There's no knowing what goes on in other hearts.
And no telling what goes on in mine.
The tired patience that creeps up under the ribs,
The mellow that cools the burn of anger in the mind,
The faith that eases tension from the neck, the shoulders.
There's no telling what happens in the heart.
August 02, 2011
August 01, 2011
Down to the last bite
It's 3:47 am.
On the plate in front of me: a piece of vegan polish sausage, about a cubic inch; five chic peas, with the skin of one additional chic pea, and about a quarter teaspoon of watery chic pea sludge that tastes of garlic and salt; the last two centimetres squared, or so, of a piece of buttered whole wheat toast.
This is a significant improvement from yesterday's suhoor.
I'm anxious about the time, as Fajr draws near.
Fighting against myself and my painfully slow eating.
Fighting against the thought that maybe I don't need these last bites to make it through the day.
Fighting against the anxiety of needing to hydrate and stave off heat.
Later in the day I will fight myself again.
I am almost always fighting something these days.
Almost always angry.
Other times I will find respite.
The familiar discipline,
the restraint against impulse,
it will quiet me.
I will grow gardens of patience.
Vines will climb up my anger.
New growth will push out of my soul.
Nerves full of anger will set loose singing blades of grass.
I wrap the last bite of sausage, with three fingers, with toast.
I scoop the chic peas up with a fork, poking the sludge onto my fork with a cautious finger.
I will take bites out of my anger, one at a time, every day, for a month,
until there's nothing left to eat.
On the plate in front of me: a piece of vegan polish sausage, about a cubic inch; five chic peas, with the skin of one additional chic pea, and about a quarter teaspoon of watery chic pea sludge that tastes of garlic and salt; the last two centimetres squared, or so, of a piece of buttered whole wheat toast.
This is a significant improvement from yesterday's suhoor.
I'm anxious about the time, as Fajr draws near.
Fighting against myself and my painfully slow eating.
Fighting against the thought that maybe I don't need these last bites to make it through the day.
Fighting against the anxiety of needing to hydrate and stave off heat.
Later in the day I will fight myself again.
I am almost always fighting something these days.
Almost always angry.
Other times I will find respite.
The familiar discipline,
the restraint against impulse,
it will quiet me.
I will grow gardens of patience.
Vines will climb up my anger.
New growth will push out of my soul.
Nerves full of anger will set loose singing blades of grass.
I wrap the last bite of sausage, with three fingers, with toast.
I scoop the chic peas up with a fork, poking the sludge onto my fork with a cautious finger.
I will take bites out of my anger, one at a time, every day, for a month,
until there's nothing left to eat.
Things someone really ought to tell you about Ramadan (Part 1)
Pretty much everyone who knows me beyond a casual hello knows that I'm muslim, and that I fast during Ramadan. Those who know me a bit more intimately know that Ramadan is a big deal to me this year.
For reasons of health and spirituality, there was a time when I was a teenager when I was the only person in my household who was able to fast during Ramadan. My dad would sometimes get up to keep me company during sehri, and we often had family iftar time, but it was mostly a solitary game. I felt a deep sense of responsibility, fasting in hopes that my actions would turn out some benefits for my parents health, my brother's well-being. The last time that this was the case, the last Ramadan I spent at home, was in 2001, not long after 9/11.
After I left home, Ramadan became increasingly a challenge in my life. Removed from the everyday of my family's life, I had to find new motivation. It's not as though I loved or cared for my family any less. Being alone, or rather a lone muslim, and not having people around who recognize what you're doing, means you have to be much more committed. Suddenly I found that if I was going to live up to the many observances of Ramadan, I would have to do it for myself. This is a hard thing to do when you're 17 and you don't love yourself.
Ramadans 2002-2006, the Ottawa years, were awkward, and sometimes bleak. There are some amusing anecdotes (creative methods of trying to get up for sehri and fajr without disturbing the roommate I shared one tiny room with in my first year of undergrad) and some sad (fasting fewer and fewer days because of isolation, depression, and health problems). These years were peppered with a few bright spots, when I would have iftar at the home of old family friends, or manage to make the 10 hour trip home to spend Eid with my family.
I should note that my isolation in these years was both imposed and self-afflicted. There was no real community of muslims in my residence in first year. I tried to pretend I was brave, and went to a few MSA events, but mostly found myself alienated by what felt like hyper-virtuous, normalizing, mainstream muslims at the time. It was too much a reminder of the uncomfortable years of islamic sunday school, where I felt preached at by an imam whose social views and relationship to allah did not reflect my own, and where pre-teen peer pressure was more morally influential than the teachings of the qur'an. I chose to stay away from other muslims because I didn't trust them. I didn't trust the awe and surprise of people learning for the first time that I, a girl, was studying and living away from home, and amongst non-muslims. I didn't trust the pressure to change the way I related to allah and islam. I'm not proud of it, and I still grapple with these issues now. As a young adult, I let these things drive me away from the ummah.
For reasons of health and spirituality, there was a time when I was a teenager when I was the only person in my household who was able to fast during Ramadan. My dad would sometimes get up to keep me company during sehri, and we often had family iftar time, but it was mostly a solitary game. I felt a deep sense of responsibility, fasting in hopes that my actions would turn out some benefits for my parents health, my brother's well-being. The last time that this was the case, the last Ramadan I spent at home, was in 2001, not long after 9/11.
After I left home, Ramadan became increasingly a challenge in my life. Removed from the everyday of my family's life, I had to find new motivation. It's not as though I loved or cared for my family any less. Being alone, or rather a lone muslim, and not having people around who recognize what you're doing, means you have to be much more committed. Suddenly I found that if I was going to live up to the many observances of Ramadan, I would have to do it for myself. This is a hard thing to do when you're 17 and you don't love yourself.
Ramadans 2002-2006, the Ottawa years, were awkward, and sometimes bleak. There are some amusing anecdotes (creative methods of trying to get up for sehri and fajr without disturbing the roommate I shared one tiny room with in my first year of undergrad) and some sad (fasting fewer and fewer days because of isolation, depression, and health problems). These years were peppered with a few bright spots, when I would have iftar at the home of old family friends, or manage to make the 10 hour trip home to spend Eid with my family.
I should note that my isolation in these years was both imposed and self-afflicted. There was no real community of muslims in my residence in first year. I tried to pretend I was brave, and went to a few MSA events, but mostly found myself alienated by what felt like hyper-virtuous, normalizing, mainstream muslims at the time. It was too much a reminder of the uncomfortable years of islamic sunday school, where I felt preached at by an imam whose social views and relationship to allah did not reflect my own, and where pre-teen peer pressure was more morally influential than the teachings of the qur'an. I chose to stay away from other muslims because I didn't trust them. I didn't trust the awe and surprise of people learning for the first time that I, a girl, was studying and living away from home, and amongst non-muslims. I didn't trust the pressure to change the way I related to allah and islam. I'm not proud of it, and I still grapple with these issues now. As a young adult, I let these things drive me away from the ummah.
June 18, 2011
The men in my life have made me wish I didn't have a body
The men in my life have made me wish I didn't have a body.
The partner who took the bags of groceries out of my hands, because he was the man, despite my telling him I could carry them myself, so that my muscles shrank and my strength decayed.
The brother who would think it was okay for any man to stare at a woman's body if it were the type he thought a woman should be confident about, because he likes to stare at women's bodies too, and can't fault others for doing what he does, even if they are doing it to his sister, who doesn't want them to.
The friend who would fetishize my breasts, but who would not hold my body.
The father who treats his wife and sister with derision for the weight they have gained over the years, and asks me why I have gained a few inches, but doesn't think that this will make me feel worthless.
The partner who would use my body in ways I asked him not to, but would not help me through great physical pain when I begged him to.
The brother and cousin who tell me that if I were to keep my eyes lowered as a bride - a common custom that is supposed to convey modesty, but is also problematically gendered and normative - they would be be ashamed of me.
The friend who cherishes the way I make him laugh, the thoughts and understandings we can share, but who would never let me rest my head against his chest, or my hand over his heart.
The partner who would expect affection when it suited him, but who would not touch me when it didn't.
The colleague who would kiss me for helping him meet his idol, but not for being mine.
The uncle who would make sexual jokes that depict women as being valuable only for their sexual capacity, in the company of the family, and would not stop when we would tell him it wasn't funny.
The men in my life, they do not love me in a way that is kind to my body. They may love the person they think I am. They may love the wit and intelligence, the strength and the humour they see in me, but they do not love my flesh. The men in my life ignore the nerves and emotions tangled up in my body. I wish I didn't have one.
The partner who took the bags of groceries out of my hands, because he was the man, despite my telling him I could carry them myself, so that my muscles shrank and my strength decayed.
The brother who would think it was okay for any man to stare at a woman's body if it were the type he thought a woman should be confident about, because he likes to stare at women's bodies too, and can't fault others for doing what he does, even if they are doing it to his sister, who doesn't want them to.
The friend who would fetishize my breasts, but who would not hold my body.
The father who treats his wife and sister with derision for the weight they have gained over the years, and asks me why I have gained a few inches, but doesn't think that this will make me feel worthless.
The partner who would use my body in ways I asked him not to, but would not help me through great physical pain when I begged him to.
The brother and cousin who tell me that if I were to keep my eyes lowered as a bride - a common custom that is supposed to convey modesty, but is also problematically gendered and normative - they would be be ashamed of me.
The friend who cherishes the way I make him laugh, the thoughts and understandings we can share, but who would never let me rest my head against his chest, or my hand over his heart.
The partner who would expect affection when it suited him, but who would not touch me when it didn't.
The colleague who would kiss me for helping him meet his idol, but not for being mine.
The uncle who would make sexual jokes that depict women as being valuable only for their sexual capacity, in the company of the family, and would not stop when we would tell him it wasn't funny.
The men in my life, they do not love me in a way that is kind to my body. They may love the person they think I am. They may love the wit and intelligence, the strength and the humour they see in me, but they do not love my flesh. The men in my life ignore the nerves and emotions tangled up in my body. I wish I didn't have one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)