:50.998-07:00Intangible Tangibility: Preface<p> <br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL1tfYLLfjVcMoJ84U5S8I76t8jaGXt7t0WeBB4FBGk2jqi7v2OUFQsrobdPwgVO6Vkp8cSl_w91kiN3ciTTcRdubpBR9ciK7F06IBJQKI72yEXRhGx_8N46fAXHyxQF75BZbCKIj7vF2rLdHGkWY_qjdTCtJmwPrVriPCynvHb6aXRbCOPHDtCNG0/s1920/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w-2.png"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL1tfYLLfjVcMoJ84U5S8I76t8jaGXt7t0WeBB4FBGk2jqi7v2OUFQsrobdPwgVO6Vkp8cSl_w91kiN3ciTTcRdubpBR9ciK7F06IBJQKI72yEXRhGx_8N46fAXHyxQF75BZbCKIj7vF2rLdHGkWY_qjdTCtJmwPrVriPCynvHb6aXRbCOPHDtCNG0/w360-h640/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w-2.png" width="360" /></a></div> <p></p><p>We were sitting at my once upon a time favorite cafe. I had found it right before the pandemic, on my global hunt for the BEST latte (still have yet to visit Italy where I assume it awaits me). This place, however, had the closet thing: The Churro Oat Milk Latte—better served hot than iced. He criticized this, claiming because <i>he</i> hadn’t seen me at the shop during his recent visits, I can’t call it my favorite cafe. We were meeting because after a year of hitting on me, he decided it was time for him to get married…and that I would be the one he’d recruit to help him find a wife.<br /><br />I had two choices: impolitely decline (my kindness dam had run dry this year) or somehow find a way to be a bigger person, recognizing how excruciatingly difficult it is for Muslim Americans to find a spouse, and offer my unbeknownst matchmaking services. I quickly learned option number two would be a mistake but a necessary lesson to add to the destructive lessons of 2022.<br /><br />“Can you just open up your social media and scroll through to pick out some girls for me?” I was taken aback by how easily he requested this but at the same time, I wasn’t. I returned to online dating in March of 2022, after a year of recovering from my last relationship with a supposedly good man. However, four months of sexual assault and harassment later, I deleted all the apps and finally buried the last of my faith in men. [More on these encounters in a bit.]</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrCG93W7SIPnDdPF0fPFx21sgtD1zyg6EAicV_ugNX3B1jpUngPFZ3KLz9EDe-BHGGdl-bsG02FtI80PwvMpdjGVvSO0b-Ra5BmplvbhxN5uZOIEY3iGvD4uSCiiPo2pWKhK92RsTCXyj-rM8c2DWMCmPvT2Q-_L6XflMeKEEot_vCsf7BIwc844G/s1156/I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20was%20too%20s.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1156" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghrCG93W7SIPnDdPF0fPFx21sgtD1zyg6EAicV_ugNX3B1jpUngPFZ3KLz9EDe-BHGGdl-bsG02FtI80PwvMpdjGVvSO0b-Ra5BmplvbhxN5uZOIEY3iGvD4uSCiiPo2pWKhK92RsTCXyj-rM8c2DWMCmPvT2Q-_L6XflMeKEEot_vCsf7BIwc844G/w374-h400/I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20was%20too%20s.jpg" width="374" /></a></div><p>Taking the road regrettably traveled, I asked coffee shop boy what he was looking for in a wife and he gave me all the cliches. I reiterated to him the importance of being honest with me if he really wanted me to find him the right partner, all while he continued the flirting, which didn’t help the cause (bro was trying to have his cake and eat it too: using me to try and fulfill both his flirty and his matchmaking needs). He pulled out his phone and began showing me hoarded photos of his exes and other women he recently connected with, who sent him photos of themselves without a scarf to seduce him. (This is a whole other level of disturbing that requires another series.) “I want someone who looks like these girls. This is my type, not that first girl you considered for me who isn’t that attractive.” It suddenly became clear that nothing mattered beyond the looks for this guy.<br /><br />Of course, he was oblivious to the problematic nature of his behavior, from the objectification of women to his stubborn refusal to even try despite his consistent pleas of desperation. As if this wasn’t enough of a degradation, he decided to begin interrogating me about my dating life. Am I seeing anyone? Talking to someone? I brushed him off with a simple, “No,” and it only fueled his toxic masculinity further. “Let me offer you some dating advice,” he began. “It’s no surprise that you are single. You’re quite frankly too much and scare off guys. I suggest you be less of yourself when you meet guys. You know, say less, and don’t be too intense. Also, your social media is a lot. I definitely think you shouldn’t let the guys you’re dating see that stuff. Actually, I say you should make it a private and women’s only account where you can all vent your feminism alone and away from us. Men don’t want to see that crap.”<br /><br />Stunned, I sat there trying to process the immense level of stupidity. Was this dude seriously insulting, to my face, the woman he was begging to help find him a wife? I should have snapped and unleashed my 33 years of sexist oppression and ripped him to pieces. Instead, I smiled and said, “So is that what happened to you? Spent a year flirting with me inappropriately but was too scared and not man enough to make a move? And so instead you’re here begging me to find you a wife?” Before he could start disagreeing with me (I heard him begin stuttering), I continued. “And thank you for proving precisely why my “feminist crap” is absolutely necessary, and needed on a public platform where males such as yourself, who require severe knowledge, can see it. Repeatedly. Because trust me, bro, I’m not wasting my time preaching to the choir. We women already know this shit. I do what I do to educate and create change.” He went quiet, and I wish I could say he learned something, because even after that day he continued asking me whether or not I found him a date, as well as sliding in my DMs with more immature flirtatious jokes that I ignored until I deleted him. Obviously, I withdrew my willingness to matchmake; there’s no way I’d subject myself (or any of my peers) to that level of disrespect.</p><p><br />But was I really surprised by any of this? Not at all. Even before my divorce men have worked tirelessly at tearing me down. And in the last few years, men have not at all shied away from showing (and telling) me that women are nothing more than objects to them. No matter how many years of therapy they’ve been in, how many times they are talked to about it, or how many women they’ve destroyed, the lesson is not being learned. Online dating only reinforced this truth.<br /><br />I trusted Muzz (formerly known as MuzMatch), Salaams (formerly known as Minder), and Baklava to, at the very least, connect me with some decent people, even if no relationships came to fruition. What I got instead is the following abridged set of fiascos.<br /><br />The Lebanese surgeon in New York who kept up his charade until he realized I wouldn’t be sleeping with him, and simply said, “Yeah, I think I’ll pass on hanging out,” when I was already in New York.<br /><br />The Syrian Italian kid (six years younger than I) who decided, after bonding with me for 15 minutes on our Syrian heritage and his upcoming move to SoCal, he could sexting, me descriptively, and then blocking me after he let it all out.<br /><br />The Palestinian doctor in Arizona who right off the bat asked me what my sexual fetishes are and if I’m open to a three-way with another man, as well as giving blow jobs while wearing my scarf. because porn made that “so hot!” When I asked why this was his top priority ten seconds after matching with a woman who made it clear on her profile she’s looking for something clean and serious, he replied, “I want to make sure I don’t have a boring sex life.” I told him I wasn’t interested in engaging in this kind of conversation early on, to which he replied, “Okay, can I show you a picture of my dick?”<br /><br />The Palestinian (whose location and profession are still a mystery) who decided to clarify that he was just looking to make friends. When I said I was not looking for friendships on the app, he insisted on knowing why. I said I know what kind of “friendships” men are seeking today and that’s not what I want. He tried to argue that he wasn’t referring to sex but then began describing where he wants to put his tongue.<br /><br />The ethnically ambiguous Arab dude who claimed he was a doctor in Dearborn but turned out to be a catfish who sent me a video of his dick getting hard the instant we matched because “my face is such a turn on.” As I was blocking, he sent me a photo of my app profile picture with his ejaculation all over it, thanking me. Post blocking, he tried to find me on multiple social media apps to reconnect.<br /><br />The Lebanese Syrian vape shop owner (his profile said business owner, which yeah, is true, I guess) who seemed to think calling me “baby” after every sentence was appropriate. “So what you doing now, baby?” “How’s your dinner, baby?” “Can I join you on your summer break, baby?” I asked him to stop because (1) it’s disgusting and (2) my biggest pet peeve is when males get way too comfortable with me too quickly, and so he got angry and said, “So what am I supposed to call you, huh? Dania? Fine, what’s up, DANIA?!?!”<br /><br />The cream of the rotten crop? The Syrian Palestinian HR associate who talked to me for three weeks, emphasizing religion, spirituality, and Godliness (while judging me for my lifestyle,) who visited me in SoCal and pulled out his penis in a public setting, during Ramadan, to proclaim his love and readiness to marry me.</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYmnJSDnKfWJDxeGZCpU8EeHXt-t1JtzrFXz3yBhNN0CDtFNElgG8K4UTRVpmMmJDjE-Km6Br9-ia3-Y9EtHb-ADemciuk_r4O6bhmIKO6jTBzK2ubqAR_OGYqFLGm3PjoxmZ1M037incl9fl-j9WsYhkrYXhu2ukuwyxlC0So-YFcz_3nhHDXrn46/s1161/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1161" data-original-width="1077" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYmnJSDnKfWJDxeGZCpU8EeHXt-t1JtzrFXz3yBhNN0CDtFNElgG8K4UTRVpmMmJDjE-Km6Br9-ia3-Y9EtHb-ADemciuk_r4O6bhmIKO6jTBzK2ubqAR_OGYqFLGm3PjoxmZ1M037incl9fl-j9WsYhkrYXhu2ukuwyxlC0So-YFcz_3nhHDXrn46/w371-h400/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w-1.jpg" width="371" /></a><br /></p><p>To be fair, not all of them were dicks (total insulting pun intended). Here are the three who didn’t get sexual:<br /><br />The Syrian med student who flaked on his three video dates in between heart filled texts and faux cuteness.<br /><br />The Jordanian divorced dad who “really really loves” my energy but then ghosted.<br /><br />The Egyptian field engineer who gave me a misogynic lecture on our first (and last) FaceTime. He had started the chats complimenting my “vibe” but then criticized the same vibe once we got on FaceTime and began picking apart my outlook and asked me why I’m not enthusiastic about the dating app. I asked him if he was genuinely interested in understanding the women’s experience, especially as a Muslim and Arab one, or if he was just asking for sheer small talk. He insisted he really wanted to know and I briefly began recounting a bit of what had been done to me and how it left me feeling a little defeated. However, instead of listening and sympathizing, he said, “A word of advice, never ever tell men these things. When you talk about them, it makes you look really bad. And also, no guy wants to hear that his wife was exposed to other penises or sexuality.”<br /><br />There it was, coffee shop boy’s echo reverberating around me and assuring me that with man it will forever be one step forward and two steps back. Meaning? We’re probably not likely to move forward and it is exhaustingly defeating. Why is feminism—the mere idea that we, women, are f***ing human—still such a problem in 2022? How is educating about human rights, domestic violence awareness, sexual assault, and human decency seen as a threat? Why is an unafraid, educated, and intelligent woman “scary” and intimidating? The answer to these questions is actually a question: Why are men still such insecure beings?<br /><br />In all my years, I have not yet met one truly genuine male ally who is straight. The only real male allies I have ever come across are my gay friends. Every other guy who bought my book, shared my posts, retweeted my articles, offered me verbal support, or showed up to my events always had an ulterior motive (i.e., seeking a hookup/relationship/sex). Actually, every guy friend I turned to about my experiences this year either laughed or scoffed. Laughed! And you want us to have faith? To be quiet? To censor our normal selves for your easier consumption?</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHmkN4lQa_hFrNcOUZt_enBqLpx6Gbcg1gRturxicJ3tCkrnguF5Xy2W-pmGzy34EsA_8Fowd3H-mddsZ3zT2Smq_Rx-1oiu8TqWWJZfSEEjRoFKWWheG8i0FtEk0I8QdcXJ0-puewSknqe9hOEKXxJ7HjAT3nezrZ146y35p8m5vu4HKnsqqjUop/s1219/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1219" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRHmkN4lQa_hFrNcOUZt_enBqLpx6Gbcg1gRturxicJ3tCkrnguF5Xy2W-pmGzy34EsA_8Fowd3H-mddsZ3zT2Smq_Rx-1oiu8TqWWJZfSEEjRoFKWWheG8i0FtEk0I8QdcXJ0-puewSknqe9hOEKXxJ7HjAT3nezrZ146y35p8m5vu4HKnsqqjUop/w355-h400/Copy%20of%20I%20should%20have%20snapped%20and%20unleashed%20my%2033%20years%20of%20sexist%20oppression%20and%20ripped%20him%20to%20pieces.%20Instead,%20I%20smiled%20and%20said,%20%E2%80%9CSo%20is%20that%20what%20happened%20to%20you%20Spent%20a%20year%20flirting%20with%20me%20inappropriately%20but%20w.jpg" width="355" /></a></div><p>I was sexually assaulted early 2020, shortly after my dad passed away, and I remember his laugh when I confronted him afterwards. I also remember how he threatened me with single hood because of my social media, claiming the feminism is scaring men so I should consider more make up posts, or videos of my cats, or modeling shots that would make me look “cuter and more approachable” (his words).<br /><br />This month marks eight years since leaving my marriage, meaning eight years of advocacy and outreach, but also eight years of chronic harassment. I needed to (unfortunately) start this year’s Domestic Violence Awareness Series with this disclaimer piece. Everything I laid out in this article happened <i>this</i> year, proving we have not come very far. Women are still unsafe, physically, sexually, and emotionally, and until that changes, until men change, I hope every loud, scary, intimidating women keeps her horror blasting. Because speaking for myself, I have never felt more hopeless and tired than this year, and if you’ve been an avid reader, you know life has been a roller coaster. Nonetheless, I decided I would continue with this series and uphold my annual tradition for the sake of myself and survivors worldwide.</p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-87203624312013738662022-09-13T16:49:00.000-07:002022-09-13T16:49:36.467-07:00Choosing Children - Part III<p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWEFQFICPVcF6Xn9XsE_ehspBzgPYv3mWKMVNdoRrSSERiK-FKpFwT-A9YtAR59EyKd1wjPvwd6mY-VgWGFxAZd5J1VDLA0kQxiqtAiqHKGocTgIy-UcPeYQcCyyJ4LuHA-ee_riB8V2sjH0ONsXNf_9edYY1gMuKB47oz2pKwU7EI7rFDCDHlpqqi/s320/IMG_6609%202%20Small.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="292" data-original-width="320" height="365" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWEFQFICPVcF6Xn9XsE_ehspBzgPYv3mWKMVNdoRrSSERiK-FKpFwT-A9YtAR59EyKd1wjPvwd6mY-VgWGFxAZd5J1VDLA0kQxiqtAiqHKGocTgIy-UcPeYQcCyyJ4LuHA-ee_riB8V2sjH0ONsXNf_9edYY1gMuKB47oz2pKwU7EI7rFDCDHlpqqi/w400-h365/IMG_6609%202%20Small.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><b>The OG Trio</b></i></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">When I published the first part of this series, someone asked me why I chose to write it now. I didn’t have any other answers except that it is long overdue and I know no other Muslim and/or Arab openly talking about it. It <i>should</i> go without saying (but unfortunately I know I have to say it again), this series is not at all intended to shame having children. Rather, it is to shed light on the fact that having children should finally be recognized and taught as a choice. I don’t know how that is not Parenting 101, but let’s not get redundant. Part I and Part II already covered this fact. However, let me quickly reiterate some religious points: The concepts of reflection, thought, and contemplation are repeated in the Quran more than 200 times, meaning every single thing we do in this life as Muslims requires thorough knowledge and awareness. An intentional mindfulness to our life choices, including having children.<br /><br />Sometime in late June, months after I intended on finishing this series, amidst final exams and coming to the conclusion that online dating is most certainly a concoction of Satan, I woke up from the strangest dream of my life. The instant I opened my eyes, I knew this was one of two reasons God had me delay the finale of this series.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>My mom, brother, and I were sitting on the couch, and I get a notification that my dad left me a voice message. I play it aloud for the three of us, who had been waiting for him to get home, and it sounds like he’s clearly driving. He tells us that gas prices are too high for him to drive home tonight from his business trip so he’s staying at a local motel (counterintuitive and totally not what my dad would actually do lol, but dreams are weird). Then he says to my mom, as if knowing his message would be on speaker, “Tell Dania that her test results came back and her body is ready for reproduction, but her window of opportunity is closing. So if she wants them, she needs to start now, but of course, it’s totally up to her whether she wants to have any or not.”</i> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">In real life, my gynecologist found an abnormal growth in my uterus and I was scheduled for a procedure at the end of June to have it removed. If ever any woman is on the fence about having children, this procedure will traumatize you against it. The pain was so excruciating my tears streamed without my knowledge. This is saying a lot considering my tolerance of pain is HIGH. I wasn’t even crying. The tears just escaped my eyes uncontrollably. Even my doctor (who is genuinely incredible, THANK GOD) deeply empathized with me and periodically checked in to manage my pain level. I knew the anxiety leading up to—and after the procedure as I awaited the results—triggered the dream. After all, my dad was a doctor, and since his passing in 2019, he only shows up in my dreams when I’m dealing with a heavy dilemma. Somehow, he always has the perfect answers, even in the afterlife.<br /><br />We could spend hours psychoanalyzing the various parts of this dream, but what resonated the most for me was the fact that even when the biological argument came into play (as it often does when people interrogate me), my dad still emphasized that free will is on the table. He reminded me it’s my body, my life, and therefore, my choice. But it wasn’t just the reminder. It was the fact that it was so <i>normal</i> to him for his daughter to be allowed to choose. It was the fact that he built an authentically safe space for me to change my mind (if need be) without being judged or criticized or given an “I told you so.” And while this was a dream, in actuality he always extended these same privileges to me. Privileges I rarely find in the world anymore, and this is another reason I decided to publish this series.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmeIpF3pRbcQYT1eEEYBkG1hnrecVER1dD9EFmkFJv-Z7SMsfjGBEOMfHXXkdYZyNJq9C6BdZyZBZW9ZagBFTIRFDQUH9soH0tUweBuf_DlpKv7-43dba_rhDJlXL5vVKu304MXvBhfTgb3myCZ5qc0m3qSAeRI8dFxUovLBA-qP98GOk2da-5i5gn/s1080/Copy%20of%20CHOOSING%20CHILDREN.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmeIpF3pRbcQYT1eEEYBkG1hnrecVER1dD9EFmkFJv-Z7SMsfjGBEOMfHXXkdYZyNJq9C6BdZyZBZW9ZagBFTIRFDQUH9soH0tUweBuf_DlpKv7-43dba_rhDJlXL5vVKu304MXvBhfTgb3myCZ5qc0m3qSAeRI8dFxUovLBA-qP98GOk2da-5i5gn/s320/Copy%20of%20CHOOSING%20CHILDREN.png" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">While scrolling through social media, every once in a while I come across a “motivational” quote that isn’t too cliche or nauseating (because let’s face it, pop psychology has become exhaustingly problematic). Last year, I saw one that said something along the lines of: Normalize compassion with those who change their minds because growth is real. Basically, it’s the idea of offering grace when people come full circle in their knowledge or simply change their mind—overcoming ignorance, becoming more educated, surviving trauma and seeing another side to things, etc. As saturated as the world has become with “Be Kind” and “Love is the Answer” mantras, humanity often fails at these things. Why are we so stingy with our compassion and grace to others in this world? Why do we angrily attack anyone who doesn’t see things our way and then relish in unhealthy egotistical pleasure at someone’s shift? Shaming them or rubbing noses in the change? (And then continue having children that we pass on these unspoken behaviors to? Make it make sense.)<br /><br />The dream left me wondering, what grace and compassion does the world offer someone, specifically a woman, who reconsiders her lifelong choice to remain child free? But I did not have to wonder too long because I remembered the lack of kindness and grace I received when I “finally” got engaged to my ex-husband. The celebratory wishes coming from a place of society’s relief that the feminist they feared was finally muzzled vs. being genuinely happy I supposedly found the one. And then the severe attitude shift following my divorce. (You can catch more on that here in my <a href="https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjby-Ii88cP_mWzH7SlqJlqu4_s78FlUF" target="_blank">Domestic Violence Awareness video series</a>.)<br /><br />But hearing the gentleness in my dad’s voice, assuring me that I was welcome to walk any of the paths that best fit me, was a relief. I realized if (and it’s a HUGE “if”) I ever changed my mind about having children, aside from having my parents’ blessings, I am doing what I know is best for me and that is all that matters. And I hope that the rest of the folks in this world who choose a child free life or are still trying to figure it out, especially those who share my cultural and/or religious backgrounds, can find their way to this liberation.<br /><br />I share this little aside because interestingly enough for a very brief few weeks this summer, for the first time I found myself <u><i><b>almost</b></i></u> contemplating it. Life can be really strange—sometimes cruel, very funny, and just a tad bit awkward. Long story short, I unknowingly caught some deep feelings for someone I never expected to fall for. I think what carved the depth of these feelings was the fact that he and I were friends for the longest time, which is not something I experienced in any previous potential relationship. So it built a solid foundation for me to be vulnerable. It also helped to know that the feelings were mutual for a while. However, everyday is apparently opposite day with men, so the moment I started feeling things, his feelings (romantic and platonic) were mysteriously and unexpectedly obliterated. But before he exhibited the shocking twist and disrespect, I had felt a slight “what if” spark about having one baby. And this was, I realized, the second reason God had me delay the finale. I never (and still don’t) believe the notion that when you meet “The One” and fall in love you’ll suddenly crave reproduction because I did fall in love once (like real life-altering-never-forget-this love) and despite crossing oceans and making too many sacrifices for him, I never even had a tickle to be a mom. So it was really weird for me that it suddenly happened with this dude.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj84UeiiwdHK4xoXjNAKj44tP7vzryMiWkonmk5buQrZcXFmcDFbJ1KnYqJ10KNYifHfRZdllESA9ofZcAcCSYCZ7ikhhRDmqTdDK8l3gHbESgt7jiVWvb6l8qr3lMKqMHmhdM5wDWU4wqyu7fJVwVOSq3miHLl0JFGGKwXqAHErEITP1DMOEt0wEAC/s1080/Copy%20of%20CHOOSING%20CHILDREN(1).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj84UeiiwdHK4xoXjNAKj44tP7vzryMiWkonmk5buQrZcXFmcDFbJ1KnYqJ10KNYifHfRZdllESA9ofZcAcCSYCZ7ikhhRDmqTdDK8l3gHbESgt7jiVWvb6l8qr3lMKqMHmhdM5wDWU4wqyu7fJVwVOSq3miHLl0JFGGKwXqAHErEITP1DMOEt0wEAC/s320/Copy%20of%20CHOOSING%20CHILDREN(1).png" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">I shared this with only three people in my life who I trusted would not overreact or dismiss my lifelong choice to be child free: my mom and two other girlfriends. It’s not that I suddenly contracted baby fever with this guy. Actually I had hoped that if we explored a relationship he would tell me he was entirely open to a child free life. However, I thought if he said he wanted at least one, I’d consider it. But when the rug was pulled from under my stilettos and he completely changed his behavior without an explanation, everything was immediately extinguished. The slight consideration to having a baby. The friendship I loved so much. And my faith in a lot of things.<br /><br />Before anyone jumps to any conclusion (and I know many *cough* <i><b>h a t e r s</b></i> *cough* surely will), I am not saying I changed my mind. If anything, following the excessive levels of painful disappointment I faced this year, I feel even more committed to a child free life. The lack of grace, compassion, and understanding in this world is draining. We offer women no grace, no compassion, and no empathy to choose what to do with their bodies or their lives—physically, sexually, or professionally. Three different men in the last year told me it wasn’t until now, in their 30s, that they woke up to the realization that women are human and not objects. (Somebody, just end this nightmare for me!)<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">We misconstrue the understanding of feminism and then demonize and marginalize women when they fight for the right to make their own choices. Case in point is the severe irony that even while writing this, I am anxious about its reception, knowing the number of people who will be utterly devoid of empathy and understanding, but rather malice when reading that I briefly reconsidered being a mom. People who will carry this little piece of information with them, waiting to discredit my choices moving forward. It is so exhausting because I face this in my community and in relationships. This is why I am writing the series. This is why I write and do anything in life. Unfiltered truth based education and awareness to break down this growing meanness we have in society. To eliminate the marginalization and isolation of people who choose to do (or not do) something.<br /><br />For the longest time, I carried this choice in isolation. I had only ever known one other Arab Muslim woman that chose a child free life. We often exchange stories about the judgment we face, the harassment, the abuse, and the hate, and I think that’s pretty sad. However, since coming forward with Parts I and II of this series, quite a few other women (and some men) from my religious and cultural background messaged me to express gratitude and relief that someone from among our people is speaking up about this and that they no longer feel so alien.<br /><br />Alienness is a feeling I know all too well and not only because of my child free choice. It started when I was 11 and diagnosed with trichotillomania. I thought the psychiatrist was joking when she said the word but she pulled out the dictionary from the bookshelf behind her and showed me. I cannot explain the immense relief that enveloped me to see that word on paper. As if having it documented means I am not the one “weirdo” on this planet that has something undiagnosable. As soon as I got home, I plugged in the internet cable, waited for that dial up tone, and asked Jeeves to show me all the articles on trichotillomania. (Shout out to the late 90s and early 2000s!) That little 11 year old girl suddenly felt a little less alone, but she still felt compelled to hide the secret until she turned 29. I found an unexpected moment of vulnerability and shared my story on a very public domain and suddenly I was liberated. Feeling shame for something that is not shameful was no longer a weight I wanted to carry.<br /><br />The same thing happened here and it started when I saw the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2021/05/03/style/childfree-women.html" target="_blank">We Are Childfree</a> feature in <i>The New York Times</i>. It was a photo + interview based spread of women who chose child free lives and it blew my mind! Finally this was coming to light and in such a beautifully powerful illustration. I immediately found their <a href="https://www.instagram.com/wearechildfree_/" target="_blank">Instagram account</a> and knew I was home. The immense sense of relief, validation, and end of aloneness I felt was immeasurable. At 29, I became the person I had been looking for since the age of 11 when I spoke up about OCD and trichotillomania. And at 32, We Are Childfree became the community I had been seeking since I was 18 and coming to terms that motherhood may not be my future.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-pAVKkaSa3TOuhWLptbM3QMQ8avbk5oduvbeqEBlQDZVMiN7UUX3yJc7T5QIpm0q4YX5ufo1vqJ-AsrYyyOqOs0koiNV94N30gc-SWWv2F_Q_uirak7AIBgi3ElF2U2kOZxGnAlFHd1IjpPoloMmW1sUkQwYAxfmBQ1eC2FYrmstVhVuW4Cjdg-x/s1080/Copy%20of%20CHOOSING%20CHILDREN(3).png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4-pAVKkaSa3TOuhWLptbM3QMQ8avbk5oduvbeqEBlQDZVMiN7UUX3yJc7T5QIpm0q4YX5ufo1vqJ-AsrYyyOqOs0koiNV94N30gc-SWWv2F_Q_uirak7AIBgi3ElF2U2kOZxGnAlFHd1IjpPoloMmW1sUkQwYAxfmBQ1eC2FYrmstVhVuW4Cjdg-x/s320/Copy%20of%20CHOOSING%20CHILDREN(3).png" width="320" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></div><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">From reading (and sharing) stories to exchanging commentary to learning about other helpful resources to finding new friends, I had finally gotten to experience this “village” everyone told us about that helps raise the child but never got to witness. A whole village of child free people who have our backs, provide a judgment free space, and are so loving and nurturing. I highlight these last two qualities because they’re the top two qualities I’m accused of lacking when I reveal my child free choice. To be honest, some of the most empathetic and kindest people I know are those who never had children. Why marginalize us instead of welcoming us into your village? Recognizing that we serve other genuinely significant roles in this life aside from parenthood? We become the fun aunts and uncles that your children turn to when sometimes you lose your sight as a parent. Some of us become the avid babysitters when you need some alone time. There’s this really sad misconception that everyone who chooses a child free life is a child hater, but um, friends, I freaking love babies! I just don’t feel compelled to have any of my own, but let me tell you, I have been counting down the seconds till my brothers make me an aunt.</span><br /></p><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOR4zBTrdM5VNocC21WC0wGLSVHSBhJJ9EXj3UmJw3MD7gJENrW-Oyp0u0Ammtv-tAW0Qp8OEGeYhLWnrHmA8XiAOkzx3rRXopJBkUb9tFyPvhovi9-tEBqgsMUB2phhWUSL0Z8Y3cr4-W6913vo8nhFmUV-toWFh414egsZnfuAQlFrZVmPleV21/s1080/Copy%20of%20CHOOSING%20CHILDREN(2).png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzOR4zBTrdM5VNocC21WC0wGLSVHSBhJJ9EXj3UmJw3MD7gJENrW-Oyp0u0Ammtv-tAW0Qp8OEGeYhLWnrHmA8XiAOkzx3rRXopJBkUb9tFyPvhovi9-tEBqgsMUB2phhWUSL0Z8Y3cr4-W6913vo8nhFmUV-toWFh414egsZnfuAQlFrZVmPleV21/s320/Copy%20of%20CHOOSING%20CHILDREN(2).png" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br />My point to all of this is enough with the judgment already, and enough with misusing religion and culture to uphold patriarchal agendas. Not everyone has to become a parent. Not everyone has to get married. And not everyone has to make a choice and stick with it to satisfy your impressions. I find it disturbing yet interesting that these hateful attitudes are strictly coming from those who are parents or soon to be ones. Don’t you think you of all people you should be the ones preaching empathy, love, and understanding? You’re basically supplying the world of its next generation and it’s about time we had a better one. Just saying.</span><br /><p></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-34802759624340607392022-03-14T16:09:00.001-07:002022-03-17T21:40:20.788-07:00Choosing Children - Part II<p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiezH2FWY1W5aLqjgo3oy5ab5cM2WLhXvnNUivi8NtVz7bGrShRAaqItBes1-UOszDZUJGlKCtOquPxUP0XF8fubelPOx_h2fGpp66NoAT2MGoRVRC-1g5v-DbFRCxo4RmOq992VoNPvtpaPgUQNk3nBvBcRtj8LnhGa1kI_waFbA8GLScowFhGvfr7=s2282" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2282" data-original-width="1284" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiezH2FWY1W5aLqjgo3oy5ab5cM2WLhXvnNUivi8NtVz7bGrShRAaqItBes1-UOszDZUJGlKCtOquPxUP0XF8fubelPOx_h2fGpp66NoAT2MGoRVRC-1g5v-DbFRCxo4RmOq992VoNPvtpaPgUQNk3nBvBcRtj8LnhGa1kI_waFbA8GLScowFhGvfr7=w360-h640" width="360" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Mama & I in the same place where I told her I didn't want to have children, 14 years later.</span></b></i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;">Unpopular Fact: A genuinely secure person would not, at all, feel threatened by the life choices of another.<br /><br />I think of this fact often when I get attacked for my child free choice, wondering what fuels such intense, almost visceral, reactions from these people. I know what the answer is but to avoid exacerbating the <i>argument</i>, I refrain from informing people that their anger is clearly a byproduct of envy and insecurity.<br /><br />I was 19 when I first came forward with this decision I had been ruminating over for two years. Ironically, it came out while my mom and I were babysitting my cousin’s newborn. She was finishing up a diaper change and I was clearing up the crib when I anxiously asked, “What would you say if I told you I don’t want to have kids?” Without even looking up, her hands moving at professional speeds, she said, “It’s your life. You do whatever you want.” I was surprised and looking back at this moment now, I realize <i>why</i> exactly I was so shocked at her answer. Regardless of how we’re raised and what types of environments we grow up in, the patriarchal system is still in power and will leave its mark one way or another. For us women, gifted with the right kind of upbringing and empowerment, the unlearning starts earlier and becomes easier with time, but every once in a while, we are reminded of the patriarchal indoctrination. For men, the work is two-fold because they don’t easily see the need to unlearn what benefits them so well.<br /><br />Despite my mom’s answer, there was a small part of me that almost doubted her open minded (but still hardcore religious) demeanor. I decided to ask a follow up question, inspired by the obnoxious behavior and rhetoric of her peers. “So you’re not mad that I won’t ever make you a grandma?” She laughed loudly, as if I had cracked a really good joke, and said, “I got to live out my life the way I chose, and I wanted children. Grandchildren are not MY choice to make.” That was it. That was all the reassurance and validation I need to never look back. Though it didn’t ease the isolation I would soon come to face for this decision, it gave me the thick skin I needed to survive.<br /><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;">❥ ❥ ❥<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br />The reason I blame insecurity and envy on people’s reactions to this choice is because there is no other valid answer to why they behave this way. I remember one time a group of young Arab women were hanging out and, per usual, the conversation revolved around husbands, what to cook them for dinner, and babies. Many were engaged if not already married and they asked me about my plans, specifically how many children I wanted. When I matter-of-factly let them know children were not in my plans, one girl just would not accept. “What?! Oh my god, no. You know what? I’m going to pray so hard that God gets you impregnated ASAP and you end up with seven kids!”<br /><br />I can’t get (too) angry at people who never grew up with genuine free will. Who were never gifted the time and space to <i>choose</i> their lives. Even if many of these people thought they chose what to study or whether or not to get married or when to have children, the truth of the matter is, these choices were all stemming from unspoken pressure. I compare their reactions with my mom’s and recognize insecurity vs. security. I believe the same goes for men, except men also seem to seek out any opportunity to attack a woman more empowered than they are. Case in point: In 2019 I posted a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_xXC37CDSw&list=LL&index=7&t=5s">TedTalk</a> about a woman’s child free choice and the sexist journey she experienced in seeking sterilization.<br /><br />The story was incredibly powerful and so I posted it on Facebook. Little did I know it was going to anger a random older Arab (who I don’t even know) so intensely he would take it upon himself to convert me back to Islam. Yes, he doubted the validity of my religiosity and headscarf because I have exercised this one choice. Here's one of a few screenshots I saved as a reminder:<br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xebANGHCuoHet2dlSfLK8sJBNPDVAvg3aHN0BDn3NiTXP1iPg13cfxAgnL4y57NuwaYOKJThRZ9Q2BgR_iESLe9T44Kp5Q1EM417fnDCyrSdVaIvarC7YD05G3ML30meuftYcJTI8XJ9exNXN1ile98geMj450Ww7QZG8t2YtteYvTzcfTQZScGF/s828/IMG_4375%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="828" data-original-width="793" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7xebANGHCuoHet2dlSfLK8sJBNPDVAvg3aHN0BDn3NiTXP1iPg13cfxAgnL4y57NuwaYOKJThRZ9Q2BgR_iESLe9T44Kp5Q1EM417fnDCyrSdVaIvarC7YD05G3ML30meuftYcJTI8XJ9exNXN1ile98geMj450Ww7QZG8t2YtteYvTzcfTQZScGF/s320/IMG_4375%202.jpg" width="306" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;">See, religion is a failing argument for why one “must” have children, and I’m speaking strictly about Islam and Muslims right now. I understand when we feel sympathy and frustration towards our family, friends, and community members who lose their way spiritually, but choosing not to have children? I don’t understand the religious-based anger or reasoning.<br /><br />Growing up in a practicing Muslim household means Quran comes up anywhere and everywhere, no matter what we talk about. I recently posted an Instagram video where my mom managed to somehow bring Quran into the conversation about skydiving. That’s literally my home. We eat, breathe, and sleep scripture, so when I make a choice, it passes through every religious litmus test I learned. In conjunction to my upbringing and education, I also read and understand the Quran, and it doesn’t take too much sensibility to see the 5:1 ratio in verses.<br /><br />Every time someone tries to use religion as an argument for why children are an “obligation” they always turn to Chapter 18, Verse 46:<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9D1mWcqHMv0NY_XrR5qcXcY3_0OQ-JlhnB8_dvgyyEeHyKWG8wujPes2hqq4CZ1E4eLSjZe8deZqJad3rIlCmBE3K8WP5FcF9uFuA7wMtVYuuGKjxbXEOFBHsLYHN4qGqfLLhgSMxiMG2cb0rg7PmyfO2J1AsgmwhZ18foaB2R601Z-YaKsex-lVE=s1284" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="748" data-original-width="1284" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9D1mWcqHMv0NY_XrR5qcXcY3_0OQ-JlhnB8_dvgyyEeHyKWG8wujPes2hqq4CZ1E4eLSjZe8deZqJad3rIlCmBE3K8WP5FcF9uFuA7wMtVYuuGKjxbXEOFBHsLYHN4qGqfLLhgSMxiMG2cb0rg7PmyfO2J1AsgmwhZ18foaB2R601Z-YaKsex-lVE=w400-h233" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>“Wealth and children are adornments of the worldly life;<br />but the enduring good deeds are better to your Lord for reward, and better for hope.”</i><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br />It’s a lovely verse, but what part of it is mandating reproduction? The part that calls children an adornment (<i>zeena</i> in Arabic)? An adornment is an accessory, as in an addition, not a foundation. I also think it’s very powerful that God pairs “wealth” and “children” in this verse, that they are attractions of this life, however…<br /><br />God also provides us with FIVE other clear-cut verses in the Quran that caution Muslims about these two:<br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkFynfUAUwC--EpJAhrTyf1k411wzaWCt6oHVk61dBrfHni3mR8Mz8lje_Ci0JYGzr8nq8ICQqqLs4cwODjWNON9jPMygy3BBpqNhPOjo9e8ecHEca2kAi-7LvcJA2BuKUjdgtJlyjOgPUPupWNQnUAIUN919mT-SWZ89okOOtHal8Obl6By_EIrjx=s1284" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="561" data-original-width="1284" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkFynfUAUwC--EpJAhrTyf1k411wzaWCt6oHVk61dBrfHni3mR8Mz8lje_Ci0JYGzr8nq8ICQqqLs4cwODjWNON9jPMygy3BBpqNhPOjo9e8ecHEca2kAi-7LvcJA2BuKUjdgtJlyjOgPUPupWNQnUAIUN919mT-SWZ89okOOtHal8Obl6By_EIrjx=w400-h175" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>“And know that your wealth and your children are a trial</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>and that Allah has with Him a great reward.” (8:28)</i></span></span><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6sfTztnBPqW5bxM5iDx6wotEVohSGZHQTpXqx_VqZH6Vbvn-OrygiMRuObM6B7TbTjbKG6Gb7PZmlb1xWW-AlY4GibmoUpcgP9EmDabVyhIpTj17BINXG56ClFe8LoOVgVVChRXRPDK0ITjIj4rtkPF0t43zHpxIUFc9eSgVgaSYsWhPzNUZwECKT=s1284" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1089" data-original-width="1284" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6sfTztnBPqW5bxM5iDx6wotEVohSGZHQTpXqx_VqZH6Vbvn-OrygiMRuObM6B7TbTjbKG6Gb7PZmlb1xWW-AlY4GibmoUpcgP9EmDabVyhIpTj17BINXG56ClFe8LoOVgVVChRXRPDK0ITjIj4rtkPF0t43zHpxIUFc9eSgVgaSYsWhPzNUZwECKT=w400-h339" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>“And it is not your wealth nor your children that will bring you nearer to us in position,</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>but rather by being from those who do good; for them are double the rewards of what they did</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>and will be in the upper chambers, secure.” (34:37)</i></span></span><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIAkwvqK92CqQhZWj16iobP3byWMkY-Qvjrl94EXwkfGvIExEJ8Lstx1lwaGkXElCiShDCtvHPk6ldtY8DO9SIJPE1eXEt4t6hHA0AjGD8lgsXlVlyzKfxd48JOOq8Tu1-FOroyVcNg3ghfbV_kc3GRSSVCISRWY5W5iwrYZR1KO_bYfDgJllhaXUv=s1284" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="749" data-original-width="1284" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIAkwvqK92CqQhZWj16iobP3byWMkY-Qvjrl94EXwkfGvIExEJ8Lstx1lwaGkXElCiShDCtvHPk6ldtY8DO9SIJPE1eXEt4t6hHA0AjGD8lgsXlVlyzKfxd48JOOq8Tu1-FOroyVcNg3ghfbV_kc3GRSSVCISRWY5W5iwrYZR1KO_bYfDgJllhaXUv=w400-h234" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>“Never will their wealth or their children avail them from Allah.” (58:17)</i></span></span><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsmpWJzFnXAG5bMMQ5suH-M-FwSLOU1mHuTIlBigY-qo-7NLXhNlDgB0Vc_ItRyMkXhjlqSsVIuHOyoAFQf8l9kXJzyW9hLR3bZYlTQsGAeGEewNO0LHNSRftFQLb3N0DRMkYSdqLVnrV4vUjhJ_thS8aAb6DIvjaQx5GcBfxiQ9UB2Pc7ZFwg1ZEy=s1284" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="913" data-original-width="1284" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsmpWJzFnXAG5bMMQ5suH-M-FwSLOU1mHuTIlBigY-qo-7NLXhNlDgB0Vc_ItRyMkXhjlqSsVIuHOyoAFQf8l9kXJzyW9hLR3bZYlTQsGAeGEewNO0LHNSRftFQLb3N0DRMkYSdqLVnrV4vUjhJ_thS8aAb6DIvjaQx5GcBfxiQ9UB2Pc7ZFwg1ZEy=w400-h285" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>“Oh you who have believed, let not your wealth nor your children divert you</i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>from the remembrance of Allah; for whosoever does so, then they are the losers.” (63:9)</i></span></span><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIgmkrMHWKIO7_uAGXLuA9ltIm2-N4b3LaufPUB7HGjbR10cZ4_lnWd7c7BQFOP-71c57vcYJLXh_Og9kVW-VO2yNa3Vd-aLJdFe_np-8b1m_l1j_dxlaoG6-scdgou4ZNmCKZE2bfWvxm57Yup_CkJppv78FVBYwUXSsDtyYNa--Px1iwl5wu6TYo=s1284" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="570" data-original-width="1284" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjIgmkrMHWKIO7_uAGXLuA9ltIm2-N4b3LaufPUB7HGjbR10cZ4_lnWd7c7BQFOP-71c57vcYJLXh_Og9kVW-VO2yNa3Vd-aLJdFe_np-8b1m_l1j_dxlaoG6-scdgou4ZNmCKZE2bfWvxm57Yup_CkJppv78FVBYwUXSsDtyYNa--Px1iwl5wu6TYo=w400-h178" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i>“Your wealth and your children are but a trial, and Allah has with Him a great reward.” (64:15)</i></span></span><br /></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br />The point behind my presentation of these verses is simple, self-explanatory really. God Himself is giving us a choice, presenting to us the pros and cons of child rearing (and wealth). Telling us that those who acquire these adornments should pay attention and not let them steer or overpower their lives. (Allah calls them <i>fitna</i>, and for those familiar with the Quran, that’s a heavy word referring to things that can misguide you in life.) None of these verses mandate or prohibit reproduction and if I were to summarize this series into one thing, it’s this! Having children is a choice, not a mandate.<br /><br />Consider terminology. When we call reproduction an “obligation” instead of a choice, it alters the weight and value of the entire experience. When we begin to approach having children as something someone is choosing—and choosing wholeheartedly—it automatically shifts the overall emotional, mental, and physical wellness of both parents and children. It’s interesting when those of us who choose not to become parents are called selfish, but the folks carelessly reproducing “just because” or “because of religious obligation” (or "as a solution to problematic marriages") are not selfish? Bringing a living soul into this heavy world and not by authentic choice?<br /><br />I have painfully heard it quite a few times at community gatherings, parents passively aggressively resenting having children…in front of their own children! I’ve wondered how many women in this world suffered from lingering postpartum depression and how many actually suffered from suddenly realizing this is not what they wanted but never had a moment to think about it?<br /><br />One of the most powerful illustrations of this was on the show <i>The Bold Type</i>, when Sutton Brady induced a miscarriage after finding out the baby had no heartbeat. Her loved ones, assuming she was grieving the loss, offered her comfort, but she later reveals that her grief stemmed from guilt for feeling relieved. The experience had taught her she did not want to become a mom because she had never thought about it.<br /><br />That’s the problem. We are not raised in a world that genuinely teaches us to reflect on and weigh the decisions painted as necessary life stages, like marriage and child rearing. “You just do it,” is what I hear from most people who still don’t know why they want to get married (or why they are married) and why they want to have children. So anyone who “goes against the grain” is shamed, guilt tripped, and attacked.<br /><br />I am not shaming anyone for having children nor am I against it (for others). I am simply insisting that we begin recognizing it as the choice that it is and respecting people's right to make that choice. And a choice is not just deciding to have a baby. It’s an active effort to do your utmost best, to make sacrifices, to go through anything and everything to raise as best a human as possible. If someone understands they cannot/do not want to take on this very big responsibility—for whatever reason at all—that person has every right not to have children.</span></span><br /><br /></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-25499395694599356212022-02-23T16:22:00.001-08:002022-03-13T15:53:53.590-07:00Choosing Children - Part I<p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6woazQmp1c3WGw7MkDZ-KyvkGtrbXLOo8pc7jo7XlQ0WyBCo5WkXqb-hhIqnPprQjfeABfP5rGI5c0sUfYvMBWoirsYIJTJIuYnJUEdtn4CRVY9VRE2fzLdPMxPo5AWw-w3I96neQSUwuQEn7ZNthaIFW1JBdi7coDAcvZDIdLK8wWrKIOLKGAOdD=s1731" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1731" data-original-width="1284" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi6woazQmp1c3WGw7MkDZ-KyvkGtrbXLOo8pc7jo7XlQ0WyBCo5WkXqb-hhIqnPprQjfeABfP5rGI5c0sUfYvMBWoirsYIJTJIuYnJUEdtn4CRVY9VRE2fzLdPMxPo5AWw-w3I96neQSUwuQEn7ZNthaIFW1JBdi7coDAcvZDIdLK8wWrKIOLKGAOdD=w474-h640" width="474" /></a></span></div><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">I had forgotten what it was like to feel <i>this</i> alien, this almost sense of insecurity that I was taken aback. All I said was I don’t want to have children and the interrogation began. It had been almost a year since my last relationship and I decided to try dating again. A very small part of me wondered if two and a half years of a pandemic were enough to get men to put in some effort with online dating. Sixteen minutes into swiping told me no. Amidst hundreds of swipe lefts, I managed to find two potential possibilities that checked off enough boxes for me to swipe right. Muslim, Arab, highly educated, ambitious, and attractive. Quite a rare combination these days.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-QPwclXss2b_KtrYj57-hgoxy3rxNG-2mtU85jX0dnx3heS41mIqCHkZ7_3ry57SsNlJCSO9hhF4VV-tPe4ZfqDYNhnVmAGqTrXLAM7_OmR0JRfgE-XwJQfKXqbAt0UxIzy_mkVbvMLNI1AUPLx-URbwuoTCQVXpKoHZsvd1hnTzYJog7G1yg8WRb=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg-QPwclXss2b_KtrYj57-hgoxy3rxNG-2mtU85jX0dnx3heS41mIqCHkZ7_3ry57SsNlJCSO9hhF4VV-tPe4ZfqDYNhnVmAGqTrXLAM7_OmR0JRfgE-XwJQfKXqbAt0UxIzy_mkVbvMLNI1AUPLx-URbwuoTCQVXpKoHZsvd1hnTzYJog7G1yg8WRb=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">The conversations started out well enough—some clever comedy, tasteful compliments, and polite discourse about each other’s histories and current endeavors. But there was this gnawing part of me that knew what was to come. It’s a heavy burdening anxiety I carry because never have I ever brought up the child free choice without being attacked. Be it rage filled tantrums over a <a href="https://youtu.be/99BA0v2bde0">bowl of chips and salsa</a> or invasive and inappropriate interrogations or severely harsh verbal assaults, I have heard it all and know I will unfortunately continue to. This time was no different, as they began hounding me with questions, treating me like some foreign specimen defying my pure biological purpose in this life (which is what one of them actually said). It amazed me to see how deeply ingrained this idea is into the minds of people, especially men and especially Muslims who are supposedly implementing the Quran. Remember the Quran? The sacred scripture that teaches us we were created on this earth to worship the Lord and do good. The mere idea that our sole purpose exists to marry and reproduce defies religion at its core. I no longer offer explanations for this choice because it is just that, a choice. The fact that people don’t see this is the real problem, but I’ll dig deeper into this during Part II. <br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">“Give me some reasons why, because this is so strange!” they urged, but I simply told them I see no need to justify my reasoning, especially when they have made it abundantly clear they want children (but could not offer me any reason as to WHY they want children—another huge issue I found on this journey). Not long after, I deleted the account and realized online dating doesn’t work for Muslim women and those who choose a child free life at that. Heck, offline dating is failing us too and I remembered my last relationship.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi21uLjgTPhNPDpx-ouXjyM7ewall1RsKOP96RP2ggvXtsGwCMMy7CGanSA8mtSkkhPNjSd0k6K8clDPjUCCLY_wzLM1EqIGLDQZHKNdL97CQzlhbLJFK3c-kM-Znb3e27yZJHqP7EqxnJ5q0lNFwTvVIn94FJu8CPIxzPOl5fVDx-362qvtYEDNghs=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi21uLjgTPhNPDpx-ouXjyM7ewall1RsKOP96RP2ggvXtsGwCMMy7CGanSA8mtSkkhPNjSd0k6K8clDPjUCCLY_wzLM1EqIGLDQZHKNdL97CQzlhbLJFK3c-kM-Znb3e27yZJHqP7EqxnJ5q0lNFwTvVIn94FJu8CPIxzPOl5fVDx-362qvtYEDNghs=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br />It lasted about four and a half months, more or less. No lie, the first two months I was floating on cloud nine like never before. I had never uttered the words, “I think he’s the one,” before and yet I found myself saying them to my mom. On the first date, per usual, the child free discussion arose. This, in conjunction with the recent online dates, taught me to shift this pattern and not start off the relationship with this dealbreaker (unless I want to get rid of the date ASAP), but I’ll get to that in a future installment.<br /><br />At first he was dissatisfied but also mesmerized at the alienness of such a mindset. He asked for a few days to digest it, which taught me another lesson: I will no longer accept a partner who has not <i>chosen</i> a child free life himself. This whole ambivalent “I guess I’m cool with that” will no longer cut it. He came back three days later claiming he is okay with this decision and was willing to keep going. My ex husband lied and said the same thing, so much so, that when I filed for divorce due to domestic violence, his claim to the world was that my child free choice is the real culprit behind our marital dissolution. I note this important point because it later came back to haunt me in this recent relationship.<br /><br />As things progressed, we were edging closer to the need for our families to meet. As American as I am, I am Muslim and Arab first and foremost, and while I had met his family and he met mine, our families had not yet met each other. For the next phase to happen, the big meeting needed to happen first. After what I’ve been through, I held intense anxiety about this. I witnessed my family endure a lot from my ex husband and his family that a part of me feared what would come of this meeting. More importantly, however, I realized his family should know about “our” child free choice if this was to move forward. Because I know how my people think, I knew that if they weren’t informed in advance, they would assume I “seduced” their son into loving me that he blindly accepted this choice against his will, and I’d live in their resentment forever. I know too well what problems in-laws create for their children and grandchildren, so I wanted to bypass this.<br /><br />I told him that we should figure out how to let his family know before any meeting is arranged. However, instead of exercising a partnership and discussing together how to broach the subject (which shouldn’t require such dramatic sensitivity in the first place) with his parents, he went rogue and threw the metaphorical grenade solo. Hundreds of miles away, I felt the searing pain of the shrapnel. From being demonized for being a divorcee to my “old age” (I turn 33 today) to the “sinfulness” of this choice, it all came out. None of it really hurt me or surprised me, until my experience of domestic violence was entirely dismissed and they blamed my divorce on my child free choice, just like my ex husband did.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">The week our families were set to meet was the week I ended the relationship, and strangely enough for a few months after I experienced the same PTSD I had with my ex husband. God was helping me detox and I felt so much more gratitude for the strength He has given me to leave sooner and sooner when I start seeing red flags.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdG2Ke6wLnNwNMrE3zUDeeDHtJicORaUY0PIY_Xj3hN5JEfLX7zKzQBpPcPK8yc9WJ35TTR8CgzL4a0dpCYTs8T892x7fZoW3KvX95Rufd2OH5poB7txcNTc3MzNUj4emI9T1uMxi86hSZjonW5rWMX70yADwNTRYg1w9w5QqQPMgkX5MeCy65xV5B=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdG2Ke6wLnNwNMrE3zUDeeDHtJicORaUY0PIY_Xj3hN5JEfLX7zKzQBpPcPK8yc9WJ35TTR8CgzL4a0dpCYTs8T892x7fZoW3KvX95Rufd2OH5poB7txcNTc3MzNUj4emI9T1uMxi86hSZjonW5rWMX70yADwNTRYg1w9w5QqQPMgkX5MeCy65xV5B=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br />I start this series with my personal journey because I want to shed light on yet another layer of harassment we have to face as women. I have only met one man (who happens to be Muslim and Arab) that also chose a child free life, but we never engaged in enough conversation for me to learn whether or not he faces the same abuse. Nonetheless, I share this introduction because it’s time for us, especially Muslims, to cease with the harassment. The number of times my child free choice has been used against me are countless. Whether to discredit my faith, my spirituality, my womanhood, my capacity to be a wife or to be a nurturing human being, it’s incredibly ridiculous. For the remainder of this series, I will be incorporating religious texts to support the fact that this is indeed a choice and not a mandate upon humanity. Until then, I pray, birthday wish, and advise our human societies at large to end the prejudicial and hateful rhetoric and behavior towards all people who choose a child free life.<br /><br />P.S. Such hate is unGodly, FYI.</span><br /><p></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-25497169178878745992021-12-09T19:22:00.002-08:002021-12-09T19:27:34.681-08:00An Inside Job<p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6Nbai7xc2ZziDxJPSNkfdfigXgzLJctCttHRs-GfVpUGS3Z4Ev3ZsqMjUn_tLiGMiXjlxijZWkVB42U_Bzj5x4Jratf771eLpOB6Li2D58H5Gsj5Xpn6UCXyS1hkjv1wcebzHZwiZf6FtHxbzs3E0SeF0giyRWv4kJmuSvLCWsFtM2ES4PpnSvc27=s1080" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh6Nbai7xc2ZziDxJPSNkfdfigXgzLJctCttHRs-GfVpUGS3Z4Ev3ZsqMjUn_tLiGMiXjlxijZWkVB42U_Bzj5x4Jratf771eLpOB6Li2D58H5Gsj5Xpn6UCXyS1hkjv1wcebzHZwiZf6FtHxbzs3E0SeF0giyRWv4kJmuSvLCWsFtM2ES4PpnSvc27=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><span>A few years ago, I was featured on another <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OB8EfHMG4U&list=PLBVNJo7nhINSaQvW3YclzZ6465EnL34CD&index=5"><i>Jubilee Media</i></a> video, this time highlighting opinions of women from different backgrounds on various social issues. After the video came out, I started receiving messages of support, hate, advice seeking, and more. Then a friend of mine who established and operates a Muslim scarves fashion brand (please note I did not say hijab as this intentional omission is relevant) shared a screenshot of the video, praising and tagging me and another woman on set who identified as a conservative Christian. It was a beautiful shout out and a pleasant coincidence to see the smallness of our world that this Muslim friend was a mutual friend with someone I recently met. I asked my friend how she knew the other woman in the video and to my surprise she said, “Oh, we hire her to model hijabs for us!” Speechless and disappointed, I logged off Instagram without replying, wondering why we feel entitled to outsider respect when we ourselves don’t respect the sanctity and value of the headscarf in Islam?<br /><br />When the subject of discrimination against Muslims comes up, the default assumption is always external racism and Islamophobia. While there is no denying the existence of these ongoing injustices, the continuous silence about the internal discrimination and prejudices within the Muslim communities is just as harmful, especially to women and women who practice the religious act of wearing the headscarf.<br /><br />Some could consider it a stretch to deem the use of non-Muslim models for Islam based fashion discrimination, but when we examine this act more closely, and in conjunction with the other internal discriminatory acts of micro and macro aggression Muslim women face for practicing this part of the faith, we recognize the significance of how detrimental these behaviors are. And the issue is we are often reprimanded for speaking out against these internal issues—headscarf related or otherwise. The reason? Fear of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_gaze">white gaze</a>. Basically, it’s the pressure we as non white (or non mainstream) communities carry to appear flawless for fear of being further targeted. For Muslims, it’s subliminally coercing our members to cover up any and all flaws to avoid having them weaponized against us in the Islamophobic agenda. As a survivor of domestic violence, I understand this fear because by default everything we do or say becomes weaponized, but if we never address these issues and take the risks, how does change happen?<br /><br />This fear of the white gaze is why Muslims took too long to speak up against the ongoing internal racism, colorism, and classism. It is why Muslim women are silent about experiences of sexual harassment and domestic violence. And it is why only recently have women in headscarves become more vocal about the abuses, harassment, and prejudices they face from their own Muslim communities. And an example of this is that they are overlooked by brands supposedly catering products for them in a market that constantly excludes them.<br /><br />When I began researching this subject of internal discrimination Muslim women face, my searches came up empty. Every article, journal, or publication focused solely on the external racism women in headscarves face. It reminded me of when I was invited to speak on a panel at UCLA for World Hijab Day and the expectation was that I would echo what all the other Muslim panelists shared about their experiences of wearing the scarf in America: harassment, marginalization, discrimination, etc. by non-Muslims. Instead I shared my honest experience. While I had a handful of racist encounters following September 11th, the majority of the painful experiences related to my scarf come from Muslims (and still do).<br /><br />The men “courting” me each had some issue with regards to my scarf, asking me often if I would reconsider wearing it. (Two of these men tugged it off because they were bothered by it and felt entitled to see my hair.) I heard about a job opening at a Muslim Arab owned business and inquired about the application but was told they wouldn’t hire someone in a headscarf. Often I am marginalized and alienated from various social spaces and groups because I am the only “visible” Muslim in the group and it is a discomfort to the “discreet” Muslims. The irony is I am constantly welcomed and treated better by non-Muslims for (a) my headscarf and (b) embracing my full cultural and religious identity, things I am rarely praised for by my own people. My “visibility” has never really been an issue for me as an American in America.<br /><br />I have been wearing the scarf since I was seven so it has become a proud and integral part of my identity that any outsider’s hate never fazes me. Rather, it is my own people’s loathing that subconsciously makes it heavy. We experience this daily and so insidiously that it’s almost an acceptable unspoken hate. It’s even been injected into our own media productions that I’m not sure Muslims themselves even recognize its normalization. The series <i>Ramy</i> is a perfect example of this, among many other Muslim and Arab based films and shows that subliminally layer an antipathetic tone around the headscarf.<br /><br />The idea of religiosity, and visible religiosity, among Muslims has become associated with negativity. In these media depictions, the headscarf is either worn by old women (depicted as outdated and ultra traditional) or by women of the lower socioeconomic classes. Religion and wealth are portrayed at odds with one another when nothing in Islam demands such a vast separation.<br /><br />I recently binge watched an Egyptian drama on Netflix and paid attention to the fact that the only woman (of the entire Muslim characters) to wear the scarf was the darker skinned Bedouin midwife who appears twice in the show and is paid under the table to handle a pregnancy scandal. The rest of the women were instead adorned with diamonds, perfectly blow dried hair, and the classic 50s headbands. The show takes place between the years of 1949 to 1952 and is saturated with adoration of Eurocentrism. While the show was primarily in Arabic, the occasional English and French were thrown in as an accent to their high class. This is still a pretty relevant act Arabs do across the Middle East, as if to give a nod to higher status that is white culture and brush off their original culture.<br /><br />Needless to say, I’ve become infatuated with understanding the history and context of Arab culture and Islam in relation to imperialism, and how this played a role in affecting Islamic interpretation and teaching. In the Quran, the word “hijab” appears multiple times, but never in reference to the headscarf. Rather it means barrier or partition and refers to a tangible wall or curtain that creates a separation between people or places. Therefore, when people state that “hijab” is not mandatory, they’re actually correct, because how can a woman be mandated to “wear a partition/wall”?</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitV37xJEiVr1C8L4rTdVloOX4lMNORuuwgT5MtE-b6oaQwtwImFkMIx4f10EjKTi2g9Sfk6Yb_6Y7AH1GwMe6GiqnkEPyJpG5KKeYVYjqidiLVEzEMA7kqAJtpmc-Q7pfglUcHFrsGKDDsBwFmBTu9Qnw41y46ghA0aPS2soyk6Elsi-LX3tg_kc-Y=s1242" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1088" data-original-width="1242" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEitV37xJEiVr1C8L4rTdVloOX4lMNORuuwgT5MtE-b6oaQwtwImFkMIx4f10EjKTi2g9Sfk6Yb_6Y7AH1GwMe6GiqnkEPyJpG5KKeYVYjqidiLVEzEMA7kqAJtpmc-Q7pfglUcHFrsGKDDsBwFmBTu9Qnw41y46ghA0aPS2soyk6Elsi-LX3tg_kc-Y=w320-h280" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"></span><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><span>However, what does come in the Quran about the headscarf is one simple clear verse in Chapter 24 that shows us the correct word is <u><i><b>khimar</b></i></u>.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsOr1PUMIGJ3sKOWOnbpzouENUOOWQoWh9K4B3bgYYTl0s-6m3Yk7S5tgDBbjgDKibJgHA3uxEsMwDYJ0xsnYQenBs_XpL6eITO7CblHePhrycKLgoRBGK5P0FOptCYWrf_6pjX_hu1D2hkgdGwO8p68J1OWb8mJOjcMEtFZc0GSQ8rwEEFFd_h28v=s2048" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="981" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgsOr1PUMIGJ3sKOWOnbpzouENUOOWQoWh9K4B3bgYYTl0s-6m3Yk7S5tgDBbjgDKibJgHA3uxEsMwDYJ0xsnYQenBs_XpL6eITO7CblHePhrycKLgoRBGK5P0FOptCYWrf_6pjX_hu1D2hkgdGwO8p68J1OWb8mJOjcMEtFZc0GSQ8rwEEFFd_h28v=w211-h357" width="211" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNpSWHEl9mjFw9x_PEFBaxCha8HAnrkP054-qq600d0aRVFnPYluDirUqlrKn7GwQzfXyHhAnSKaN5sMPQB9O2PNYyQejVGEFpHZ5ilUWCz1SkqfxcenIH68TQHpMZ1LiK0AunPX3JC7N9XmUU0aILbvDmJMoTeIH7Ht6wJx-OQcu6Z5i1T-zhVlII=s1719" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1719" data-original-width="1719" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNpSWHEl9mjFw9x_PEFBaxCha8HAnrkP054-qq600d0aRVFnPYluDirUqlrKn7GwQzfXyHhAnSKaN5sMPQB9O2PNYyQejVGEFpHZ5ilUWCz1SkqfxcenIH68TQHpMZ1LiK0AunPX3JC7N9XmUU0aILbvDmJMoTeIH7Ht6wJx-OQcu6Z5i1T-zhVlII=w320-h320" width="320" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;">So I can’t help but wonder how and why did this switch happen? And why hasn’t it been avidly addressed? In the age of “language matters” why have Muslims allowed centuries to pass without recognizing the gravity of what calling our headscarf “hijab” does to the culture of women?<br /><br />I won't only pinpoint Muslims as the religious group that sustains male gatekeepers of religious knowledge, I know it happens in many other religions, but as Muslims whose scripture calls upon us to “Read” and to use our minds and question, how have we let this continue? How have we assumed that the internal sexism and prejudices we face for choosing to practice this part of our faith is unrelated to the culture that language and terminology create?<br /><br />When you call what a Muslim woman wears a hijab, a wall, a separating partition, you are establishing a solid platform for marginalization and harassment. You are enforcing the standard that a woman is to be distanced and controlled. You are telling her she is no longer part of the majority, the community of believers. She is held to unreasonable and unfair standards to the point where so many Muslim women get exhausted and begin contemplating taking it off. (And many have done so because of this but do not reveal the reasons publicly.)<br /><br />All of this led me to research further and create a space to start this conversation. This began with an online survey where Muslim women who wear the headscarf anonymously answered questions that sought to understand how they experience these prejudices and abuses and why they feel they were happening. Below are infographics of some of the data collected that left me feeling hurt but also empowered to move forward in continuing this necessary conversation for change.<br /><br />My goal is to not only keep an open space for Muslim women to safely share their concerns, but also begin initiatives to get our community to start using the correct language in association with this religious practice. I believe this needs to start with all these Muslim fashion brands who continue perpetuating not only the wrong term, but also the mainstream sexualization and objectification of women to sell their products.<br /><br />Our religious dress code doesn’t need to be unattractive, but it also doesn’t have to be sensationalized to fit the white gaze (nor the male gaze) as a means for acceptability. This is actually one of the reasons why these brands pursue non-Muslim models and it’s another part of the problem. They know that the way they position their models and the way they dress them do not align with the religious guidelines, so instead they hire outsiders to make sexy what should be a sacred expression of faith. Other reasons for hiring non-Muslim models (when I asked around) were:<br /><br />Seeking professionals — which really didn’t cut it for me as an excuse because again, what are we modeling? A race car? It’s a headscarf that should be comfortable, versatile, and do its job. Also, it takes a good photographer with effective communication skills to get great shots from a comfortable “model”.<br /><br />Preferring attractive women — yikes! When I learned this one, I was pretty disheartened. Muslim women in the headscarf face constant spoken and unspoken beauty and self esteem struggles, but instead of providing a place to uplift and empower them, these “hijab” brands are furthering the unrealistic beauty standards of the white (and male) gaze.<br /><br />Like I said before, there is so much to unpack and research here, but that excites me because it means there’s a long and full journey ahead that includes learning more about the experiences and narratives of other Muslim women, the historical context of external influences on culture and religion (primarily imperialism), and how language and (mis)translation continue to impact the proper education of religion.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2kMfqKi8HIPE8HS2FRaA7T_I4WMa06cPPHxDN8-VAfnimc9CLUmhDlp86a5G7j-AElNraMIUYiGtXzqVRMCgjGZU6J0qTePDSqDd17hCsYrWfkgFhMmfAEc7sAubCMT7s7l5q-Fl19RA5qhUsBr6yfnC7ruak1p-FzA4nv2_7KUE8CS-MbmL1pyuT=s1024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2kMfqKi8HIPE8HS2FRaA7T_I4WMa06cPPHxDN8-VAfnimc9CLUmhDlp86a5G7j-AElNraMIUYiGtXzqVRMCgjGZU6J0qTePDSqDd17hCsYrWfkgFhMmfAEc7sAubCMT7s7l5q-Fl19RA5qhUsBr6yfnC7ruak1p-FzA4nv2_7KUE8CS-MbmL1pyuT=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_mACJPZwalVHvIZfyaIXnbVTwvABgNIhRCK96EKEf_XjUe9rGM_aWmbnJFxNXcuITT71SVuI7CZwDBR_Nrm_vxD9p2FWxvCG_SvsoSTeGzNFT5r9AeI0TP6qO9lHjN_ltDafYZrE4P5VF1tVwI5P0ChnkrHS-4kKiJRRyp9Z9Ec0HrrwB3kANEr99=s1024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj_mACJPZwalVHvIZfyaIXnbVTwvABgNIhRCK96EKEf_XjUe9rGM_aWmbnJFxNXcuITT71SVuI7CZwDBR_Nrm_vxD9p2FWxvCG_SvsoSTeGzNFT5r9AeI0TP6qO9lHjN_ltDafYZrE4P5VF1tVwI5P0ChnkrHS-4kKiJRRyp9Z9Ec0HrrwB3kANEr99=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ8InFwtDql0Y8WzBmh9_WgmUpr12WATksOnRu8DNNh1Ny8HHrGkRZA41xrNH2Ac2yuG3bacnJEFxHBrc7l3xcg0uQDrBfNAnjCg-HxkljXXZ0jlWNl7-b0XT2TBsitjKC6Gr3c_hzQIp_g9gCmvBRNF-vTe0BSnYGvnOH_FHUOsE8iFpHiACiVouY=s1024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiJ8InFwtDql0Y8WzBmh9_WgmUpr12WATksOnRu8DNNh1Ny8HHrGkRZA41xrNH2Ac2yuG3bacnJEFxHBrc7l3xcg0uQDrBfNAnjCg-HxkljXXZ0jlWNl7-b0XT2TBsitjKC6Gr3c_hzQIp_g9gCmvBRNF-vTe0BSnYGvnOH_FHUOsE8iFpHiACiVouY=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjM27bqxvT8On7UBYu5eq7Tzzjj3pp37sSKL_epgwgrbCso0HjAOjcvJ06tgfuhK5tDLTFJo2XZDnJSNLfWmJd8gdfFlhWzcr-UUbUdMOQEBYqyBwNuuyIf3V5d30YcOLCl7ne6hecyQBtWYOoCDnK5YmjP7nyKMsp3WIpMhuLkSlrKQvUslTQHH0eC=s1024" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2my7wmpjI-NbDJw0zNLVR29xIV4y7Vgekol2SSm0sGC_b29KQ5Pm3-o9cpbTTSACMkZYR7iXfR8OxV0taAUejOZUDaSeneYlIYyP8CYshvOcqDRFg2z6eXF7WuidpiOOMjkD_e2gDOO0QgSt3WrDRzuJtWGtBHzQJ0ylreEL6mkgQj4aStM9_IpIc=s1024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2my7wmpjI-NbDJw0zNLVR29xIV4y7Vgekol2SSm0sGC_b29KQ5Pm3-o9cpbTTSACMkZYR7iXfR8OxV0taAUejOZUDaSeneYlIYyP8CYshvOcqDRFg2z6eXF7WuidpiOOMjkD_e2gDOO0QgSt3WrDRzuJtWGtBHzQJ0ylreEL6mkgQj4aStM9_IpIc=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span><p><span style="font-family: Quicksand;"><br /></span></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-58189251645406311612021-10-25T00:25:00.000-07:002021-10-25T00:25:14.197-07:00Perpendicular Universe<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUA2QbwJqZnCIOwGcO2RbnP8B3xm-c8hLs0yBxWJONHJtLOP3LQy7MfS1o3yATz-awGvUq0FLn4eFEzBdrb0T5oX97_Ax7wzYGz9fWACwXAUsvsRTQuQscI0YMdxNqYyNJXDuADxy74H0/s1080/what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUA2QbwJqZnCIOwGcO2RbnP8B3xm-c8hLs0yBxWJONHJtLOP3LQy7MfS1o3yATz-awGvUq0FLn4eFEzBdrb0T5oX97_Ax7wzYGz9fWACwXAUsvsRTQuQscI0YMdxNqYyNJXDuADxy74H0/w400-h400/what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" width="400" /></a></div>There was a post on Instagram at the start of this month that asked, “What would the world look like without domestic violence?” Such a simple question but it made me stop and write. What <i>would</i> the world look like without domestic violence? What would <i>my</i> world look like? What would my <i>community</i> look like?<br /><br />It wasn’t really serendipity—this month is Domestic Violence Awareness Month, after all—but it did inspire the way I would shape my awareness campaign this year. Since the pandemic, I have been more deeply focused on understanding community culture; how it develops, where it fails, how it balances with growing individualism, the impacts of gender and the patriarchy on norms, and much more. I took this focus with me to my doctorate program and have been developing projects that center around the Muslim/Muslim Arab communities, particularly areas where they could step up for their members, especially their women. Domestic violence is most certainly one of those areas.<br /><br />I’m not the first survivor and it hurts to know I won’t be the last, but I kept thinking about that Instagram question and realizing I cannot imagine a world without domestic violence without understanding its core causes. And what better way than to learn from the narratives of survivors?<br /><br />The first week of October, I asked survivors to share what they wish they had during their experiences that would have helped them. I was really honored that many survivors were willing to open up and share their vulnerable confessions, but I have to admit, it was also disheartening to read them. Not because they were triggering but because they illustrated how painfully disappointing the community has been to its members, especially its women, and nothing concrete changes.<br /><br />Each year, I pick a certain theme about domestic violence to focus on during October. It’s usually more personal reflections to differentiate from the education and awareness on DV throughout the year—quotes from my poems, firsthand examples of the types of abuse vs. definitions, red flags and lessons learned, and the community’s role in the whole cycle, which is this year’s theme.<br /><br />What struck me the most from the responses I received is that each survivor expressed the same final point: they wish they had community support. I want to give space to their other responses first, because they are important, but after I read through everything, I found that they all do in fact link back to community. Survivors wished they had access to better financial stability and support to sustain a living after leaving. They wished for more diverse and culturally aware therapists who could understand their backgrounds. Other survivors wished that religion and culture were not manipulated and used as a fear-mongering tactic to keep them in their relationships. That shame and concerns over community reputation wasn’t so heavily used as a threat. That they would be believed and not judged or betrayed.<br /><br />By the end of the responses, I felt heavy but in a way that reinforced my plan to launch my <a href="https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLjby-Ii88cP_mWzH7SlqJlqu4_s78FlUF">AFTER THE UNMAKING</a> video series on community’s role in the perpetuation of domestic violence. In a total of four short episodes, I am hoping to illuminate the same pain points of these other survivors (that I too suffer from) and carve a pathway for foundational change. Storytelling has always been one of the most effective teachers (hello, Hakawati from Syria!) and as a writer and poet, it’s my forever go to. I found a calling in my survival and if sharing my experiences can bring a sense of solidarity and a sense of awareness to the spaces that need them, so be it.<br /><br />While there are so many beautiful and valuable traditions we should honor and uphold from our ancestors, there is no need to pass down the culture of silence that keeps nurturing the seeds of abuse, violence, and sexism. We deserve better and can, most certainly, be capable of it!<p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3hyphenhyphen7A0uLqItWjrQBw67Ux3eHGgNmzSmIQLTyHBa9SKiTQTLw0LAw9jpQCMRGWl4DyYHxGmiCAjvYqfgOoND6PiZcHy3BtfRgaSvpfx_YoYNxAAPsvAKrTxT0vOnYDA7TgPhsbyGveX0/s1080/Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN3hyphenhyphen7A0uLqItWjrQBw67Ux3eHGgNmzSmIQLTyHBa9SKiTQTLw0LAw9jpQCMRGWl4DyYHxGmiCAjvYqfgOoND6PiZcHy3BtfRgaSvpfx_YoYNxAAPsvAKrTxT0vOnYDA7TgPhsbyGveX0/s320/Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwh6CteI2ro-H6r0dk0ivqZJhyphenhyphenT-EA4jM1IRDfYnr3ex12hQQsAJMZYRDdaJ05x9Sr1tawEIpAlKcpo2aoMuOuPtiM247moWJAl5RL-DI6MTQQPh_4ew6B0rFuyc65dZNuOlsxuhwcJU/s1080/Copy+of+Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGwh6CteI2ro-H6r0dk0ivqZJhyphenhyphenT-EA4jM1IRDfYnr3ex12hQQsAJMZYRDdaJ05x9Sr1tawEIpAlKcpo2aoMuOuPtiM247moWJAl5RL-DI6MTQQPh_4ew6B0rFuyc65dZNuOlsxuhwcJU/s320/Copy+of+Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1-NY3_njH6DE1LNkpnhz49bf77HuwDWdrr8Rb5CcaS1c4_SEalaC6uk8xIZdREld9BIBy2mYbmGdTcbqQzxr6-RRKK43arD2jLebKYzRDwPFamXgoIazmNk5M62UbMgKj7z2lYbilm4/s1080/Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj1-NY3_njH6DE1LNkpnhz49bf77HuwDWdrr8Rb5CcaS1c4_SEalaC6uk8xIZdREld9BIBy2mYbmGdTcbqQzxr6-RRKK43arD2jLebKYzRDwPFamXgoIazmNk5M62UbMgKj7z2lYbilm4/s320/Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVvdUKjNhvYippeM2ZMjniSpQGzvmwy4T0_zw6I3tju2-JmNd7FFRKG2-_CSKiwVvP6TLRO4qB-14S38h3KTiNydLzHiX0EqAf2KaC_6QgERROpT507XTgWzuyP5CpwEKIXrx8Iv0a9w/s1080/Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifVvdUKjNhvYippeM2ZMjniSpQGzvmwy4T0_zw6I3tju2-JmNd7FFRKG2-_CSKiwVvP6TLRO4qB-14S38h3KTiNydLzHiX0EqAf2KaC_6QgERROpT507XTgWzuyP5CpwEKIXrx8Iv0a9w/s320/Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8s1H3dzDeMFLQkVJ5-TnMzcmcwI8oi3OI3bvr6BWgo-zCjsLjlpJPVGy1cao20vA-gfdceYeCHACf7h84kvPd-bQJ5GFrDWJFso77IIvvW5WVZ3TRd0ILgP-yyui5NnUVMqdeNqqC3qw/s1080/Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2j_fW4bGTHLRSlizQUHtZQWhQ6DJ2J_qSWiWVRHtJXDXf6sE2ZIQlMb_kJsdAo16ixr3OMYRjzqR6jH6FO7C1UO3MqXS-xdfM7D8G6fph3YjdUSV3nMeMSwojvZ6pX-xsX6hfpCqdEM/s1080/Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn2j_fW4bGTHLRSlizQUHtZQWhQ6DJ2J_qSWiWVRHtJXDXf6sE2ZIQlMb_kJsdAo16ixr3OMYRjzqR6jH6FO7C1UO3MqXS-xdfM7D8G6fph3YjdUSV3nMeMSwojvZ6pX-xsX6hfpCqdEM/s320/Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+Copy+of+what+did+survivors+of+domestic+violence+wish+they+had.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-13573918461619754552021-10-03T20:41:00.003-07:002021-10-03T20:41:52.641-07:00After the Unmaking<p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe6Y6Cu1bgu3uHJRlLllZFBao7rhimQLHea3NPVL7mMCm5Gs0DXE35_oCLZ4MmgFdUV57VDS34Hyu11D3YqJ1H-JRY0QGhrxuyiSfziscUOBJGwlDFVqDCLBDYo1jtfCJPGbTkoXoj5gk/s1640/Do+What+Is+Right+Starry+Sky+Facebook+Cover.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="924" data-original-width="1640" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe6Y6Cu1bgu3uHJRlLllZFBao7rhimQLHea3NPVL7mMCm5Gs0DXE35_oCLZ4MmgFdUV57VDS34Hyu11D3YqJ1H-JRY0QGhrxuyiSfziscUOBJGwlDFVqDCLBDYo1jtfCJPGbTkoXoj5gk/w640-h360/Do+What+Is+Right+Starry+Sky+Facebook+Cover.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">photo collage of moments in my own aftermath of unmkaing over the past seven years</span></i></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">"Nostalgia is denial—denial of the painful present…. The name for this denial is golden age thinking. The erroneous notion that a different time period is better than the one ones living in. It’s a flaw in the romantic imagination of those people who find it difficult to cope with the present."<br /> <br />Every time I watch <i>Midnight in Paris</i>, I'm struck by this quote and I can never pinpoint if I absolutely love it or if it's a painful coercion to face something I don't quite have a grasp on within myself. Then, on the other hand, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqIrUf-SCFw">Hanif Abdurraquib</a> tells us "Nostalgia is a gift for the living," and I find myself asking, Is nostalgia really a gift for the living or is it a curse? And how do we define “the living”?<br /><br />As I was putting this piece together, I remembered the last relationship I was in and how he often called me “nostalgic girl”—among other things. After I ended it this past Spring, I tried to retrace my thoughts and behaviors to hone in on this so called nostalgic nature. (Should I call that irony?) I think he was right (as was Paul from <i>Midnight in Paris</i> in the quote above). I spent the final few months of the relationship in a state of agonizing nostalgia because of how suddenly it shifted from a hopeful, inspiring connection to an anxiety inducing and emotionally manipulative bond. Once I had reached a state of dread, eerily familiar to the one I experienced when things got serious with my ex-husband eight years ago, I ended it and started to see what Abdurraquib is telling us.<br /><br />Something I believe every survivor knows is that nostalgia becomes embedded in our newfound DNA. I may not be a scientist but even in my current studies we are reading about the powerful impact culture, environment, and biology have on genetics, and I cannot deny the physical and metaphysical change I have undergone since surviving domestic violence and sexual assault in this past decade. We change—quite a bit—and some may see it evidenced vividly, others misinterpret it. By default, then, it makes sense that we carry a small briefcase—let’s call it, instead of baggage—of nostalgia wherever we go, because we will forever mourn the pieces and whole selves we were before the trauma. Before the unmaking.<br /><br />I recently launched my annual Domestic Violence Awareness campaign on social media and I started with a photo of one my favorite poems, “Me (Part Duex)” in my latest poetry collection, <i>Contortionist Tongue</i>. It’s an homage to bridging the gap between who we were before, and who we’ve become/are becoming after the unmaking. The journey is messy, painful, shocking, eye opening, just to name a few. Sometimes you think you reached the final destination and two years later you realize, you in fact, did not. Sometimes you try really hard to evoke your old spirit back into you only to discover doing so will only bring a ghost to haunt you. That those who have passed should be left alone now and that who you have left of you, who you are slowly nurturing back to health, is just as valuable as the one from the past.<br /><br />Am I a nostalgic girl? Sure. I do think that there are many things of the past times that are better than we have now, but it doesn’t mean I am incapable of living in the today. That’s probably why I couldn’t make sense of that ex's commentary. My yearning for the good of how it started, just months prior, was in no means, a contribution to its demise. It was a coping mechanism, a form of protection through meditation and reflection of where I was, where I am, and where I want to be. This is the beauty of embracing the unmaking and the first step in the aftermath.<br /><br />As I begin formulating my doctorate work and bridge together so many ideas, I keep finding myself coming back to the idea of community. What it means, what it does, what it should be doing, what it shouldn’t be doing, and specifically for women in marginalized communities. I think of survivors of domestic violence and sexual assault. Of the perpetuated cycles of abuse in work places, houses of worship, schools, homes. I think of what I needed when I became a survivor seven years ago and embarked on the first steps of my unmaking.<br /><br />This semester, I’ve decided to focus my projects on women survivors and their various roles. I have three classes and all are requiring I partake in research projects to explore culture and the re-imagination of our futures. The process of re-imagination is messy, especially for us perfectionists who like certain structure, but I decided to embrace this mess and launch my project AFTER THE UNMAKING with an introductory cento poem of the same title.<br /><br />The cento is a poem is a collage poem, crafted of different quotes from other literary works. I was so moved by the various works I’ve come across in class—including texts I did not agree with or like the endings of—that I pieced together some of the lines that struck me most into this cento. Each source is credited below and links are made available where possible to find the full readings for reference.<br /><br />I struggled to figure out how to introduce Unit 1 of my project because I wanted it to be perfect. I wanted more time. I wanted to cover every angle of a re-imagined future. Then I realized I needed to accept the mess, the disorientation, remembering that when I left my ex-husband, I was 25 and working in a corporate HQ that required a 4-hour daily commute, that left me exhausted at the end of the day playing a mental Russian roulette to decide whether that night I would eat or shower or fill out divorce papers online before I had to do the routine all over again. (Crying was a given with each option.) The unmaking is ugly and stressful, but it’s the pressure we have to get through in order to reach the starting point—after the unmaking—and this is what I hope to present in this cento. An acceptance of what has happened and a preparation of what we will do next.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><b><br />A F T E R T H E U N M A K I N G</b><br /><br />How does one mark time / think historicity / engage the iterability of the performative / if nothing ends / Aims to inform / inspire / invoke change / Every piece of art is someone / communicating / an idea to you / A thumb drive becomes a key / to post-apocalyptic safety / and self care becomes / not self-indulgence / but self-preservation / An act of political warfare / Is this too much reality / No wonder we so often project alienness on one another / When one looks at people / healthy or ill / and wonders / what kind of young they could produce / And another sees the sick / problems she had not seen before / and wonders / whether she could defeat their disease / But man thinks her spoiled / for having known too much / freedom / with nothing to do but study herself / and try things not thought of before / Why not see / this offering / as a shaping / As a water joining the river / As a lesson in moving beyond / beautiful deconstruction / and finding a teacher in reconstruction / Let it not be death / the leveler / And the revealer / Nostalgia is a gift for the living<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><u><b>SOURCE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS</b></u></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br /><br /><a href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=2ahUKEwilvfDJ6a_zAhWEFzQIHUB1ADsQFnoECAUQAQ&url=http%3A%2F%2Fzacharyrawe.com%2Fsem_6_the_comet_dubois.pdf&usg=AOvVaw1zTxn36Y7forO5-dHRaFZK">“The Comet” by W. E. B. DuBois</a><br /><br />“Death, the leveler!” he muttered. “And the revealer,” she whispered gently….”<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=&ved=2ahUKEwiasYG66a_zAhWkIDQIHXggACYQFnoECAIQAQ&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.conniesamaras.com%2FDOCs_current%2FWeb_Biblio_pdfs.5.11%2F26_Biblio_Butler_partialcorr.pdf&usg=AOvVaw2J5frjwxwzq7-vOsA7qbRN">“The Monophobic Response” by Octavia Butler</a><br /><br />“Is this too much reality?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br />“No wonder we so often project alienness on one another.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cqIrUf-SCFw">“The Crown Ain’t Worth Much” by Hanif Abdurraquib</a><br /><br />“Nostalgia is a gift for the living.”<br /><br /><br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><u>Speculative Placemaking Collaborative (Class Document)</u><br /><br />“Creative Constraint: A thumb drive as a key to access various levels of post-apocalyptic safety.”<br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">“…aim to inform, inspire, and invoke change.”<br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">“Every piece of art is someone communicating an idea to you.” —Boots Riley<br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">“Caring for myself is not self-indulgence. It is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare" Audre Lorde<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://www.akpress.org/emergentstrategy.html"><br /><i>Emergent Strategies</i> by Adrienne Maree Brown</a><br /><br />“I see this offering as a noticing that can shape our next steps, as more water joining the river.”<br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">“…how do we move beyond our beautiful deconstruction? Who teaches us to reconstruct?”<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/octavia-e-butler/42305-wild_seed.html"><br /><i>Wild Seed</i> by Octavia Butler</a><br /><br />“Doro looked at people, healthy or ill, and wondered what kind of young they could produce. Anyanwu looked at the sick—especially those with problems she had not seen before—and wondered whether she could defeat their disease.”<br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">"She was spoiled. She had known too much freedom. Like most wild seed, she had been spoiled long before he met her.”<br /> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">"You made me learn very much. Much of the time, I had nothing to do but study myself, try things I had not thought of before.”<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.yorku.ca/intent/issue5/articles/jaredsexton.php"><br />“The Social Life of Social Death” by Jared Sexton</a><br /><br />"But how, then, does one mark time and think historicity, how does one engage the iterability of the performative, if nothing ends?"</span><br /></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-35910915699545628632021-07-23T20:56:00.002-07:002021-07-26T11:58:41.125-07:00What Good Are Hands of a Savior When They Too Belong to An Oppressor?<p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpBdhsygV0LURk7MpS8ogvc2d_lNDEfDg6XFnwB5XYuat7Y6tzl1GRYLUyFTdtUkac67g1Ar8t3qTTLOTf9apZhL1ETY7z05P8Z5OOSw_9XvCFIc6XEU4T9ZrNms_ytjWNb7XmvbZt74/s1080/%2540Lady_narrator%25281%2529.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXpBdhsygV0LURk7MpS8ogvc2d_lNDEfDg6XFnwB5XYuat7Y6tzl1GRYLUyFTdtUkac67g1Ar8t3qTTLOTf9apZhL1ETY7z05P8Z5OOSw_9XvCFIc6XEU4T9ZrNms_ytjWNb7XmvbZt74/w640-h640/%2540Lady_narrator%25281%2529.png" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">Last year a colleague and I were having coffee and discussing a community arts showcase on feminism he wanted me to lead. I immediately began brainstorming names of incredible women artists aloud when he sternly cut me off. “Yeah, you’ve done plenty of women events. Time for us men to have one!” I was confused. “You want me to curate a feminism event of ALL men?” He sat back in his seat, cocky and smiling. “Yeah, let the men have the stage to express their <i>appreciation</i> of women.” By his intonation I knew what he meant. “You mean an entire panel of tasteless erotic poetry that sexualizes women?” He laughed, the same condescending laugh he let out after I confronted him about his predatory behavior I later experienced, and said, “If that’s their expression of feminism, so be it.”<br /><br />I met him halfway and coordinated a panel of male speakers I required could only share work on toxic masculinity and their responsibility as men to uphold feminism amongst their bros. But by the time the event date rolled around, my colleague’s predatory nature (i.e., grooming, abusing, manipulating, the whole nine yards) surfaced and he made the smart move not to show up.<br /><br />It was severely disturbing and infuriating to not only experience this but also to continue witnessing the immense perpetuation of this behavior, even in places built to be “safe” like art and social justice. I was so shaken up that I dedicated my last pre-pandemic poetry feature entirely to addressing this subject. The most painful part? The number of women who approached me after the set to whisper gratitude that someone FINALLY acknowledged the misogyny in our over glorified art world. Some shared their firsthand encounters of assault, others about the men they wish they could report. My heart sank, but not at all in surprise. The patriarchal agenda is so deeply sewn into the human system that men have found a way to continue these crimes in a hassle free way: getting women to do it. See, after I confronted my colleague, he removed me from my position and began working more closely with another woman that subjects other up and coming women artists to abuse and harassment, stating he was not pleased with my behavior (no longer quiet and welcoming to his physical and verbal advances) and so begins this article.<br /><br />When the stay at home orders kicked in last year, my skin freaked the hell out! I’d love to blame the sudden facial revolution solely on the pandemic, but I knew it stemmed from experiencing back to back trauma, from my father’s death to sexual harassment and abuse to my grandmother’s death to the pandemic. Despite trying various remedies like supplements, sleep modifications, diet changes, etc., I caved and decided I’d have to support it with a reformed skin regimen too. Four years ago I stumbled into the universe of clean beauty—skincare and cosmetic products that follow strict European standards of non-toxicity when it comes to their ingredients—and it was the best stumble.<br /><br />Many of these clean beauty brands are actually women founded and I was ecstatic because shopping a women dominated field should be incredible, right? Finally browsing products made by us and for us, but I noticed a theme: the sexualization of women is still the only marketing ploy, even in the hands of women. The objectification of women cunningly slipped straight through the fingers of men (in power) and landed smack dab in the palms of women, sugarcoated as supposed empowerment and feminism so well, that today’s generation is swallowing it whole.<br /><br />I decided to write this now because MARA Beauty, one of the brands I’ve heavily invested in since the pandemic that incredibly revolutionized my skin, released their latest product, an oil based sunscreen. The first teaser excited me: a video of a wave kissing a sunny shore with the announcement that something SPF based was coming. But before I knew it, post after post became an illustration of women and their mostly naked bodies holding the coveted sunscreen in overtly sexual positions or not even holding the sunscreen at all. I started to question whether or not I wanted to support a brand that so ridiculously exploited women’s bodies for products (and facial products at that) and restarted my search for a new skincare line. But brand after brand, I discovered similar ads for an eye cream or a makeup remover or a retinol gel, all juxtaposed with a breast and an erect nipple or a woman’s entirely exposed behind and the product just ever so slightly concealing what Instagram would deem guideline violation. Or simply a post of a naked woman in the distance just to wish everybody a “Happy Weekend!” From MARA Beauty to True Botanicals to Odacité to all the other brand ads Instagram and Facebook stuff in between posts, they are all built on the foundation of a woman’s body, as if there’s no other way to sell a product.<br /><br />Back in the day, when men dominated most fields, including marketing, we understood (better yet, tolerated) this male gaze basis of advertising. It was practically normalized to see women as objects, slapped on as accessories to sell anything from burgers to beers to cars. We anticipated that with the so-called breakage of the glass ceiling and the rise of diversity and inclusion, the male gaze would soon diminish, but it’s become evident that the male gatekeepers successfully passed on the baton to ensure their agenda continues.<br /><br />In January 2021 UNICEF released an article titled, “<a href="https://www.unicefusa.org/stories/not-object-sexualization-and-exploitation-women-and-girls/30366">Not An Object: On Sexualization and Exploitation of Women and Girls</a>.” The authors powerfully delve into this subject, providing data from the American Psychological Association and the Dove Self Esteem Project on how severely prevalent and subliminal this hyper sexualization of women is and its global impact on girls and women emotionally, psychologically, and socially. The consequences of these depictions include appearance anxiety, body shame, eating disorders, self-esteem issues, and depression, all of which are phenomena that today’s social media driven era thinks it’s abolished with the perpetuation of the same behavior through the incorporation of ethnically diverse women and body shapes/sizes. Truth of the matter is this has only escalated the psycho-social impacts on girls’ and women’s body image issues.<br /><br />On top of that, it’s affected the male populations as well, further reinforcing unrealistic ideals of male perception and behavior towards women. In recent conversations with two different men, I learned that only now were men awakening into the realization of how to humanize a woman outside the context of a sexual object. Thanks to porn and basically the soft porn that is social media, boys are still growing up with this deeply ingrained view of women as tools—for their pleasure, for the sales of products, for the aesthetics of something. We see the latent effects of this in our day to day to experiences at work, in social spaces, in family circles, in the entertainment industry, in politics, you name it. But somehow it’s become acceptable today because it’s now being produced by women?<br /><br />That’s the part that irks me most. Too many women and women dominated industries are still operating under the restraints of the patriarchal agendas, convinced it’s a feminine one and therefore a feminist one. I see these posts and ads and think of the men like my aforementioned abusive colleague who justified his behavior by stating he purposely pursues attractive counterparts. I think of my exes and their abuses. I think of the rest of the males in our societies that we’ve worked with or engaged with on some level, and I watch them sit back, relax, and reap the benefits of the patriarchy, but now without having to lift a finger. Women are doing the work for them. So much so that daring to speak up or go against this patriarchal agenda costs you. We’re seeing this in <a href="https://www.aljazeera.com/news/2021/7/15/top-eu-court-rules-hijab-can-be-banned-at-work">Europe with the court ruling</a> on women wearing hijab. We saw <a href="https://www.npr.org/2021/07/21/1018768633/a-womens-beach-handball-team-is-fined-for-not-wanting-to-wear-bikini-bottoms">women’s sports teams get reprimanded</a> for choosing to wear slightly less revealing clothes. I remember not being allowed to try out for both basketball and volleyball in grade school because they said I couldn’t participate with pants and a long sleeve shirt. But hey, if I want to wear bikini bottoms, I’m most welcome. I drove down Fairfax last week and there were six billboards with practically naked women lying in extremely sexual positions. The men on every ad were fully clothed and the one shirtless man on a billboard was a dancer advertising an upcoming show in a modest and casual pose.<br /><br />When you think about it, it’s quite sadistic. In our desperate (and necessary) fight for equality, somewhere some women sold out to get ahead. If it meant exploiting our bodies for social and financial capital to make it ahead, so be it. But is it worth it? I guess when you’re making money, attracting cult following, and sustaining the approval of both the male gaze AND the white gaze, you’re “winning”. But down here in the unfiltered reality of ongoing beauty ideals, surrounded by the growing fragility of women’s self-esteem and the surge in dangerous cosmetic procedures, I see more cons than pros. There are plenty of studies and documentaries now proving the data on how toxic these media platforms are for what and how they present, and the objectification of women is a significant part of that.<br /><br />I’m not a fan of cancel culture, but I struggle justifying giving my money to brands who continue to promote and normalize this agenda, especially when many of these brands actually have remarkable quality products that could sell themselves on reviews and word of mouth alone, as well as the ability to explore best practices from other successful brands that don’t exploit women’s bodies for profit. We did not and are not fighting for equality just to reach the top and continue what already exists, what’s oppressed us for centuries and only benefited the select few exclusives. It’s our utmost responsibility as women with the revolutionary platforms and privileges to use them in ways that empower beyond the physical, beyond the patriarchal agenda, and carve a new path for us and our future generations. We deserve better!</span></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-77754428120495326142021-05-12T02:24:00.002-07:002021-05-12T02:24:17.921-07:00Ready for the Sacrifice - Readiness: A Ramadan Mini Series<p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPLItc-ZD_5Uavi-zeEklwH7Pq4j_YJMD1Ka_KFPkZ4HPoPmiazzScW90kuPJAW_a1GH4XzfAL66-eb6t8-mGckGQISndmlrvGy4xPgO_cUl5bT1Ac49mHUJNP6XHVuqjH-fCiYAVFsPM/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3b3f.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPLItc-ZD_5Uavi-zeEklwH7Pq4j_YJMD1Ka_KFPkZ4HPoPmiazzScW90kuPJAW_a1GH4XzfAL66-eb6t8-mGckGQISndmlrvGy4xPgO_cUl5bT1Ac49mHUJNP6XHVuqjH-fCiYAVFsPM/w640-h480/fullsizeoutput_3b3f.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">There is no easy way to write this last piece for a number of different reasons. No one I know ever wants to say goodbye to Ramadan. It feels like just yesterday we were preparing dinner for the first blessed fast breaking. Like yesterday I was splitting a date with my dad by the couch to the sound of Quran and clanking pots. Yesterday, we were breaking fast around a hexagon table in Damascus, listening to my grandfather make his prayer before we eat.<br /><br />I struggle though, to write about nostalgia and hope when the world continues to hurt. Watching Ramadan come to a close with the stories of Palestine, Syria, Yemen, Afghanistan, India—it’s almost unbearable to process. The past six days I’ve spent crying, debating whether or not to even write a final installment or just take a step back and grieve, but considering the relevance of this piece’s message—sacrifice—it’s worth sharing.<br /><br />A part of this article started many Ramadans ago and I knew one day it’d become archived somewhere in the realms of my writing. As was usual, mama had Quran playing in the background as we all took in the blessing of fullness following a fast breaking dinner. I was washing the dishes, feeling the hot water spill over their royal blue hand-painted designs. I grew up knowing these dishes but only recently learned they were wedding gifts my grandparents gave mama about 30ish years ago.<br /><br />It’s quite customary for most Muslims to increase readings of the Quran during Ramadan, but sometimes (as is expected with distracted minds) we end up losing focus and not paying attention to all the words our eyes are scanning. So for years and years, I’ve read over the coming verse, but that night, I really saw it for what it was saying, for the first time, because it was being read aloud behind me while I washed priceless dishes.</span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;">أَحَسِبَ النَّاسُ أَن يُتْرَكُوا أَن يَقُولُوا آمَنَّا وَهُمْ لَا يُفْتَنُونَ <br /><br />“Do people think that they will be left to say, “We believe,” without being tested?”<br />(Chapter 29, Verse 2)<br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOAANeQ1gHo1Rm6VF6g3MoKjV_FmD8eAG79X02ZGPitsIFHAKtqPDy1ze5d1XZN54p13O7fwxbYLQM3gQGLjm8NeGiS6gdpx-1aiU-yIZxJ2PROoG0Ni8wcuGSHMfbFW90CHHl2bvGfpY/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3b43.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></span> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KW4m7ziwwzcqcgI6LMBOoklv73wGfDAoINCIuyAmqfhtKcZ-LUo7Z3ObFHmnqzpyF4sPNUdtrUDx0YbP9DBVs46beABAEWm_sp-Q_kQBDKGrtYJoN_vyJ7iEFUEeuOKPBcXULeS0Wxc/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3b44.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7KW4m7ziwwzcqcgI6LMBOoklv73wGfDAoINCIuyAmqfhtKcZ-LUo7Z3ObFHmnqzpyF4sPNUdtrUDx0YbP9DBVs46beABAEWm_sp-Q_kQBDKGrtYJoN_vyJ7iEFUEeuOKPBcXULeS0Wxc/w480-h640/fullsizeoutput_3b44.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div>Maybe some are reading this thinking, “Yeah, and?” but that’s the beauty of scripture. It strikes each of us differently at various times and in our lives, and probably when we need the reminder the most. I remember almost breaking the dish because I was so overwhelmed with the powerful verse in its sheer simplicity. In its question that also provides so many answers. During one of my most difficult years, this verse found its way to me and reminding me that faith is far beyond just an utterance of words. God will ask us to prove it.<br /><br />For anyone who thinks Ramadan is simply a 30 day experience, brace yourself, I’m about to blow your mind: It’s not! Ramadan is only the beginning. It’s the physical, mental, and spiritual preparation for the year ahead. Personally, I never understand people who spent the month complaining about it (the hunger, thirst, exhaustion, etc.) but never seemed to mind when their gyms hosted nutrition and fitness competitions or signed up for high intensity trainings for tours and marathons. Are we incapable of sacrificing one month out of the year to go the little extra mile for a bit of blessings and rejuvenation from Allah? A push to revolutionize our internal environments in preparation for the external?<br /><br />Every Ramadan is a time to spend reflecting on the past year and finalizing the blueprints for the coming year. Like I said in the first article, so many people struggle with its arrival because we fear facing ourselves. What were our strengths? What are our many improvement areas? Where can we grow? Who do we have to make amends with? How do we forgive ourselves? And how do we ask the Lord to forgive us too?<br /><br />We watch our world crumbling but people still refuse to address their inner ethics—and I’m not entirely referencing religiosity here, but rather <i>akhlaq</i>, the morality and decency, of a person. The whole world and their mothers quote the following two verses often, but it always seems like lip service. Twice Allah (swt) reminds us in the Quran that He will not change the condition of a people until they change what is within themselves first—Chapter 8, Verse 53 and Chapter 13, Verse 11, so how do we induce this change and what is it exactly?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"> </span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sovVkZxVhOOsG4gHjGF6xABfKzQblaoseIKeeQQaDA8Z5hWByN4990YjbZ5YB2CSptyz3aYB6xxzFxvZ3xQQovM2v86aySq8WOkY31MYDXIDk7rCZx1KFcK6G6BX1ZFD3anuVOQr0NY/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3b3e.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1152" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8sovVkZxVhOOsG4gHjGF6xABfKzQblaoseIKeeQQaDA8Z5hWByN4990YjbZ5YB2CSptyz3aYB6xxzFxvZ3xQQovM2v86aySq8WOkY31MYDXIDk7rCZx1KFcK6G6BX1ZFD3anuVOQr0NY/w360-h640/fullsizeoutput_3b3e.jpeg" width="360" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOAANeQ1gHo1Rm6VF6g3MoKjV_FmD8eAG79X02ZGPitsIFHAKtqPDy1ze5d1XZN54p13O7fwxbYLQM3gQGLjm8NeGiS6gdpx-1aiU-yIZxJ2PROoG0Ni8wcuGSHMfbFW90CHHl2bvGfpY/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3b43.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a></span>It’s the readiness to make the necessary but difficult sacrifices in our lives. The same readiness we center ourselves on when starting any other 30 day challenge or two week cleanse or whatever the newest hype is, except for the sake of Allah. It’s establishing a readiness to receive what our mission as caliphs are on this earth is and how well to execute it. Knowing that the journey isn’t easy and that some days we are going to be tested so hard, but just like the final home stretch of any workout, we need to hold on just a little bit longer when we feel like we want to give up.<br /><br />A long time ago I saw a friend of mine sobbing heavily on Eid morning while saying her <i>Takbeerat</i> so I asked her why. Wiping tears she said, “Allah gave us the privilege of living to experience another Ramadan, be forgiven, and now we’re here, unwrapping the gift of another year to continue being better.” Her words are forever etched in my mind and I think about them every Ramadan, especially on the last day. This year, I spent every Ramadan afternoon taking about a two hour walk (part of my resolutions for the month this year) and it yielded such an indescribable catharsis. While listening to Quran and podcasts, I soaked in a sun I neglected under pandemic, inhaled real air my lungs had been so thirsty for, and processed my present and future.<br /><br />I cannot and will not prescribe methods for sacrificial efforts because they’re genuinely personal initiatives, but in too many recent encounters with peers, friends, family, and the media, I constantly come across the very enabling culture. The bare minimum is absolutely acceptable to the point where it’s become some relatable meme. As Muslims, we can’t just throw a hashtag beneath a solid colored post with a few dollars and call it a day. True, Allah (swt) requires financial <i>jihad</i>, but <i>jihad</i> of the soul always comes first in the Quran because that one is the greater effort with the greater reward. And the two aforementioned verses are stern but gentle reminders that there is a fine line between resting and enabling, and the truth is, we actually do know deep down when we’re blurring the two. If we want to change what is happening in/to our worlds, we need to change what’s happening within us and this takes that inconveniencing and hard work I described week one.<br /><br />That’s why Allah grants us Ramadan, the preliminary phase to build better habits. The four weeks where we cannot necessarily escape from many of the things we often turn to like food, sleep, people/parties/entertainment, all the things that enable our avoidance of dealing with our truths—the good, that bad, and the ugly. So I’ll wrap up this final piece with a pray, asking Allah that may this year’s Ramadan be the one that finally readied our ummah for the necessary sacrifices.<br /><br />May it have healed all those who were hurting. May it have strengthened all those who struggled with issues known or unknown, seen or unseen. May it have humbled us too caught up in egos and selves. May it have planted within our hearts a deeper love and commitment to our faith, our Lord, and our worship of Him. And may we please Him for the next 11 lunar months, and may He grant us the next Ramadan to grow again. Our ummah needs us.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOAANeQ1gHo1Rm6VF6g3MoKjV_FmD8eAG79X02ZGPitsIFHAKtqPDy1ze5d1XZN54p13O7fwxbYLQM3gQGLjm8NeGiS6gdpx-1aiU-yIZxJ2PROoG0Ni8wcuGSHMfbFW90CHHl2bvGfpY/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3b43.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOAANeQ1gHo1Rm6VF6g3MoKjV_FmD8eAG79X02ZGPitsIFHAKtqPDy1ze5d1XZN54p13O7fwxbYLQM3gQGLjm8NeGiS6gdpx-1aiU-yIZxJ2PROoG0Ni8wcuGSHMfbFW90CHHl2bvGfpY/w640-h480/fullsizeoutput_3b43.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div><span style="font-family: Avenir;"></span></div>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-28286724397377797782021-05-02T17:23:00.001-07:002021-05-02T17:25:48.260-07:00Ready to Trust Yourself - Readiness: A Ramadan Mini Series<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcc3ARw9wHMLGOxmVwRmME_k25DL5TrNtunuFj9MwAWd1TPm7tM40t2qSJxofPiCwixKUAlPMKi-H0oJB8c_qhhEaWwLXqiguE6VFPfg-_s4dgyGk3C_fCe7H1YbVy3pR7FryA3_PzCs/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3b33.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1360" data-original-width="2048" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBcc3ARw9wHMLGOxmVwRmME_k25DL5TrNtunuFj9MwAWd1TPm7tM40t2qSJxofPiCwixKUAlPMKi-H0oJB8c_qhhEaWwLXqiguE6VFPfg-_s4dgyGk3C_fCe7H1YbVy3pR7FryA3_PzCs/w640-h424/fullsizeoutput_3b33.jpeg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i> </i></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"></span></span></i></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>“I used to be so fluent in God. / Now, / I don’t even understand the language.”</i><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><br />To my knowledge, mama and I have not shared the following story with anyone outside of our family, quite possibly because anyone who didn’t experience it firsthand might not understand the gravity of the meanings behind it. But she and I speak the same language. We always knew that when our intuition said something, it was a tiny elbow nudge from God—a yes or a no. Sometimes though, it’s a foreshadowing and with time we begin to strengthen our skills in the language of God. Here’s where this story begins. Cue Sophia Petrillo from <i>The Golden Girls</i>. <br /><br />Picture it: Summer 2013. I woke up one morning to the sound of my mother shrieking, “Shu sar?!?!” Quickly, I rushed downstairs to check on her and found one of the most unforgettable sights of our lives. The large, almost floor to ceiling sliding glass door that leads to our backyard had completely shattered but in place. So it looked like a glass mosaic from top to bottom, holding on for dear life within its frame, too afraid to surrender to gravity. We looked at each other, confused, shocked, and somehow severely mesmerized by its poetic disaster. It felt like the spindle from <i>Sleeping Beauty</i>—you know you shouldn’t touch it but you just want to.<br /><br />We didn’t. Well technically, mama did, but not like that. She decided the safest thing we could do until we found a repairperson was to cover the entire door with sticky laminate. Remember the old school clear sticky book covers we used to be forced to cover our textbooks with in grade school? Mama was OBSESSED with them and she apparently still had a stash in her magic closet of Islamic Narnia. She retrieved them and began softly taping the glass in place from floor to ceiling. In the process, she cut herself, at least that’s what we thought. Life would later prove a very strange turn of events as her finger continued to hurt her for years. Once she was done, the repairperson arrived, called her a genius, and replaced the door. Basic story, right?<br /><br />The issue was something about the shattered glass felt like a sign, a warning of coming danger that I couldn’t quite pinpoint. However, I wondered if it had anything to do with the man I just started dating literally the day before. That man was none other than the notorious ex husband. Dun dun duuun!<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHWfe-JYIEuvveUpg4V7p3Vv6oR2BnndwOHhUHSBU_3ov4O9c-U1KP9KBakb1uZV4V0TnztU4A9Ha_RBQbo9G_GT7UVbtQqFUIAsGdIHHlFDdf5NoAHh68CE-Q1T8zBPriFJF5wRElSU/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3b30.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1027" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVHWfe-JYIEuvveUpg4V7p3Vv6oR2BnndwOHhUHSBU_3ov4O9c-U1KP9KBakb1uZV4V0TnztU4A9Ha_RBQbo9G_GT7UVbtQqFUIAsGdIHHlFDdf5NoAHh68CE-Q1T8zBPriFJF5wRElSU/w320-h640/fullsizeoutput_3b30.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">It took me about four years to <i>really</i> heal from the experience and I look back at that door story and wonder if God was teaching me His advanced language earlier than I anticipated and so I didn’t receive it as easily? I don’t know. I think God takes us on various journeys that break and remake us and this was one. I remember going through the worst of the healing journey and not realizing it, thinking the worst was already over. I wrote a lot during that period—including the epigraph poem at the top of this article. My faith was really shaken; not that I left religion, but my relationship with God was a little damaged. Being in that space was hard because not only was I disconnected from God, but that in turn meant a disconnection from myself, and maybe I needed it. I needed a little bit of that reflective dip in the darkness to remember how strong my language with God used to be. How much wisdom He gave me to trust in myself. How to shift gears and come back to Him as a better me. Come back to me as a better me. Believe it or not, when that divine merger happened, mama’s finger—the one we thought she only cut on the glass but continued to hurt far after—revealed a piece of the glass that had been wedged in there despite being probed and tweezed by three different doctors. Some things even modern science and medicine can’t really explain. God is above all.<br /><br />In a recent encounter with a therapist I dumped quicker than a guy on a dating app, she asked “Do you trust yourself?” condescendingly. Without hesitation I said, “Yes, I do. I always follow my gut because I trust it to steer me in the right direction.” She frowned. “Hmm, really, how can that be? Didn’t you end up in an abusive relationship?” You don’t have to be a therapist to recognize the toxicity of this question, but somehow she didn’t. Or maybe she operates on this new trend of therapy I’ve begun noticing where therapists gaslight clients overtime to develop a sense of codependency from their clients. Secures them quite the income at $320 per session.<br /><br />Obviously I felt attacked and very much blamed for something that wasn’t my fault, which she did often, and so there I was required to explain (to a god damn therapist) what an abusive relationship is. “Well, I was experiencing something called gaslighting, severe emotional and psychological manipulation, verbal assault, and daily threats from my ex husband that led to prolonged isolation from myself and family. I don’t know how else to explain it to you."<br /><br />I wish I could say that was the only time I was victim blamed or shamed, and if you haven’t experienced it, it feels awful. Suddenly you feel so small, worthless, and like an idiot. In 2017, I hosted two release parties in SoCal for my poetry book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Oceans-Flames-Lady-Narrator/dp/1547259256"><i>Oceans & Flames</i></a>, a collection focused on the experience and survival of domestic violence. Believe it or not, at each of these events, I had someone ask me the same exact question during the Q&A session. “What advice can you give girls and women to avoid making the same mistakes you did so they don’t end up in an abusive relationship while searching for a life partner?”<br /><br />As if it wasn’t already difficult to survive the relationship. As if it wasn’t already a challenge to write about it. As if it wasn’t utmost courage to publish it into a book as a means of raising awareness. I had to face this from “my” people? No one tells you that surviving domestic violence is only the first hurdle. Surviving your society’s abuse is the next. Neither one of those people had the wisdom to shift blame to the abuser. Neither one acknowledged community responsibility at mitigating domestic violence but instead made it entirely the victim’s responsibility. And neither recognized that abusers possess power dynamics that make it almost impossible to catch their red flags, unless you’ve been a victim yourself. I can educate, raise awareness, and share my story, but I will not be blamed for the actions of another nor will I be required to take on their responsibilities, all while silently coerced into a corner of eternal self doubt.<br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjud4HWZUG6EQXjV_Z0PC3P4JvDKANEAwfxox4sb4DLtx8nxPexHCPM4stNnqDR2byrpKZl-WBAMmDksq4Wj9xoE3Muoue64M-tRVL_h1EZO4Gd4C-LHWe8A_1ucb1HmQjwJaNiAe2g2-U/s1921/6F735042-2A83-4B29-BAFB-1D07908639F6.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1921" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjud4HWZUG6EQXjV_Z0PC3P4JvDKANEAwfxox4sb4DLtx8nxPexHCPM4stNnqDR2byrpKZl-WBAMmDksq4Wj9xoE3Muoue64M-tRVL_h1EZO4Gd4C-LHWe8A_1ucb1HmQjwJaNiAe2g2-U/w360-h640/6F735042-2A83-4B29-BAFB-1D07908639F6.JPG" width="360" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">If you’re an avid reader of Lady Narrator, you remember my <a href="https://ladynarrator.blogspot.com/2020/09/tell-me-whos-crazy.html">online dating debacle of 2020</a>, and how the story ended with the return of my precious poetry book, <i>Contortionist Tongue</i>, slashed and scribbled with ridiculous notes in English, Arabic, and Chinese, from a man I rejected after feeling very unsafe with on our second date. As if that wasn’t traumatic enough, he attached a three page “love” letter confessing his intense feelings for me after only two dates and four days of knowing each other. But here’s where this comes full circle. He ended his letter with the following:<br /><br />“The most important lesson I learned, in both my science & liberal arts classes: you cannot trust intuition, because once you get past elementary basics, intuition is <u>always</u> wrong. Never right.”<br /><br />Intuition should know no gender, but I have to say from life observations, I hear it discredited the most from men. Maybe it’s the privilege speaking, specifically that of white/white passing men? Being able to cruise through life and not have to rely on internal cues? I don’t know, but I have seen it doubted even more so from men who’ve been rejected by women who follow their intuition, like the aforementioned bro.<br /><br />What’s really frustrating about this reoccurring devaluing of intuition is that it is yet another example of how society entirely discredits people as being experts on themselves, specifically women. This is especially more exhausting for survivors of domestic violence and/or related trauma because we already had to jump through hoops to get you to believe our experiences in the first place. Now we’re being expected to surrender to a label of weakness, like we don’t know how to trust ourselves or our choices? As if becoming a victim was our fault?<br /><br />I’ve said this before but it will always be worth repeating. As survivors of domestic violence (and other similar traumas) our instincts and trust in self become very fine tuned. Whatever internal alarm bells we marginalized before become our northern lights moving forward in life. So really, it’s no longer just <b>#BelieveSurivovors</b> for our stories, but also believe us when we express our needs, thoughts, and feelings. No one is a greater expert on themselves than a survivor, and I say this knowing that even my family, my incredible support system, doesn’t know me the same way that I know myself anymore, and that’s okay. Trauma changes us and as long as we learn to evolve with the revolution and find ways to love the newness of ourselves, it gets better. The key to this transition though is the reliance we establish on our intuition, on trusting ourselves, something humanity has severely disconnected from.<br /><br />A few years ago, my friend recommended documentary called <i><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt4924624/?ref_=vp_vi_tt_p">InnSaei</a>.</i> Honestly, I highly recommend it too, especially in Ramadan when our souls are thirsty for an awakening. The film is about the power of intuition but explores how humanity’s over reliance on technology has a caused a disruption in this connection. One of the things I loved about this film (and similar research) is it looks at village elders and wise folk, who the therapists and counselors were/are in older societies. It’s always the group of people most in tune with themselves and life experience. However, as we become so addicted to our devices, we’ve hindered our ability to really listen and trust ourselves, resulting in a loss of internal guidance and heavier dependence on external reassurances and validation.<br /><br />Social media hasn’t helped with this at all. To say it bluntly, social media (especially Instagram & TikTok) have become the new WebMD of mental health, and I mean that in the worst possible way. You cannot unlock your phone and not be immediately bombarded with some psychological post (or a dancing doctor) profiling your personality, emotionality, and mentality. It gets abhorrently annoying and exhausting, especially when it comes from non-clinical folks, includes frequent and consistent typographical errors, or sounds like cheesy fortunes straight out of a cookie. And that’s the trick, using generic click-bait language the masses simply like, follow, and believe. The relationship ones are especially worse. You can’t even escape them! Lord knows how many blocks and deletes I’ve clicked and they still pop up. While I understand how helpful it can be to have tangible tidbits of relevancy and validation when going through something, this extreme overexposure—especially on a platform built for mindless consumption—perpetuates a dangerous and toxic over reliance on looking outward for self confirmation vs. looking in.<br /><br />Recently I was listening to a Clubhouse talk on Relationship OCD (ROCD). As informative as it was, I felt compelled to speak up and share a caveat to the concept of ROCD because at one point it almost began to resemble victim blaming. <a href="https://www.madeofmillions.com/ocd/relationship-ocd">ROCD</a> “is a subset of OCD in which sufferers are consumed with doubts about their relationship. They question their love for their partner, their attraction to their partner, their compatibility with their partner, and their partner’s love for them.”<br /><br />Maybe the talk had no room for disclaimers, but I had to step in, especially as someone clinically diagnosed with OCD as a child and experiencing it used as a weapon against me anytime I followed my intuition. I emphasized that doubts, or “sticky thoughts” as they called them, in a relationship cannot always be disregarded as ROCD. Sometimes it’s a toxic relationship, sometimes it’s an abusive one, and sometimes <b><i><u>it’s just not the right one</u></i></b>. (Can you tell this last point is a big point here? We aren't everyone's someone!) We can’t constantly create space for people to so deeply doubt their doubts. This further silences one’s ability to self reflect healthily.</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;">I thought about my ex husband as I spoke. About how often he would call me mentally crazy, citing my diagnosis every time I’d cry following one of his abusive episodes. He’d frequently claim it was the devil whispering in my ears and that I wasn’t being strong enough to overpower satan’s attempts at breaking us apart. Then I thought about a recent relationship I ended just before Ramadan. While it was not abusive, it began developing very unhealthy elements that my intuition was picking up on. Once again I was left feeling guilty and insufficient for not reciprocating the same way that was expected of me. I was often questioned about my mental health practices and whether or not I’m just struggling with residual trauma from the domestic violence. I found myself gaslit and exhausted, all because something within me was saying, “This is not the right relationship for me.” I know myself better than any man does, and having OCD and being a survivor of trauma do not negate the significance of my intuition or how well I’ve healed.<br /><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim4G-2Bsuuy4U0ZSypEYwwZdcQRt1sgqGEnieyoW4nAzvLeM1eImEt1qU1au1k1yj6YtLGRpbPO0KvAb6OdThrXDFArS1ncVD3jUJfQKPSpqdK7_x7IddtzOsWUSlvWGR6Grrg-AbhsNo/s2048/IMG_9201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim4G-2Bsuuy4U0ZSypEYwwZdcQRt1sgqGEnieyoW4nAzvLeM1eImEt1qU1au1k1yj6YtLGRpbPO0KvAb6OdThrXDFArS1ncVD3jUJfQKPSpqdK7_x7IddtzOsWUSlvWGR6Grrg-AbhsNo/w480-h640/IMG_9201.JPG" width="480" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: times;"> A big part of the healing journey includes seeking spaces and periods of solitude to detox, rejuvenate, and repair our sense of self trust. For survivors of domestic violence, it begins to yield a recognition of how many other toxic and/or abusive people and things are normalized around us, so we redevelop boundaries. We amplify the volume of our intuition and stride differently through life. It doesn’t help when those around us try to dismantle this growth by reigniting the victim blaming or the past shaming or whatever other excuses people use towards others to negate one’s own strength and intuition value.<br /><br />That’s what makes Ramadan so significant. Last year, so many people complained about Ramadan under pandemic and how isolating it was going to be. But maybe that was God’s way of reminding us all that we deserve some alone time to practice His language and practice reconnecting to our spiritual core. Maybe that door was a sign for 23 year old Dania, maybe it wasn’t, but it serves as a reminder that even in the most finite cracks, God’s language is available to us, we just have to trust ourselves, and sometimes that takes a bit of solitude.<br /></span></span><p></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-79318311185395443272021-04-23T00:29:00.004-07:002021-04-23T00:30:29.293-07:00Ready for Death - Readiness: A Ramadan Mini Series<p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br /></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbyZD0zW42XQ7a9uRKXCAjySvm1wUkFPWjwCzRzfHNj91QgOZ000tol_dwyxVrbErLxNmofW43CvEO1tWC0kACpsNKYE_H3ZosjHGaL2Fzq5DGBCjvzmC_B-utRF-iwo7eSn8tlqID_RI/s2048/Cemetery-18.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1365" data-original-width="2048" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbyZD0zW42XQ7a9uRKXCAjySvm1wUkFPWjwCzRzfHNj91QgOZ000tol_dwyxVrbErLxNmofW43CvEO1tWC0kACpsNKYE_H3ZosjHGaL2Fzq5DGBCjvzmC_B-utRF-iwo7eSn8tlqID_RI/w640-h426/Cemetery-18.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">All Photo Credit: Ehab Tamimi</span></b><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">It’s a bit of a grim title, I know, but there really has never been a way of sugarcoating the truth. It took me five rounds of editing to put this article together because it’s one of the most important I feel I have to share.<br /><br />In less than two years, I lost my dad, my grandma, and my grandfather, each about six months apart. For some reason though, death tends to make me think of life more vividly. Mama always taught us that a cemetery exists more so for the living than for the dead. It’s a place for those left behind to visit and reflect on, not just memories, but purpose. While so many of our loved ones are no longer here, we still are, so how do we live?<br /><br />For as long as I can remember, I never feared death. Maybe I feared <i>dying</i>—how it will happen, if it will hurt—but not death. If you haven’t already guessed, I grew up in quite the nontraditional household. While upholding our religion and culture remain a priority, we never fell victim to the rigid (and often misconstrued) traditions. Whether it was openly talking about sex and sexuality in Islam while preparing lunch together on a Sunday afternoon or discussing how to acknowledge and dismantle toxic masculinity in our families and communities, we talked/talk about it. Death was just another dish on the table; its normalization, its inevitability; its purpose, and that only made my relationship with life all the more sacred.<br /><br />I was 24 when I got engaged to my now ex-husband. Obviously, it was not a happily ever after, domestic violence can’t be, but the thing is abuse is often times too insidious to be seen early on. Red flags are not visible and the emotional manipulation is so subliminal, a victim becomes overwhelmed with confusion and self doubt. Truly, I could write essays on every single angle of domestic violence to educate, and over the years I’ve been doing so bit by bit, but that’s not the focal point here. The point is that it was during this relationship, for the first and only time in my life, I feared death unequivocally. However, because of the severe abuse and <a href="https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/gaslighting#signs-of-gaslighting">gaslighting</a>, I couldn’t reconcile why. I found absolutely no stability to think clearly or take any inventory of my heart and mind. Something I advise ALL couples in every phase of their relationship is to take some solitary time to gauge and assess on your own. Being constantly in each other’s space (especially if it starts to mirror elements of abuse or toxicity) makes it absolutely impossible to make good judgment calls or understand what you’re experiencing.<br /><br />It’s an incredibly scary feeling to fear death and I heavily empathize with those who experience this fear chronically. Living becomes an exhausting minefield. Anxiety, depression, and paranoia intensify, and after a certain point it feels impossible to deescalate. I began contemplating suicide, also for the first time in life, and it only added to the pressure because it clashed so painfully with the incrementally growing fear of death. There’s a night I remember so vividly, on the Huntington Beach Pier. We were sitting on a cement bench smack dab in the middle of the pier, right above the blackest ocean I’d ever seen. He was yelling, cursing, gesturing so wildly I wondered when I’d become the bullseye of his hands. I envied the loud waves for being able to drown out his voice when I couldn’t. I looked down at the water, couldn’t see a thing, and considered what leaping would feel like. How long it would take to drown? Would I suffer? Would he hurt me if I dared survive the jump?<br /><br />There are small cracks of awareness that come and go when you’re under abuse and you see a bit of the light. Once enough light makes its way through, clarity starts becoming tangible. Realizing I had developed such an immense fear of death was the first of many cracks. It bothered me so much that I was no longer ready for death because that meant I was no longer living the right way. The contentment, fulfillment, and happiness I held for my life was stolen, making death a frightening loss I was not yet ready to face.<br /><br />Allah (swt) tells us in Chapter 2, Verse 30:<br /><br /><i><b>“And your Lord said to the Angels, “I will create, upon the earth, a caliph.” They (the angels) said, “Will you create upon it one who will cause corruption within it and bloodshed and we declare your praise and sanctify you? He (Allah) said, “I know that which you do not know.’”</b></i><br /><br />I think of this verse very often, even more so over the last ten years as I’ve watched the corruption and bloodshed all the way from the white supremacy on this American soil to the ongoing turmoil of Syria. Allah obviously has a reason for our existence. After all, He created us with the intent to be caliphs. Yes, caliphs! I know the term was, dare I say, coopted to refer to only a certain group, but when the Quran itself tells me that Allah declared this title for His creations—humans—I take the dare.<br /><br />The test of life is legitimately to see which of us caliphs takes our mission lightly and which of us manifests the great potential we hold. Bottom line, each of us is on this earth for a reason and a purpose. We all have something significant to offer even if we don’t necessarily see the fruits of our labor. We still plants the seeds. Some we get to see bloom in our lifetimes, others we don’t, but that shouldn’t negate our efforts. That shouldn’t discourage us from putting our best out there and succumbing to the corruption. But when we don’t pursue that purpose, we are no longer going to be ready for death.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0TFlOiMvt42DDUWeaUZojhdECttOCd_vU8grHtBlWNHuZ-JyrhOUnS_0HzaKD76QWL2TxcgNYZeGt8fyyO7LrIzzfSPCqaKZnXgTXhM-Q53U0Br0ptT3HxL-G7jbbjVAv7AYVCbQ-Sck/s2048/Cemetery-6.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0TFlOiMvt42DDUWeaUZojhdECttOCd_vU8grHtBlWNHuZ-JyrhOUnS_0HzaKD76QWL2TxcgNYZeGt8fyyO7LrIzzfSPCqaKZnXgTXhM-Q53U0Br0ptT3HxL-G7jbbjVAv7AYVCbQ-Sck/w266-h400/Cemetery-6.jpg" width="266" /></a></span>Take a look at history or even media and pay attention to who holds on to the fantasy of immortality the most. Dictators, villains, the insecure, the angry, the entitled, the ones who weren’t living the truest mission of life. They were living for ego, desire, money, fame, power, and all the things that don’t serve the greater good. There is also a second group that fears death and it’s those who don’t stand up for themselves, who don’t acknowledge what they want out of life, and who are not living their passions.<br /><br />Remembering this verse and its interpretation was when it clicked for me. Death and my readiness for it are my moral compass (of sorts). They are what tell me whether or not I am living the right way, the best way. I remember the instant I left my ex’s house and arrived to my family’s home safe and sound, I felt a liberation no amount of poetry has been able to fully express. It wasn’t passive suicidal ideation, but I suddenly no longer felt afraid to die because finally, I was back to being the leader of my own life again, and it was exhilarating. It was like a realignment with my destiny and faith again and I felt whole. No more severe disorientation or chronic disassociation. No more anxiety induced wake up calls. No more loss of self and purpose. It was kind of like the moment I took the bandages off my eyes after laser eye surgery, miraculously seeing things so clearly without needing any lenses. My intuition was breathing a sigh of relief.<br /><br />So many people don’t recognize whether or not they’re fulfilled and content with themselves and their lives and it yields a fear of death. Why wouldn’t it? Someone who’s confidently lived their life to the best of their ability really has nothing to fear about closing this chapter of their soul. But if they haven’t, it makes absolute sense they fear death. And for those who abide by certain faiths, the readiness for death is a whole other level. It’s the next route for reunification with our Lord, something we are to be striving for as caliphs on the journey of spirituality and human service.<br /><br />There are too many people out there living for other things or even for other people, which makes for a terribly heavy life. Many—not all—of the mental health struggles develop from this kind of lifestyle, which begins at an early age. Whether it’s child abuse, even the most vague of kinds, or the unrealistic expectations placed on children’s futures, it dislodges one’s connection with their true selves and calling. Therefore, feeling genuinely content about how we live is closely tied with our fear (or lack thereof) of death.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FXIKJ__OLe_MnUq0L_sKBAt4VV-v160eXHhPGbACQsmlwIvFrOHcDXtqNbTMYnsqACce8H0Tbskqe775YLND-K-EqyJsXN3utEx1ezEe-zo5s3dfiy3NMHdGmT4F54pRwqVgrmxgrxw/s2048/Cemetery-22.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2FXIKJ__OLe_MnUq0L_sKBAt4VV-v160eXHhPGbACQsmlwIvFrOHcDXtqNbTMYnsqACce8H0Tbskqe775YLND-K-EqyJsXN3utEx1ezEe-zo5s3dfiy3NMHdGmT4F54pRwqVgrmxgrxw/w266-h400/Cemetery-22.jpg" width="266" /></a></span><br />I have held on to these truths close to my heart since my divorce and I remind myself to check in with my intuition often and gauge how I’m feeling to ensure that I haven’t lost my sense of self and purpose. Anytime something begins to threaten my internal security, shaking my readiness for death, as in living how I am destined to, I acknowledge it and take action. None of us deserve to be unprepared for death with an unhappy and unfulfilled life. Take time with yourself, my friends, and listen to your intuition and what it’s calling you to do. Trust me when I say, it’s always speaking to you and always steering you in the best direction. Just listen.<br /><br />The good news from all this is that as long we are still here, we have the capacity to reconnect with our true selves, and Ramadan is the perfect time to begin. It’s never too late to get ready for death by ensuring that you are living your best, living your truth, and living for Allah. After all, He reminds us, “And I did not create the jinn and humankind except to worship Me” (Chapter 51, Verse 56).</span><br /></p><p></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-64984968568751739202021-04-13T17:13:00.001-07:002021-04-13T17:43:24.563-07:00Ready for Ramadan - Readiness: A Ramadan Mini Series<p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><br />In a lecture I gave at a sociology class a few years back, I decided to make a bold statement to a classroom full of freshman students living in the era of social media established self-care rituals and beliefs. In a world that has so successfully taught an entire generation to believe that selfishness and individualistic ideals (masked behind mainstream glamorized posts) are the ways to thrive and make the world a better place, it’s going to be a battle to try and change the narrative. “Sometimes the truest acts of self-care are actually doing those things that really inconvenience the self, are actually getting your to-do lists and tasks at hand done. This over-fixation on the idea of never making yourself uncomfortable in the name of self-care is what is causing the demise of our societies.” A lot of faces stared back at me in disapproval, but I initiated a conversation long overdue in this modern era. Social media based self-care trends have enabled stunted emotional intelligence, empathy, and change by placing personal desires at the focal point of survival instead of personal well-being. To initiate real life change requires a lot of inconveniences, a lot of shifted comfort zones, and a lot of preparedness.</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRYtVJ0CcSsrDXX9sLuTK5eG6rIvAee3Rvsn015T7yXGtTYvKKmpfMgzj-8d_OmiWF41aztYo4dq1AMBJApnMdiYU3XteiCjhwGYPTwHli71C50WqPIVcLawRIehOQFPo9sw-86hUxXGk/s2048/CityPsalmTucsonPhoto-120.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRYtVJ0CcSsrDXX9sLuTK5eG6rIvAee3Rvsn015T7yXGtTYvKKmpfMgzj-8d_OmiWF41aztYo4dq1AMBJApnMdiYU3XteiCjhwGYPTwHli71C50WqPIVcLawRIehOQFPo9sw-86hUxXGk/w426-h640/CityPsalmTucsonPhoto-120.jpg" title="Photo Credit: Ehab J. Photography" width="426" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Avenir;">❥ ❥ ❥<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;">Is it ironic to be writing the introductory article of my Ramadan mini series on readiness to the tune of Miley Cyrus’s “Wrecking Ball”? Probably not, considering Ramadan has always been a time of picking up the pieces of ourselves demolished by life and gluing them back together. But that process is never an easy one and every year, a part of me genuinely dreads the Ramadanic obligation of facing myself and the year I just finished. For a while, I thought I was the only one who experienced this anticipatory anxiety, until I came across a life changing podcast (<a href="http://ladynarrator.blogspot.com/2020/10/finding-middle-ground.html" target="_blank">which I have mentioned once before here on this blog</a>), <a href="https://linktr.ee/theamreekiespodcast?fbclid=IwAR2eNF4puiEB2J7aBX71c5rCxJ_Gc_9N0KMdK7qitXBRAtBYCaPZJTbW1RU" target="_blank">The Amreekies Podcast</a>.<br /><br />Five days of binging every episode and I received so many gifts from the podcast that I am grateful to hold on to as I enter another blessed Ramadan, including the fact that sometimes what God asks us to do will be heavy but manageable no less. To clarify, this isn’t a dislike of the month—come on, y’all know me and passion for faith!—but it’s a vulnerable acknowledgement of the work ahead, and after a year, it builds. It’s like the child who makes a fuss about not wanting to go to camp only to realize how revolutionary and amazing the experience was after all. <br /><br />I was always that child and Ramadan was always my camp, and every year, I’d cry more leaving the month than coming into it. This year, however, I found myself counting down the days leading up to Ramadan, praying to God that He keeps me alive to witness it. My soul was hungry for it (no pun intended), excitedly anticipating that one month of dedication to soul care and active resolutions, which really are the ultimate forms of self-care: a preparedness to being my best self for society.<br /><br />Ramadan has a different flavor when you’re eagerly looking forward to it. There’s a powerful wave of relief that hits you when it begins at sunset because you’re spiritually surrendering to no other power than God’s healing. No one can deny how difficult 2020-2021 has been—from physical to emotional to mental to spiritual, we’ve all suffered so much, some of us maybe too much, so this month becomes the threshold to cross into relief.<br /><br />Now here we are, lavishing in the first day, drawn to the magnetic pull of belief in a coming change. It’s not going to be easy, it never is, but it’ll be worthy, and I love that every Muslim I know understands exactly what I’m talking about. Understands there will be nights of heavy crying, nights of repentance, nights of vivid recollections and self analysis, and that those are all necessary components to savoring as much of this month as possible.<br /><br />I don’t know why that child throws a fuss about camp, just like I don’t really know why my anxiety kicks in the days before Ramadan, maybe it’s fear of the unknown or fear of what I know I will have to inconveniently let go of, but what a different experience it was to view the horizon of this month through a different lens. That’s when I knew that this year, my Ramadan Reflections Series will be dedicated entirely to the concept of readiness. Each week, I’ll be sharing an article on readiness within a different subject, in the hopes of inspiring readers to live with even more purpose. Sometimes our relationship with “being ready” is so misunderstood, so almost stereotypical, that we’re not aware of how and when we are ready and what that actually means. So I begin the series here, with a smile and an open heart, surrendering to the gift that God gave me of finally experiencing readiness for Ramadan before the month began versus after it began, Alhamdulilah.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: Avenir;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJO9QMVsrr8Gb6J5vsKJm1obzUWp3wfOSpCCe-P7Nkr4qpez-BsRWVErmIrcXWQwmKt7DPVvn64_13v1XpK-roNp_lcmXKFcjNQMCstwANP7qDnnY91bKvNNT4EhBBlNil8tQOwGpVBcI/s2048/CityPsalmTucsonPhoto-121.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJO9QMVsrr8Gb6J5vsKJm1obzUWp3wfOSpCCe-P7Nkr4qpez-BsRWVErmIrcXWQwmKt7DPVvn64_13v1XpK-roNp_lcmXKFcjNQMCstwANP7qDnnY91bKvNNT4EhBBlNil8tQOwGpVBcI/w213-h320/CityPsalmTucsonPhoto-121.jpg" width="213" /></a>As we watch the first day end, reminded of how quickly this month <i>always</i> flies by, I encourage us all to set daily small intentions the night before for the coming day. Write them down by hand. Cross them off as you finish them. Reflect on the list before breaking your fast. In my home each year, mama asks us to set a main prayer we want to make for the year. Last year, we dedicated it to praying for my dad and asking God to reunite us with him in the hereafter, and asking God to bless him for the incredible gifts he left behind to support us. Set your duaa for the month (which, by the way, doesn’t mean no other things can be prayed for) and remember it throughout the day. Face ugly truths you kept marginalizing since the last Ramadan and be honest with yourself about how you will try to tackle them differently this coming year. Acknowledge your humanness and shortcomings. Embrace all of that in this month of exceptional Mercy, but then remember that this Mercy exists even when the month is over. It exists in Allah, but it also exists when we keep close the teachings of how to be merciful to ourselves and our communities too.<br /><br />Getting ready is not an overnight task. It also isn’t neat and easy to compartmentalize. Sometimes it takes us the first week of Ramadan to get ready for Ramadan. But all I can say for sure is it takes all of Ramadan to get ready for the year ahead, so may this month give humanity all the readiness it needs to thrive!</span></p><p></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-1186319530306450282020-11-22T17:59:00.005-08:002020-11-22T18:04:00.069-08:00Still Here<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewH9EXFmtaojAusUGUcvf8Lui-EoTUPUBtkrwbUhqLoodUu4U-MYf1JnKuLXNCzKZWnPxMzzC1uVoabo37hpXrlWWqvAxBLJx5NJbZSxVyvAQQTsWvx0jbhPG92Ciz7S8wj_IL6E7OyU/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3a61.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhewH9EXFmtaojAusUGUcvf8Lui-EoTUPUBtkrwbUhqLoodUu4U-MYf1JnKuLXNCzKZWnPxMzzC1uVoabo37hpXrlWWqvAxBLJx5NJbZSxVyvAQQTsWvx0jbhPG92Ciz7S8wj_IL6E7OyU/w426-h640/fullsizeoutput_3a61.jpeg" width="426" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span>“Will all the medical staff seeing me today be women?” I asked the mammogram technician before I undressed. Without a second thought she nodded, smiling, and said, “Oh, yes, absolutely! We have a coworker who wears hijab so we know and are prepared.” Though I wholeheartedly appreciated her sentiments, I found myself lost in painful thoughts as I changed into the old white robe neatly folded on the chair in the dressing room. Stacking my bra, my shirt, and my undershirt (I’m Arab) atop my purse, safely, inside the lock box provided—the key in the security of my hands—I wondered, would she ever know that my preference for an all female medical team does not stem from my religious background but rather from my body’s exhaustion of being touched by entitled men? Does the nurse know of other women, like me, who had been promised a female physician at urgent care and undressed to only have a man walk in without acknowledging my discomfort and request? Will the radiologist understand how much safer I feel having my breasts examined by someone who has a shared anatomy and a shared sociopolitical experience? An ultrasound and an x-ray cannot show how many times consent was stolen off my tongue. They do not illustrate all the men who helped themselves to my body like a sampler platter I never laid out: <br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><span>My ex-husband before we got married. The man in the overcrowded marketplace who grabbed my thigh, then sprinted away laughing before I realized what even happened. The boy in middle school who grabbed my face after September 11th to prove his popularity. My friend’s drunk brother at her holiday party. The foreign exchange student who grabbed my wrist, assuming my “foreignness” granted him access to me. The guy who tugged at my scarf on a date to pull it off because he believed he deserved to see my hair. The upheld and beloved community leaders, engagers, and activists who groom and prey on us during our times of grief and healing. <br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><span>Contrary to stereotypical assumptions about my faith, this headscarf does not automatically deem women unwelcoming to/of men. It is the men themselves who have established this discomfort. Who have built, with their hands, such toxic environments that women have been taught to walk like minefields. We are unsafe in spaces such as schools, the doctor’s office, markets, fundraisers, social justice events, and as I’ve learned recently, even art communities. This is why I am both humbled and honored to curate and host the STILL HERE Open Mic Night with <a href="https://waymakersoc.org/supporting-victims/" target="_blank"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa fgxwclzu a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d3f4x2em fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id" dir="auto">Waymakers Sexual Assault Victim Services</span></a>. Because regardless of how many times we are objectified, treated like we don’t matter, or assaulted, we are still here with our stories and with our survival, and we deserve a place to exhale safely.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span><span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUxa95chDbXdvFfIcAtXdScRAeV4Mb-vrPr9Kwlxn6sSu4TkHOotMpoO-iXPG57D-w-LYGFhbfmmCGmuhUx6ly54KKkKE7J9QCWzHXY2nQsdops9x4rklBR9V-tIuUuX2MpTdOyrZJ4U/s2048/Still+Here%25281%2529.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIUxa95chDbXdvFfIcAtXdScRAeV4Mb-vrPr9Kwlxn6sSu4TkHOotMpoO-iXPG57D-w-LYGFhbfmmCGmuhUx6ly54KKkKE7J9QCWzHXY2nQsdops9x4rklBR9V-tIuUuX2MpTdOyrZJ4U/w640-h640/Still+Here%25281%2529.png" width="640" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span>I invite you to join us Friday, December 4th at 5p.m. PST to share your story or listen to others. The program includes a brief introduction from SAVS Waymakers, followed by an open forum for anyone interested in sharing their stories/expressions. Everyone is welcome. To RSVP and sign up to share on the mic, click <a href="http://bit.ly/StillHereEvent" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></span></span><p></p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-32719283730902699382020-10-10T13:48:00.001-07:002020-10-10T13:55:41.995-07:00Finding the Middle Ground<p><span style="font-family: georgia;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZfhNb275Y8op-AhDE7ad_XNiO93JaK355uUdbdaPXFF-Hr7B-SO_4kjEIRRk_IxUgV1LL097VAcByifSSkcozmrXn0Q5fEVxJC23QJkQ9mb_WNqB-buFAutbFWRdPfWuceh9xHgAJROA/s2048/AF88FB8E-386B-42CA-83EA-4C072999501C.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="532" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZfhNb275Y8op-AhDE7ad_XNiO93JaK355uUdbdaPXFF-Hr7B-SO_4kjEIRRk_IxUgV1LL097VAcByifSSkcozmrXn0Q5fEVxJC23QJkQ9mb_WNqB-buFAutbFWRdPfWuceh9xHgAJROA/w532-h532/AF88FB8E-386B-42CA-83EA-4C072999501C.JPG" width="532" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;">I can’t quite recall when I learned that lonely was a bad word, but I remember that for a good portion of my adolescence, and the rest of my adulthood, I bit my tongue anytime it almost came out of my mouth. To be the ideal feminist (according to feminists and non-feminists), a woman can never express loneliness, but we’re “allowed” to—even encouraged to—embrace aloneness. The thing is, I never saw loneliness as necessarily always a bad thing because it is a concept far more nuanced than the idea of being single. Sometimes, as cliche as it sounds, loneliness is a sensation that exists when we’re surrounded by the biggest and loudest groups of people. And so I was not really surprised when I started feeling less and less lonely the longer I practiced stay-at-home orders.<br /></span></p><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: georgia;">See, maybe on a subconscious level I knew there was some type of loneliness within me that I couldn’t consciously grasp. Loneliness stems from a feeling of not belonging in either the self, the society, or both. I’ve always known (or been told) how much I don’t belong in places or with people—be it men, friendships/community networks, schools, jobs, and even poetry. But how deep this awareness flowed only became visible to me under pandemic, when I found an opportunity to reflect in a way that’s caused a re-framing I wasn’t prepared for. Suddenly I was reassessing my current friendships, my family relationships, my relationship with God, and well, my relationship with myself.<br /><br />Since the beginning of this year, I’ve experienced a poetry-based writer’s block and I could deduce its larger causes: I was sexually assaulted in January, then forced to process it alone under pandemic, then my grandmother suddenly died the night before Ramadan, and all this while still trying to figure out what life is supposed to be like without my dad in it anymore. A simple task, no? I called my publisher one day and asked him for advice on how to write about the assault without fear, on paper, realizing that the fear wasn’t speaking out as much as it was about realizing how hard it is to confront Black and Brown men who perpetrate these things (which was the case). He told me I need to grant myself permission to just write it; eliminate the idea that anyone will read it, get out all the ugly and shitty poems, and then watch the flood gates reopen.<br /><br />I know he’s right, but his advice transcended this specific encounter. My loneliness didn’t start at the hands of this assaulter. It started when I was ten and always left out of Arab girl get togethers and parties because I didn’t talk about the materialistic dreams every little girl was supposed to have. While they all fantasized about the wedding dress, cake flavors, and baby names, I dreamed of the doctorate degree with frustrating late nights of research stacked up next to cold takeout from lunch and four empty latte cups. As the high school and college girls compared who got the best tan that summer, I fantasized about how much fun it would be to teach a college course, rocking a red lipstick and stilettos, and making the classes fun with my social science students. (I envision being that “cool” professor, haha!) My dad had similar dreams for me and lately, it’s been hurting a lot more to realize he won’t be there to see them, but the fear of not manifesting them hurts me more so I wake up with a harder drive than the day before to make them come true, realizing how much less lonelier I’ve become. Then I remember how the older I got, the more vocal I became in my Muslim community, and the less I belonged.<br /><br />I sought refuge, as in belonging, in other spaces and thought I actually found it in poetry community until I took a closer look at my poems collectively. I saw how little I wrote about culture and religion until very recently, when I started exerting more identity consciousness, because the truth is, saying “God” in these arenas is not welcome. Actually, very rarely have I come across spaces that welcome any sense of spirituality and faith unless it’s Christianity or Atheism. Everything else becomes stereotyped and stigmatized and well, my physical attributes confess my religion even if I don’t open my mouth, and I carry that weight (proudly).<br /><br />But then the pendulum of authenticity swings back and I remember how uncomfortable I am performing poetry or giving a lecture in any Muslim and/or Arab space because my “not religious enough” physical attributes also speak volumes there. Then I open my mouth and all hell breaks loose (no pun intended). Even now, I worry about some conservative cracking open <i>Contortionist Tongue</i>—my recent poetry book—and landing on chapter two, where a plethora of sexuality thrives. It’s not that I’m ashamed—I mean if I were I wouldn’t have written or published them—but it’s just exhaustion from everything being so hypersensitive. But those poems came out of necessity, because after sexual abuse, domestic violence, and sexual assault, I deserved a form of body autonomy, taking ownership of what <b><i>I</i></b> want my body to experience on my own terms. And that came to be through erotic poetry. </span></div><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br />I’m not saying I prefer the isolation but this aloneness cleansed out a subconscious loneliness that’s allowed me to reexamine how we build the self, how we build community, and how we build the bridge between the two. And this has actually been the theme of all the prompts I’ve been teaching in every class/lecture I’ve given on Zoom this year, and I have to say, the feedback has been incredible because as humans we’re really good at being eloquent but not quite as good as mending what lies beneath. This creates that loneliness, the lack of grounding and belonging.<br /><br />A week ago, I was FaceTiming with my mom, who’s still in Syria, and per our usual conversations, I updated her on these thoughts amid my online dating terrors, bills, and her beloved feline grandchildren. I told her that as beautiful as this awakening is, the idea of returning back to a society where I haven’t found the man or friends that enjoy this middle ground is daunting. “I mean mama, really is there no man out there who’ll go to the club or a poetry reading at a bar, but still try to wake me up for Fajr?” The next day, God kind of replied.<br /><br />I’m not much of a fan of podcasts. Having someone talk to me, faceless and not singing, while I workout or drive or run errands, annoys me. However, I was introduced to a podcast that I decided to take a chance on. Five days and twenty episodes later, I finished listening to every episode of <i>The Amreekies</i> podcast and I know God was telling me to have faith. I’m not at all the most or even remotely religious girl on the block, but God and I have had this unique language for as long as I can remember, and for a brief moment in time I almost lost it, but He brought me back.</span></div><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></div><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: georgia;">From the very first episode of <i>The Amreekies</i>, I was in awe at the sheer brilliance of its simplicity and hilarity at addressing things as mundane as house slippers (shout out to the “babooj” folks) to things as gut wrenching as calling out internal systemic racism and questioning religious identity.<br /><br />This podcast is composed of two Arab American guys, a Palestinian and an Iraqi, who have been lifelong friends that talk about the experiences of the Muslim Arab American trifecta. Recently, they’ve brought on a Libyan American woman to the show and I adore her. To be able to hear of another badass hijabi who can hold her faith and authenticity but call out bull shit boldly, is what I needed to hear. Women always tell me (in secret) how appreciative they are of my bravery, courage, and social justice community organizing, but even we activists need a source of empowerment and faith restoration every once in a while.<br /><br />And the guys, damn! The guys who have made me laugh so hard that drivers in the cars around me all thought I was crazy, are incredibly insightful and on point. For the first time in a long time I felt ironically seen (the irony coming from the fact that neither I can see them nor they me). But the vulnerability and detail oriented nature of each episode is impeccable, and the fact that they can incorporate life, culture, and religion, all while walking this middle ground is perfection.<br /><br />I’m not saying <i>The Amreekies</i> has touched on risque works like that of my written work (yet?), but there have been episodes with sporadic subtle innuendos within context or jokes that almost cross the line that make the experience all the more relevant to those of us Arab Muslims in America who’ve been too haram for the halal-ies and too halal for the haram-ies and have been heavily searching for a place to belong among both our people (Arabs/Muslims) and our people (Americans). This all or nothing polarization is precisely why loneliness exists.<br /><br />For example, one of my favorite episodes (that’s a lie because they’re all my favorites) is when they discussed Ramadan and how unspoken the anxiety (and even dread) is in the anticipation for it beforehand for some people. I’ve always felt like I was the only one who experienced that eerie precursor but lo and behold, someone else expressed verbatim what I feel silently each year because every other Muslim is out there singing their Islamic version of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” Don’t get me wrong, I love Ramadan, but there’s something about the time leading up to it that feels heavy and hey, someone else feels it too!<br /><br />I could go on and on about this podcast but I will stop before I sound too much like an obsessed groupie fan girl because this is not a fan letter. Or maybe it is? Maybe this is a fan letter to <i>The Amreekies</i>. A thank you for nurturing an idea you had years ago to authentically present witty banter and difficult conversation of true experiences that resonate with so many of us—especially '90s Arab Americans. Maybe this is a thank you to anyone who’s ever listened to their calling and created something that was so true to them, they unknowingly inspired someone they did not know needed it. I’m always so touched when someone reaches out to tell me what my words and works have done for them because it reminds me of how much we each matter in who we are and what we do in this world.<br /><br />We build ourselves when we believe in who we are. We build community when we share our gifts authentically. And we build that bridge between the two when we embrace one another as we are.</span></div><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Check out <a href="https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/the-amreekies/id1502585875">The Amreekies</a> here on Apple Podcast or find them on other podcast streaming platforms.</span><br /></div>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-37134971720562195552020-09-21T23:26:00.002-07:002020-09-22T00:15:43.817-07:00Tell Me Who's Crazy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gkS6DsX7XgwY9UIEFx906m5lEyFoyZZJeINNrTF1PhugXH6snpWaoK_UyR4FhigJMs4P6vZYyYtrNbd5FyqYWYLvjRsN-WTb0ih3urAV7DfIrzydwJocxIeg6ouFHFHJodz0rwOrrsg/s2048/fullsizeoutput_3a20.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1153" data-original-width="2048" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5gkS6DsX7XgwY9UIEFx906m5lEyFoyZZJeINNrTF1PhugXH6snpWaoK_UyR4FhigJMs4P6vZYyYtrNbd5FyqYWYLvjRsN-WTb0ih3urAV7DfIrzydwJocxIeg6ouFHFHJodz0rwOrrsg/w640-h360/fullsizeoutput_3a20.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><p>This morning my publisher called me and immediately his tone sunk my heart. “I got a package in the mail today from….” It was a man who had ordered a copy of <i>Contortionist Tongue</i> just eight days ago, when we matched on what was supposed to be a slightly safer dating app. I debated posting this story until I realized that being a survivor of domestic violence and sexual assault means society will forever brand you as paranoid instead of worshiping the insight you offer, both tangible and intangible.<br /><br />On an unsuspecting Sunday morning I matched with this local Arab Muslim man whose profile seemed quite intriguing. He was educated, active, clever, witty, detail oriented, and had appealing enough profile pictures. (Yes, we women notice those too!) To my surprise, he was quick to initiate and respond, and within minutes a conversation started. At first glance, that would have been seen as a good sign—engaging, active, and interested. After friendly hellos, he asked where he could buy a copy of my book and that even if we didn’t end up working out as a relationship he was grateful to have connected with a Muslim author who provided him with new reading material. I thought that was incredible—mature, positive, and enlightened, so the conversation ensued.<br /><br />We agreed to do a socially distant meet up to just feel the waters and found a middle ground tea shop and hung out in the parking lot, talking, laughing, and dare I say, connecting. After almost two hours, we said our goodbyes and found ourselves chatting again via text that evening. No red flags were waving so when that same night he asked if we could schedule a date, I didn’t see a reason to say no. We agreed for a beach jog the following weekend and continued texting.<br /><br />In all honesty, practically everything seemed safe (minus one thing that wasn’t quite yet worrisome), so the next day when he said he just couldn’t wait till Saturday’s jog and wanted to do a dinner sooner, I agreed. We decided on a socially distant picnic and set it for just before sunset. I can’t explain it, but all day the excitement for the date was vivid up until one hour before. Suddenly, my intuition awoke.<br /><br />When we arrived, I assumed this sensation was merely nervousness about trying to take the leap into trusting a man this seriously by going on a formal date. I realized every guy I ever dated or had a relationship with was someone I knew beforehand whether through community events or community spaces. So by the time those guys and I reached date one, there was enough rapport for me to not feel so heavily nervous. I thought this time, it’s a guy from an app so maybe my soul was a little shaky.<br /><br />However, as the night progressed, and he kept opening up, my gut was screaming louder and louder. The thing is, society trains us survivors to believe we’ve become so paranoid because of our trauma that we gaslight our own selves. It’s like an emotional imposter syndrome we’re told to never silence.<br /><br />The night lasted six hours and we both shared our non-negotiables and deal breakers, laughed, took a walk, and then said our goodbyes, but something still kept eating at me and I felt like a horrible person, wondering at this point if I’m the problem. I spoke with my mom and even as I was trying to explain the tug of war inside me, it didn’t make sense. I concluded I deserve to give myself time to process whatever was swirling within me to just find my emotional balance. When I came to text him that after the lengthy date, I found he had already texted me loads of messages expressing his elation in the belief of us, how incredible the night was, and that he was no longer going to talk to other women and just focus on us. If that wasn’t enough, he asked that I come over to his house the following night. That sent my gut over the edge.<br /><br />I thanked him for the evening and expressed that the night left me feeling a little weighed down and overwhelmed so if he wouldn’t mind, I would like to take the next few days until our beach date to myself and process what we’ve shared. It sounded rational to me, to my mom, to my friends that checked in on me, but apparently not to him.<br /><br />He continued to text me until 2:00 a.m. pushing the idea of me not processing without him and that’s when things started to click. An abuser’s greatest fear is their victim finding any moment of solitude because it is like a drunk person sobering up. The space and silence enables a victim to find some clarity and find the courage to leave. It’s why my ex-husband never let me spend time alone and why my parents kept trying so hard to give me opportunities of solitude.<br /><br />“Just tell me what I can do to convince you to come over tomorrow?” he asked before I said I was busy and would follow up once I’ve been given the time to make sense of my internal chaos. The next day I drove to Los Angeles on purpose, ensuring I was nowhere near South Orange County so that 1) I wouldn’t be lying when I texted him that I’m too far and busy and 2) he couldn’t find me.<br /><br />He was not satisfied and his texts turned into essays of further sugar coated, GIF infused, smile sprinkled pushy messages. And this is the key. Looking at those texts, anyone would say, “Aww, but he’s being so sweet and friendly and cute and funny, just wanting to see you and help you,” but an experienced survivor knows otherwise. His words continued about what HIS soul and intuition were saying, that we shouldn’t press the brakes and that he will not speak to any other woman on the app, and that I shouldn’t be dealing with this emotional processing on my own. I stopped replying and took a walk through Santa Monica.<br /><br />I woke up the next morning to a smile filled greeting from him, asking if we were still on for our beach date. My palm slapped my forehead with a loud smack and aloud I muttered an Arabic phrase of frustration. How dense could he be? By Friday morning, I had replayed every single minute of our picnic date and I concluded that my uneasiness stemmed from my subconscious registering all the red flags before I consciously did and suddenly everything made sense.<br /><br />Survivors can read between the lines vividly. We are not paranoid or dramatic or psychotic or crazy or overreacting. We are the ones you should be listening to because we polished the pathways to our intuitions, which I swear to you, are ALWAYS correct. I survived psychological manipulation, financial abuse, verbal attacks, sexual assault, and stalking. My intuition has a Ph.D. in threat recognition.<br /><br />I replied, trying to be courteous in my rejection, but he wouldn’t have it. Instead he was further insisting that I at least meet him in person to offer him a face to face explanation after our jog. It was incredible, the level of insanity and entitlement possessed by this narcissist who was seriously starting to sound like my ex-husband’s protégé. After a few hours of silence, assuming he finally grasped the concept, I received an “Oh how I’ve missed you” text followed by a request to talk via phone if I wouldn’t offer him a face to face meeting.<br /><br />I ended it with a block—on my phone, on the dating app (where I also reported him), on Facebook, and on LinkedIn where I received a notification that he was searching for me there. So when my publisher called about this mysterious package, scribbled with large red letters that read FOR DANIA ONLY, my heart dropped. What the hell could it be and why?!?!<br /><br />Believe it or not, he sent back my book, hoping it would reach me, with a typed disturbing letter. Each of my poems was vandalized with his critiques, analyses, and opinions—some passive aggressive, some pathetic. The letter was a whole other level of crazy and I thought about how many “crazy” women I know vs. “crazy” men and the score is still zero to thirty-one. The fact that men find it so easy to label a woman they hurt or destroy or manipulate <i>crazy</i> but refuse to acknowledge <u><i><b>their</b></i></u><i><b> </b></i>abusive nature, narcissism, incel-like tendencies, and more, is further a reflection of male entitlement and privilege that we’ve grown so damn tired of!<br /><br />It hurt most to see (photos of) my book so disfigured by someone who genuinely believes he’s a good man offering some bright intellectual enhancement to my words, my story, my poetry. When Eric, my publisher, told me he wanted to publish my book in 2019, I was floored. It is like pulling teeth to have our voices and stories heard, and here I was, being heard by a man who believed in my story. And then there it was, a copy of my baby, in his palms, ugly lines and words in Arabic, English, and Chinese (the three languages that narcissist speaks) overlapping my vulnerable words that took three years to birth.<br /><br />Whenever I share these stories about men, I get a flurry of responses from angry men and ridiculously naive women who seem so confused about where I find these men. I can’t believe I still have to break the news to humanity, but this is the patriarchy manifesting. Even “good men” possess some of these problematic qualities and if they are not actively working on combating them and the system, there will be no change. <br /><br />The real good men are ones who hear these stories and actually listen 1) without interrupting and 2) admit that at one point in their life they were part of the problem but are constantly growing. The men who get angry and defensive, well, that is pretty much a reflection of the truth and I will not apologize for being a speaker of truth. And to answer the question of where <i>I</i> find these men (as if that’s the case), the reality is <i>they</i> find me.</p><p>Women who are courageous, outspoken, survivors, will always be targets of insecure individuals—male or female. Our mere existence is a threat to their toxic behaviors. We rise up and they want to extinguish our flames, but they are called to that flame like a moth first. But before you exert that whole “you attract what you seek” bull shit, let me tell you, women like myself seek nothing but the dignity and justice we deserve. If that includes holding up a mirror to the ugly faces of abusers, rapists, predators, and any other toxic person, so be it. I will gladly take on this role for the more than 30 women who have private messaged me over the years telling me they could never be as outspoken about what they went through but are grateful someone else is.<br /><br />It took me four nights before I was able to sleep again. All day I’ve been at home worrying about whether or not this would be the last I heard from this guy and it was a resurfacing of the PTSD I lived following my divorce. Then I hear the echoes of “not all men” and “have faith in men” and I laugh. Tonight, I am only holding faith in the block button and the locks on my windows and doors. I hold faith in my publisher and his support. And I hold faith in God and His plan, however it is set to unfold.</p>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-31801406984480834462020-03-25T23:09:00.003-07:002020-03-27T21:26:43.659-07:00Abnormal Growth<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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“Siri, how do you turn off the iPhone 11 Pro Max?” I found myself asking my sexy Australian (male) Siri this question last week, when I realized my iPhone doesn’t power off the way my old one did. When that OFF slide bar finally appeared, it hit me that I haven’t seen that in a long time, probably since before my dad got sick. In 41 days, it will be exactly one year since they found the tumor, since my entire life changed forever.<br />
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Before COVID-19 took a turn for the worst in SoCal (or was recognized for what it really was by the government and people alike), I had intended on taking a hiatus from the world after my book launch. When my book launch party was forced into cancellation, I genuinely was heartbroken. It was the one thing I was excited about after the multiple loads of trauma that hit me since May of 2019. After the social distancing and quarantine took a stricter role, I started to wonder if maybe this was God’s way of telling us all to slow down and examine our growth, and whether it’s been healthy or toxic. Growth, as tumors can show us, is not always the right kind.<br />
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After my dad died, I think my family and I threw ourselves deeper into our passions and work. Maybe it was our form of healing. Maybe it was a mechanism to readjust. Maybe it was us trying to keep going and make him proud of our survival and gratitude. I don’t know. To be quarantined though, forced into isolation, was being forced to face a lot of realities that maybe none of us were ready for. Atop my dad’s death and visible absence, I had to deal with the death of a partnership and friendship from someone who took advantage of me. I called him out, and as would be expected, male privilege and entitlement kicked in, and it just made everything worse. The hardest part was that he knew how much of a significant role his friendship and support played in my keeping it together during my father’s illness and passing. Then came my own health changes. Then came the hit we artists have taken of paid performances and opportunities to sell books or host workshops. Then came the halts that nonprofits had to take and we scramble to know what will be of our future.<br />
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The first three days of quarantine, I was a mess, and to be honest, as absolutely beautiful as it was to see the art community rise up to the virtual stage, I felt overwhelmed. There was a virtual poetry something on the daily and it’s so hard when some take it personally if you accept one invite but cannot make the other. <br />
<br />
Poetry spaces have become overly subliminally competitive these days, and by that I mean too many new spaces are popping up on the same days/times or as close to as others, in neighboring locations and it really is impacting those long-standing open mic spaces and events that have not only built rapport, but a community for years, even decades. As artists, we should be fortifying the already existing platforms, not building new ones.<br />
<br />
It reminds me of the mosques in SoCal, maybe even the country. The way that instead of building a stronger base at the ones that already exist, they literally go fundraise to physically build another empty mosque that harasses women, doesn’t empower children, and remains in constant debt. Y’all, khalas, for the love of Allah, get it together! Same to poets. Our communities need each other, and before all that, we need ourselves.<br />
<br />
Siri answered me. Sometimes he’s good like that. I swiped off that phone and it was beautiful. For the first time in too long, I slept like a log (which is an expression I never understood because do logs even sleep?). There was something serene about my mind knowing I was expecting no calls, no texts, no emails, and no notifications, and could sleep till my body felt ready to rise. My mom and brother were home and knew where to find me. My other brother could call either of them for anything. Painfully, my father will never be able to call me again. Everyone else could wait.<br />
<br />
I started to see the value behind quarantine that I wholeheartedly know is not a privilege everyone can enjoy—both those in forced quarantine and those who cannot stay home due to their line of work. But it really is God’s way of slowing us down. Making us question our lives and livelihoods. Our growths and our intentions. It has also been a way of reminding me that healing, as mentioned before, is not always an individual journey, but a group one, and my family and I are taking it together now. Eating meals together more often. Cooking together too! This week we made one heck of a parmesan crusted fish with a strawberry vinaigrette salad and a garlic basil pasta and really, I wanted to cry with pride. Where have we been hiding our cooking souls all this time? I’ll tell you where, coffee shops and laptops working on edits and grants.<br />
<br />
The other day I thought about how much time we spend on commutes. How much money we spend going to events—between parking, cover charges, and refreshments. How much energy we exhaust on things that may or may not be useful (like social media). How much distance “living” has put between us and the people who really matter. How much distance it has put between us and knowing ourselves. Self-care is still a buzzword but how many of us really know what it is or requires?<br />
<br />
What the world is enduring right now is heartbreaking and I wouldn’t wish it on any generation or era, but everything has its lessons, the little things to recognize. Governments, I hope, learned the big things to recognize after seeing how destructive lack of preparedness can be. But those of us given the privilege and opportunity to protect ourselves and our communities, we can take this time to reassess our growths. A long time ago, I was talking to my dad. He was going through something difficult and he got emotional. I think it was the only time in my life I saw him get super sensitive, that was until he got sick, then it just became a sensitive and emotional time for us all. It still is. But midway through that old conversation he said, “It’s too late, Dania,” and I remember looking him straight in the eyes and confidently saying, “You’re wrong, dad. It’s never too late for a person, until they die.”<br />
<br />
Kind of surreal remembering that now, but my advice hasn’t changed, and there’s no better time than forced isolation to let the many thoughts in our minds unravel. Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-12386509039026907072020-02-18T02:11:00.000-08:002020-02-18T02:18:27.274-08:00Sexuality, Skinny Jeans, and Spirituality<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRY7aPb8WWFA5faPaPSW8AqpETXv4BUARIZ-C0mT_FWsU60OVdoO4tewGcpUiU-VuQpSi3LZy-HZsR6YMRjtEd65OrAOB4BWbsackd8XotKaJIS5gxVRTqP549Nqt4RaJ-z_ZO_4ez4M/s1600/DSC_0103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1093" data-original-width="1600" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRY7aPb8WWFA5faPaPSW8AqpETXv4BUARIZ-C0mT_FWsU60OVdoO4tewGcpUiU-VuQpSi3LZy-HZsR6YMRjtEd65OrAOB4BWbsackd8XotKaJIS5gxVRTqP549Nqt4RaJ-z_ZO_4ez4M/s640/DSC_0103.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Policing women has been an ancient art, ever evolving and always mastered, by men and women alike. There must be something incredibly arousing about this power play, especially when those officers come across enigmatic women such as myself.<br />
<br />
The first time a man called me an enigma, I thought he was throwing a line to light the flame of my curiosity, especially when he decided quoting Khalil Gibran would seal the deal. I burned him back on many well-deserved levels. “There’s nothing mysterious about me,” I said, but I am learning the enigma is not in me, rather in the nature of how men decipher me. The disconnect they find between what their eyes see and what their minds process because they are socialized to swallow women in binary terms—this or that.<br />
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Being a Muslim woman in the headscarf, I’ve experienced policing on multiple levels for decades. Non-Muslim folks tell me my liberty is void with the presence of extra fabric. Muslim men tell me their attraction is averted because of extra fabric. Then, my favorite, other Muslims tell me my existence is oxymoronic and demand I choose a side—headscarf or lifestyle, as if God does not know the spectrum of human life.<br />
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My attire comes into question often and this is where the enigma peaks. How does someone who looks like me live like I do? Talks about sex, sexual assault, women’s rights, performs sensual and open poetry, gives liberal talks, writes about men, wears skinny jeans, and claims to still believe in God? How? It’s pretty easy. God gave me rights, my parents gave me education, and I am an adult capable of making my own choices. A Muslim can never be stripped of their religious identity by anyone but themselves and this is one label I will not undress from.<br />
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The second time a man branded me an enigma, he acted upon it instead of simply telling me. Proceeded to get drunk and try to force his way on me, telling me that a woman like me shouldn’t wear the scarf, should welcome his advances. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re absolutely attractive,” he began, “so it [the hijab] just doesn’t make sense.” And there it was, a deeper glimpse into the way men compartmentalize women into pieces they can devour on their own terms. The binary menu we are unknowingly inked into.<br />
<br />
Ever since my divorce, the binoculars with which men use to look at me changed—non-Muslim men included. While who I am and what I wear and do has shifted from where it was pre-marriage, it’s not that drastic, but there is this element of exoticism men craft on women who are strong but have been broken. It’s like the cracks of our past become seductions they want to play with but never keep, and it’s all I’ve been hearing for the past six years. “You’re attractive enough to sleep with but you’re not someone I’d be with long-term.” I almost questioned myself until I chose not to reduce myself to myself. I know my worth, men do not.<br />
<br />
In a time where men can (and do) sleep with any woman on a simple swipe, it gives them absolute pleasure to chase women like me. It’s an exciting challenge to take on, a new land to conquer above the readily available Tinder database. I’m not the swipe, the drunk desperate girl at the bar. I’m the one on stage in her stilettos and well-curated ensemble, spitting feminist poetry with confidence, and it turns them on but intimidates them all at once, so it becomes such an enticing game we women should never have to play. A Muslim man once told me, when I asked him how he could have such a superficial desire for me, “Because you’re intelligent and accomplished, unlike the other women I’ve become bored of hooking up with.” You’d think these are qualities men are seeking for a lifetime partner, no?<br />
<br />
A few years ago, I was conversing with a man I thought had some real potential, about this very subject. After talking for three months, I asked where this was going and his response was, “I usually go for the more feminine types, but I guess I can learn to broaden my horizons with you.” Without flinching I told him to shove that sunset (in more eloquently poetic terms) and thanked him for the time of mine he wasted.<br />
<br />
He showed me how “unfeminine” women like myself are in the male dictionary. The stereotypical definition of feminine is the cliche: docile, submissive, pink, floral, quiet, unchallenging, and minimally ambitious. To avoid looking sexist though, these days men will pursue a semi-ambitious woman and hope she won’t act upon them. It levels the playing field for them. Women like me are “too much” women for them. We are not feminine. We are sexy, desirable, attractive, all things that (in their opinion) don’t last very (like men themselves, #sorrynotsorry) and so they want to lavish in the temporariness of it, just long enough before it becomes the commitment they fear. God forbid men enjoy the company of established and confident women beyond one night stands.<br />
<br />
I write this because I have grown tired of seeing women being forced between a rock and a hard place. Objectified by men who walk through our communities with immunity. If I could reveal names, I so would, it’s overdue and deserved but it’s not my nature. But here I am, coming across this in the realms of religious spaces, cultural spaces, and poetry spaces, wondering how long men keep up these fronts? Parading as good ones in society, but revealing their true colors to women who have to remain silent because of the backlash we will face for speaking out. I’m <u><b><i>still</i></b></u> harassed for my work on domestic violence awareness and sexual assault. <br />
<br />
How many more women have to live in fear? In paralysis? How many more women have to feel torn between embracing their faiths and spaces safely or being stripped of everything, sometimes even literally?<br />
<br />
Recently, someone sent me a private message inquiring about my connection with another Muslim artist renowned for her ultra-liberal and often criticized “inappropriate” behaviors. I replied simply with, “However we differ on our religious practices as Muslims, they are still Muslim to me and I appreciate the work they do regardless.” This is the spectrum I choose to view all of humanity. I understand that they are parts of a whole and not some faceless dichotomy. It’s not a hard perspective to implement because I know not to objectify people. Maybe in 2020, men can try doing the same?Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-13527508252542659252020-02-06T23:23:00.000-08:002020-02-06T23:23:13.900-08:00Traversing Grief<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaidC6C9F4WmuWgE1s2iMG-4ngVyNHtsFD_I32QqHXT4gA2nEC6HI2EkOLwUmgsIpETiybtbYuP8Vla3rdpRZWSR51jDPwCudrq5tdMtjO79oQJgeyClZkQIqNBJBlkjnMLajnRqkiwY/s1600/ADF241F2-C565-491D-A6DB-25F1586906BE.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIaidC6C9F4WmuWgE1s2iMG-4ngVyNHtsFD_I32QqHXT4gA2nEC6HI2EkOLwUmgsIpETiybtbYuP8Vla3rdpRZWSR51jDPwCudrq5tdMtjO79oQJgeyClZkQIqNBJBlkjnMLajnRqkiwY/s640/ADF241F2-C565-491D-A6DB-25F1586906BE.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">It's been a while since I've written and posted and that's probably because I've been marginalizing the processing of grief, while suddenly being thrown two new packages of grief to carry. Life is like that, isn't it?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">My publisher called me yesterday morning and I could hear the smile in his voice. "Guess what I'm looking at right now?" he asks me. I assumed it was the payment receipt for the money I sent him to pre-order author copies of my newest book. "Nope!" he said. "I'm looking at a live link online of <i>Contortionist Tongue</i>. It's official. You're published." A let out a tiny squeal, did my small penguin dance, and told myself I was allowed to relish in small (or large) moments of joy.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihfLj9_3rWjpqxPoXXs_ToQ6i5C7D0jU6j-sP7Cj5jOzMOHBt50W7wxS2v5IDSbVAHITDgPwMg9yFE6HNGqXAG1P9Xr4dssUvqAK-aAjS9GCMczQq54kJOmf7G4QFkHECic_OMK9LMVT0/s1600/CT2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1003" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihfLj9_3rWjpqxPoXXs_ToQ6i5C7D0jU6j-sP7Cj5jOzMOHBt50W7wxS2v5IDSbVAHITDgPwMg9yFE6HNGqXAG1P9Xr4dssUvqAK-aAjS9GCMczQq54kJOmf7G4QFkHECic_OMK9LMVT0/s400/CT2.jpg" width="250" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What makes it difficult to fully immerse in the joy of this coming third baby of mine is obviously my dad's absence. Who will be the first man to hold my book when it used to always be him? Who will thumb through its pages and nod his head in impressive approval? Who will wish me good luck on its growth and success? I'm sure there are multiple answers to these questions, but they will all be different than <i>dad</i>. However, I will appreciate them no less, and I am abundantly grateful to the supporters who have shown their pride, love, and enthusiasm for my upcoming book and for my work as a whole. Thank you!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I invite those who are available or interested to join my family and I at the official launch and signing of my newest book, <i>Contortionist Tongue,</i> from Moon Tide Press. This collection is a vulnerable but fierce illustration of what it's like to be a Syrian woman, navigating the roads of love, home, and hope, in today's turbulent socio-political climate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The event will be on <u><b>Saturday, March 14th 2020 at 6 p.m.</b></u> at one of my absolute favorite coffee shops in Downtown Orange called <u><b>Contra Coffee & Tea - </b></u><span class="LrzXr"><u><b>115 N Orange St. 92866</b></u>.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span class="LrzXr"></span>Tickets are $20 and include a copy of <i>Contortionist Tongue</i> and can be purchased here: https://www.eventbrite.com/e/contortionist-tongue-book-launch-signing-tickets-91177824327?aff=ebdssbdestsearch</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Further
details are available in the flyer attached. It would be so wonderful
to share this new chapter of my life with you all and celebrate the
blessing that is possible only with the foundation my father built for
me!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span> </span>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-25555756978426944342019-11-28T23:45:00.001-08:002019-11-28T23:54:45.014-08:00Celebrating GriefEvery year, there are less days to celebrate and more to recognize as “Americans” and I put that in quotes because many of us are trying to reconfigure what that means today. As a Syrian born on stolen Tongva land, I struggle to celebrate. For many of us, especially those of us coming from immigrant backgrounds, Thanksgiving is not necessarily a day of celebration, but a day of gathering. At home, that’s what it always was with dad. I recently posted a memory shared from Facebook, from seven years ago today, when dad and I spent a post-dinner conversation that meant the world to me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_6AdsfTz6vKyZF2A2Rhrfo9Zejk2LgcRQr1nP06jYJMFMFdPBXW_OIMcepF4okgcB944Ia_gFPX1o76-9GGHs87yX3bCBly7OaqiGAI50XscCG63nPb0ndYm9dGSyvBeeLm_yTNvEAw/s1600/IMG_0009.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1065" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp_6AdsfTz6vKyZF2A2Rhrfo9Zejk2LgcRQr1nP06jYJMFMFdPBXW_OIMcepF4okgcB944Ia_gFPX1o76-9GGHs87yX3bCBly7OaqiGAI50XscCG63nPb0ndYm9dGSyvBeeLm_yTNvEAw/s640/IMG_0009.JPG" width="425" /></a>Thanksgiving Day was a day of sports viewing, of cooking, of snacking, of online browsing, of random conversations, and of Syrian desserts with tea. Seven years ago it also included literary discussions, my blog, and my dad’s faith in my art as a writer. As hard as some have anticipated today would be on us, it was more weird honestly; and though I planned on making this week’s post about the concept of life support, I bookmarked it for next week and let today focus on the celebration of memories as a part of the grieving process. On understanding the temporariness of all things as a part of life.<br />
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As kids, we knew, if a Lakers game was on, 🤫 🤫 🤫. Dad legit assumed coaching duties on the couch and reprimanded every player through the T.V. when he didn’t “pass the ball!” or “shoot! shoot it, c’mon!!!” Listen, my youngest brother, Karim, was named after Kareem Abdul Jabbar. That’s how hardcore my dad was. He got mama in on it and there’s that story. It’s still too painful to process, though it hits in sporadic crashes. I’m just trying to remember we’re each on this earth for a certain time period, to lay the bricks down for a certain purpose. When we accomplish that purpose, our time is complete here. My dad must’ve completed everything he was on this earth to do and God said, “It’s time.” I look around me, at the life he built for us all, at the skills he taught us knowingly and unknowingly, at the genetics and love we inherited, at the connections and support he offered so many people in the world, then I know. I am reminded, God’s timing means everything and soon enough mine will be up. Once I finish all I’m here to do, however long it’s meant to take, and then I will be in dad’s arms again. <br />
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In Islam, the belief is a human is built of components. The core is the soul, known as <i>nafs</i> in Arabic. The soul houses the spirit or spirituality, which is essentially a connectivity and sensation. However, on this earth, a soul cannot exist without a physical manifestation, and hence, the human body. I never actually saw the body so clearly as a vessel for the soul until I saw my dad’s body in its five month disintegration. When I saw him fall into three separate comas, the last being the finale—despite a racing heart rate that I felt with my shaking palm.<br />
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The last intense hug he ever gave me, we cried our eyes out and maybe it’s because our souls somehow knew this would be it. His time was up, and as sad as that is for our hearts to digest—because we yearn for who we love—trying to frame things in their temporariness in life makes parts of it a little easier to swallow.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpmQWMMMh_PmmDXNRv47phBQBrkutHmiCWmZoKM9DxIA4sSIX-yvjuvp1PyjMtLDSBD1JSXh5RPLrbVywwNGuOm9mYW2N5B0Hpw4WPSx8-aGz2mtbaFhkHNUgTGdjNF3UcnmYFDSea_Po/s1600/IMG_0006.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpmQWMMMh_PmmDXNRv47phBQBrkutHmiCWmZoKM9DxIA4sSIX-yvjuvp1PyjMtLDSBD1JSXh5RPLrbVywwNGuOm9mYW2N5B0Hpw4WPSx8-aGz2mtbaFhkHNUgTGdjNF3UcnmYFDSea_Po/s640/IMG_0006.JPG" width="640" /></a>Until our times are up and we are reunited with our lost loves, we have work to do on this earth for ourselves and our communities. This is how we serve and fulfill. Sometimes we don’t even know what our callings or missions are but when we finish them, we are summoned back. Sometimes we know exactly why we are here and it makes the temporary time we have on earth even more worthwhile. Seek out your missions if you have not yet found them and seek out the good company to nurture your soul’s spirit in the meantime. It makes the journey a little more livable too. Celebrate gratitude for what you had and what you had the chance to experience, not just once a year but all year long, and until then, heal wholly!Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-78617814821278774092019-11-21T22:52:00.002-08:002019-11-22T00:39:01.790-08:00Striking Grief<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I graduated from college, my dad gave me a beautiful necklace—two circles, one inside the other. I’m not big on jewelry (it’s too high maintenance for me) so while I loved it, honestly I didn’t wear it often. I don’t remember what I was talking to him about one day at the hospital, but I remembered the necklace and brought it with me the next day. Whether he recognized it or his post-stroke reception enjoyed the glimmer of the silver, gold, and diamonds, his eyes were fixated. The problem? It sat in my jewelry box so long it got tangled up in so many knots. I realized that was a major reason why I didn’t wear it. So I pulled up a chair beside his bed, propped a pillow up for him to see, and got to work, determined to untangle the gift he gave me.<br />
<br />
Without pause, he kept his gaze on my fingers, diligently working. About an hour later, after squinting, grunting, and somehow creating then undoing more knots, it came loose. The chain was free and ready to be worn. I held it up, beaming with pride, like it ironically represented my efforts to get the degree I initially received when he gifted me the necklace. As the embracing circles hung between us, both our eyes watching them sway, I chuckled. “Dad, I just noticed these circles are us, a representation of a dad and daughter bond. You’re the big circle, protecting and giving the little golden circle her foundation to shine.”<br />
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Since that day, the necklace hasn’t left my body, and everyday I’d come in, I saw his eyes search for it. Its metaphorical layers weigh heavy around my neck, showing me the nuances of grief. What makes grief so fragile is unlike lightning, it always strikes twice, or more.<br />
<br />
On top of literally watching my father leave us, shrinking daily for five months, grief spread itself wide like an ink stain. I don’t have any advice or tidbits to share, just the already shed skins of my grief and the ones I see peeling before me.<br />
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My favorite social media post is the one that reminds everyone to be kind because each person fights a battle unseen. What makes being a writer, a blogger, and an author unique, is in fact our visibility. However, that yields the presumption people have that they know all of us so well. Truth of the matter is, even the most vulnerably open of us, have unspoken unshared layers, levels of other grief above our known ones. So today’s post is simply this reminder. Grief is nonlinear, has no concrete timeline, and is not happening in a vacuum. I hope to shed light on what we went through, what we learned, what we are still learning, and how to navigate the trauma. Next week’s post will be more concrete (about life support). So practice kindness, practice silence, practice honesty, and until then, heal wholly!Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-18362287981231973892019-11-14T12:55:00.001-08:002019-11-14T13:13:50.928-08:00Competitive Grief<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Competitive grief is no mystery to me. In TWO previous jobs, both my supervisors laughed so hard when I stated I was tired, belittling the possibility that I could be. Oblivious to everything going on in my life—domestic violence, a divorce entirely on my shoulders, four hour DAILY commutes, insomnia, managing side projects, writing a book, applying for a graduate degree, and more. I wasn’t allowed to be tired because I didn’t have children? Because I was under the age of 30 back then? Being single or childless does not make someone less entitled to experience grief, loss, exhaustion or trauma. Having a spouse and/or babies is NOT the only struggle a human can endure.<br />
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Now, what I was not familiar with, before my father’s illness, were grief credits, and how they—alongside competitive grief—could take an emotional toll on the immediate family grieving. This post will be more difficult to write than others, not because it’s emotional, but because I know some people may take offense. It’s so hard to express truths today without someone somewhere blowing everything out of proportion, but I’ve been a talkative one since birth. That’s all I ever heard my dad say about me. Every memory he ever shared was about the sassy, straightforward, talkative nature I possessed since the young age of two. He’d talk and his face would light up and I felt indescribably special. Like I knew, no matter what, our foundation was there together. I miss those stories—rather I miss him sharing those stories with me.<br />
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It’s been one month now exactly, and I often catch myself replaying his final hours in my head. Watching his body change colors and knowing that as this prism flashed before me, I was losing my dad forever. I don’t know how, but within hours the world was aware of his death, though none of us announced it till the next morning, when we confirmed funeral arrangements. According to Islamic teachings, the sooner a body can be buried, the better. It’s a sign of respect and closure. But somehow, we faced the reprimands. Started having our grief compared, critiqued, and “outdone” by others. This did not entirely surprise me though. It started the moment word got out that he suffered a stroke after the first surgery.<br />
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No one should mistake what I’m about to say on my behalf, and on behalf of my immediate family, but it was utterly strange to us that people who were never really there in our times of need, were suddenly beyond eager to impose themselves upon us as supporting roles here. I received messages from people who had previously insulted me and my work, claiming primacy to my heart and emotions. People who literally offered no support on our work for Syria or our publications, were now talking about how far back we go. Instead of focusing my energy on my dying father, I was being hounded to reply to texts from entitled people who said they deserved to visit him or should know every detail about his diagnosis. It was what left me crying more often than not at 3:00 a.m. before I finally fell asleep and woke up to re-live the whole cycle all over again a few hours later.<br />
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There’s offering kindness and then there’s straight up ego. I said it before in ‘Stolen Grief” and I’ll say it again; you cannot be absent from people’s times of light and expect to be welcome in their times of darkness. I tried, so hard, to look at it like an overreaching optimist and find gratitude in the “care” that was being offered, but when it drains you, is it genuine care? When you catch that it’s attempts to add grief credits to their social resume, is it authentic?<br />
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We had people show up unannounced, telling us that they know we requested no visitation but wanted to impose anyway because they “love” us so much. Every time that happened I cringed and thought, do you hear what you’re saying? It’s about YOU then, not the grievers.<br />
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I anticipated it would only get worse if/when daddy died and it did. The people trying to push through to see my dad’s body post-mortem and getting agitated if my crying mother or brother said no. The fact that when it was time to offer the dirt before the grave was closed, somehow my mother and I got marginalized and pushed to the end of the line, while everyone else, unrelated to my dad, was up there pouring dirt and tears over his body. Mama and I were locked elbow to elbow, too frail and broken to fight people for our rightful status. It should’ve been common sense.<br />
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Over and over, I kept telling myself, “Share your grief, Dania. Your dad meant a lot to many other people.” But there came a point where it felt like my grief, the grief of his wife and children, was not shiny enough or loud enough so the world felt like it needed to overcompensate. It was hard to separate between authenticity and facade, especially with social media.<br />
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I still don’t know how I feel about social media posts commemorating the dead when it’s not immediate family or immediate circles. When Raihan and her beautiful family passed, I refrained from offering anything aside from the news article and prayers. She and her family are buried right beside my dad and it kills my heart. There’s so much emotion to unpack and digest with that concept alone—my father, my friend, her family, and my other friend’s brother, are all buried, not only in the same cemetery, but the same row. Talk about a reminder of the afterlife!<br />
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But everyday I see new posts about her and I wonder how the families feel seeing that. Does it give them joy? Does it hurt? Grief is not cookie cutter and I think the biggest takeaway is this: When you want to be there for someone grieving, check yourself first. Why are you inclined to offer what it is you want to offer? What are your intentions? How are they coming across? Reflect on that. If you cannot yet pinpoint the answer, offer the most basic of positive messages and then hold off before offering more.<br />
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Do not expect them or ask them to respond. Do not demand information from them. Do not badger them to see you/let you visit. Do not post things without checking with them. Personally, I feel like there’s a certain level of intimacy that exists in grief. It’s a very fine line between sharing grief and knowing when the grief belongs to the immediate circle of the deceased/suffering. To say I know how to thread this fine line would be a lie. I still don’t. I have been guilty of posting things in the past to share in the grief of others, thinking I was part of the collective experience, ignorant to what it may actually be doing. God is teaching me very important lessons now in the death of my dad and I’m listening.<br />
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I’m still learning how to share grief but I also learned, quite vividly, how to protect it too. Grief should never be a competition.<br />
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Until then, heal wholly.Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-73173952227621005742019-11-07T13:26:00.002-08:002019-11-07T13:34:23.369-08:00Shared Grief<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Three weeks ago today, at 6:23 p.m., I watched my dad take his last exhale. His heart rate—reaching a high of 176 that afternoon—suddenly became so faint, the doctors scrambled to get an ultrasound pulse reader to try and find it. I told them there’s no use. I saw him leave us and I slowly backed away and into the chair that became mine for months.<br /><br />It still hasn’t hit me and some people have told me this type of grief doesn’t kick in till later. I fear that may be true and a part of me has sensed it since the moment he was diagnosed in May. The way my body remained surprisingly tranquil throughout it all scared me. Was this the calm before the storm? And if so, when will this storm strike? And if it does, what will become of me?<br /><br />Loss has never been my strong suit, but to be honest, the losses I’m referring to are not death. They never have been. They have been relationships ending—a divorce or a breakup or a rejection. They have been jobs that became so toxic I had to leave. They were friendships that ended when I got ghosted. And occasionally, they’ve been files or poems or journals that I eventually learned to move on without. Actually, all of those “things” I eventually learned to move on without. But how do you move on without a father? And how do you navigate through a grief, that for the first time, is not just yours?<br /><br />When we all gathered around my father’s body—mama, my brother, my uncle, and the two doctors who were my dad’s friends, along with the nurses who became so much like family I miss them all everyday, I realized, unlike every loss before, I am not experiencing this one alone. Suddenly, at age 30, I am re-learning how to share and it’s not easy. How to practice a balance between allowing myself to grieve while also making room for others who are entitled to grieve, to do so as well. There’s no Barney or Blue’s Clues or Elmo for this y’all.<br /><br />A week later, mama and I were in the car, and I said, “I know this is even harder on you because we as adult children don’t have a status change in this loss, but you’ve become a widow.” Widow. She let the word fall from her lips and said, “Yeah, and I never imagined I’d ever be one, especially not like this.” We started recollecting who else from our community was a widow and remembered that a few of them showed up to dad’s funeral and squeezed her tight. I nudge her to continue connecting with them. Group therapy can be as simple as friendships built on solidarity, as a start.<br /><br />Then there are my brothers, one who doesn’t live here and landed hours before the funeral, and one who spent a good amount of his time with dad on boys’ nights out his whole life. I’ve seen more of their tears now than ever before and I open my soul for them. I am not a son so I do not know anything more than the loss of a daughter., which means I cannot fathom the pain his parents feel either, and I remind myself that I had to and have to share that grief with them too.<br /><br />It’s not easy, grief. Add on complicated layers of other things experienced in conjunction with the loss, and it becomes a fiasco that’s left us questioning how we are still standing. But there’s something very powerful about the concept of shared grief that I never got to experience in any of my other losses, and that is the unique sense of not being alone, while still being alone. Bear with me, because these coming posts on grief will unpack a great deal of things that don’t make sense but do, all at once.<br /><br />Despite the numerous texts I received (and still receive) I feel very alone. I always have in times of loss. It’s hard to reach out and ask someone to listen because even you get tired of hearing about your own pain. Then if you do find the courage to reach out, it’s hard to openly express your pain without the fear of judgment or the fear of having spirituality shoved down your throat. Yes, I know, it sounds awful, but not being able to be angry or question things or not uphold a rose colored lens of optimism in these times is often opposite of what many of us crave in our healing. So it becomes difficult to find the company you can completely let your guard down with.<br /><br />I sort of found someone. He sort of volunteered. It’s a complicated history with a strange present and a completely unknown future, but it helps. They—his presence and my needs in grief—have taught me how to better share grief and how to better be there for those grieving, especially those I am sharing the grief with.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />To share grief is to exercise another level of empathy, which takes a great deal of energy, but comes back just as rewarding. It itself becomes a sense of healing power for you, just as much as it heals those you are sharing with. There will be difficult times, moments when you need your own space, where you feel entitled to a selfish second of not caring about anyone else except your own heart, and that is understandable. Take that second to yourself, letting others around you know you are doing so, and then come back. Remember that you are not entirely alone in this grief. Others are hurting too and your love feeds off each others' because it's not just the grief that you are sharing, it's the healing too.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I feel it when my brother laughs. When we all gather around our cat, Kai, and bombard him with kisses. When we capture mama's snoring. When we find a movie on T.V. we love and make popcorn and escape reality for two hours.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I tell people, it’s not going to be an easy journey but we have no choice but to go through it. In the meantime, I feel called to share the lessons we learned (and will learn) in this experience because there were and will be things experienced that I hope others do not have to encounter.<br /><br />Until then, heal wholly.</span></span>Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4593854298274391667.post-46346440040782980802019-07-18T18:50:00.001-07:002019-07-18T18:50:37.252-07:00Stolen Grief<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Recently I asked folks to share their definition and/or expectations of <i>community</i>. What does that word mean to you? What do you expect from a community? Google defines community as “a group of people living in the same place or having a particular characteristic in common.” Pretty generic, right? It also defines community as “a feeling of fellowship with others, as a result of sharing common attitudes, interests, and goals.” The results were not too surprising, but they were disheartening. My internet poll yielded the following responses to these first questions:<br /><br />- Welcoming, accepting, and inclusive<br />- Helping you up when you make a mistake<br />- Connection, not competition<br />- Love, fellowship, mutual support, & sharing food<br />- Nurturing space of honesty and loyalty<br />- Mutual care and respect<br /><br />There is an underlying commonality in these answers, however, something is most definitely missing when a good majority of community members feel a sense of disconnection from their communities. I asked two follow up questions: Does the community you’re in meet your expectations? Why or why not? The answers were as follows:<br /><br />- Never<br />- No, I feel unwelcome and unaccepted<br />- No, I am marginalized and judged<br />- No, I wish for a community more open minded and tolerant<br />- Yes, because I have multiple communities and each compensates for the other’s lacking<br />
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Interestingly enough, the final answer above was given by men only. The other responses were from multiple women. That made me wonder how influential patriarchy and male privilege/entitlement are in the failing of community environments.<br /><br />In the 2015 article “What is Community Anyway?” by the Stanford Social Innovation Review, it stated that “…insufficient understanding of what a community is and its role in the lives of people in diverse societies has led to the downfall of many well-intended “community” efforts.”<br /><br />While the article (found here: <a href="https://ssir.org/articles/entry/what_is_community_anyway">https://ssir.org/articles/entry/what_is_community_anyway</a>) is focused on supporting community initiatives, it brings up a good number of points of what is often neglected, further hindering communities today.<br /><br />These include forgetting that a community is still about the people—the individuals that make up the community, not recognizing where communities overlap, oversight of the fact that communities are created within other communities, neglecting the various formal and informal institutions that communities have developed for themselves, and lastly, not realizing that communities are organized in different ways.<br /><br />As a child, your community is not one you create, rather it comes from your parents/guardians. It’s your family’s friends and their children. If you’re an immigrant or a refugee, or a child of one, often your community is of the same background. School is where we begin building our own personal communities. It is where we choose our friends, who we want to do group projects with or who we want to hang out with after school. This develops further through social networking—the old fashioned one, where folks actually socialized in a physical network offline.<br /><br />Communities evolve through experience—individual or collective—and it is through this evolution that awareness is born. But how much power does awareness have on changing communities? And how long does it take? Activists, educators, and survivors have been speaking out for decades on social change, but communities seem to be slow in their evolution, especially the one(s) I grew up in. While we’ve started “addressing” certain stigmatized subjects, implementation efforts and follow through remain superficial and that has long hindered my ability, and many others, to feel fully embraced by our communities.<br /><br />If I had to define an ideal community, I would define it with an Arabic phrase (بتسند الظهر) that essentially translates to support or has one’s back. A community should be a place of refuge, unity, acceptance, and shared growth. It should consist of openness, respect, and the recognition that it is made up of very diverse people, regardless of the shared characteristics, just like the backbone—different vertebrae, one essential goal. Idealistic? Maybe, but our community is <u><b>long</b></u> overdue for its evolution from crab mentality and selfish agendas.<br /><br />Grief is an incredible indicator of community, specifically how well the community allows its members to grieve, regardless of whether it’s something personal or communal. While human beings share quite a great deal of commonalities, there are plenty of differences that have a right to be respected too. Understanding and implementing this is key for community success. The ways in which people grieve are extremely different. While some prefer the volume and crowd of company for healing, others prefer solitude to process and adjust. At the end of the day a heart knows its optimum coping strategies, any interference or imposition simply becomes stolen grief.<br /><br />Mastering this requires empathy, not sympathy. Sympathy is essentially why communities are stealing its members’ grief. Sympathy creates an unbalanced power dynamic that reduces those suffering from grief to a “less than” status from those “offering” their services. Being there for someone is NEVER about you, it is about the person or persons you are supposedly there for. It is about working hard to <i>listen</i> to what those suffering need and what they desire. Imposing your presence, your words, your food, your coping mechanisms, are all perfect examples of how not to be there for someone. Just because you may desire someone to cook for you or be by your side, does not mean someone else wants the same.<br /><br />Another factor to properly being there for others is understanding that it is not conditional. By this I mean, you cannot be absent from people’s lives during their times of light and success, and then expect to be welcome during their times of darkness and turmoil. This I emphasize immensely as my family and I experience it firsthand. It is utterly strange to us that people who turned their backs on each of us during times when we needed community to encourage our hard work, are now suddenly flooding our space, claiming to be longstanding beloved supporters. Grief can bring out very vivid truths, so to those enduring it I say be prepared.<br /><br />Community can often stifle and steal more than grief so I write this in hopes that my generation does not repeat the cycles of what it has gone through. We deserve better communities, especially in such aching times socially, culturally, religiously, politically, and always personally. Community is where we should find our backbone, our strength, to keep going in this world.<br /><br />However, when communities fail to offer that, we seek human connection through smaller groups. I am immensely grateful to the handful of villages I built in the failures of my communities, especially now in my time of grief. This year I chose to be even more vigilant of who I surround myself with and honestly it has been incredible. Reduce your social spheres, it will enhance your social experience. You become more conscious of your surroundings. You feel safe expressing your truths. You are understood, accepted, and rarely judged. And most importantly, a culture of mutual respect is developed.<br /><br /><i>Do not use your remedy on my wounds / I am not you.</i> I wrote this a few years back and I stand by it just as strongly now as I did then. This is the epitome of community, especially in grief, recognizing the many diverse wounds, and then working to create the multifaceted remedies (plural) to heal and strengthen the people who house those wounds. Until then, our communities will remain fractured, further producing alienated members, carrying a facade of unity.Lady Narratorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13362462289186571411noreply@blogger.com