today is whatever i want it to be

I have so many stories to share with you – insights, conversations, observations, incidents, interactions, meetings – each playing an important role in my two-week hiatus from this weblog.

I don't even know where to start.

I could tell you about my sister – whose final exams ended two weeks before mine – chauffeuring me sixty miles to school (and back) for nearly a week because most days I was too exhausted to drive. She loves my friends. The feeling is mutual. We're one big happy family.

I could tell you about sleeping three hours a night, if I did sleep at all, for weeks. And about how pulling all-nighters makes me cold down to the bone, so that even steaming hot showers can't alleviate the chill for the rest of the day, even in the midst of our blazing Northern California summer.

I could tell you about how I drove home anywhere between 11pm and 2am for two weeks. And about how beautiful the stars look at that time of the night. And about how I barely saw my own family during that time, much less ate a real meal with them.

I could tell you about prayers made in gratitude, and others made for strength and patience.

I could tell you about Somayya preparing for her neurobiology final exam by regaling me with information about the osmotic pressure of urine.
"Why would you even need to know that?" I asked with slight distaste.
"Because," she answered patiently, "if you're a doctor and a little kid comes in and says, 'I can't pee,' you have to test him accordingly."
"Oh."
"This is why I love pre-med classes," she said, "because you can actually apply them to real life!"

I could tell you how, an hour later, we (Somayya, my sister, our friend L, and I) met up with a fellow weblogger at an Austrian bakery, and laughed about using the renal system as a pick-up line. Maria is just as beautiful, warm, and approachable as she comes across on her weblog, and she has earned my never-ending gratitude and respect for her immediate attempt to pronounce our names correctly. Interestingly, our conversations touched less on medicine and weblogs than I had expected. Among other things, we discussed reasons why we feel Bush is an incompetent nincompoop. When I confessed that I frequent the bakery just to practice my rusty German (and then proceeded to absolutely butcher the pronunciation of Zwetschgenfleck, or plum cake), Maria solemnly assured me that wanting to know the name of what one is eating is a valid concern. I could tell you that when we all marveled at the fact that she updates her weblog every single day, she replied simply, "You make time for the things you enjoy doing." Which, I know, doesn't say much for my writing efforts over the past month or so, but I promise I'll try to be better. Maria is my hero.

I could tell you about my and my sister's Islamic Sunday school kids (aged 6-7) presenting in front of everyone and their momma, literally. I'm talking about an entire hall full of people here – parents, grandparents, siblings, and dozens of other people from the local Muslim community. The kids, dressed in their fanciest outfits, were calm and cool, in contrast to our rattled nervousness. I felt like such a mother. I could tell you how, as soon as their presentation ended, two of our kids gleefully folded their fancy-schmancy Islamic school certificates into paper airplanes and launched them into the air. Yes, I laughed.

More than anything, those two weeks were about people and laughter. I remember remarking to someone recently that, after four years, I've finally learned to separate the friends from the acquaintances, learned to realize that there is a select group of people I consider close friends whom I know I'll make an effort to stay in touch with even after college. It amazes me to think that I didn't even know some of them a year ago. But I am blessed to know the beautiful people that I do, and to be surrounded by them on a near-daily basis.

I could tell you how it has only started to hit me what a transitory state college is. After the recent whirlwind round of commencement ceremonies and graduation parties, I'm left with friends and acquaintances who are still dazed and hesitant about what to do now that college is over. I could tell you about how there's a Real World out there, about how most graduating seniors I know are terrified of the Real World, and about how glad I am that I'm sticking around for an extra year.

I could tell you about laughing and eating with friends – avocado sandwiches on the rooftop patio, Chinese lunches at the blue tables, pizza dinners in abandoned classrooms, late-night snacks purchased from basement vending machines and sneaked into the library.

I could tell you about taking naps in the library when I should have been studying, about socializing in the library when I should have been studying, about our endless migratory parades from the ground-floor to the third floor to the basement to the reading room and group study rooms on the second floor, shuffling our belongings from table to table, trading batteries and CDs, sharing books and lecture notes, practicing Arabic calligraphy on white boards meant for neurobiology review. And, yet, it seemed as if we did nothing but study. But there was always laughter, even when we were frustrated nearly to tears by stress and studying, even when we had papers and exams in such rapid succession that it left us breathless with exhaustion.

I could tell you about interviewing three students over the course of a week, in preparation for an internship paper on intercultural relations, campus climate, and diversity issues on our university campus. I could tell you about what an amazing experience each of those interviews was, the highlight of my week, about how stimulating and satisfying it is to have in-depth conversations with people who feel as passionately about multicultural issues as I do. E, a White friend of mine, touched me profoundly with her perspective and observations. "In my heart, I would like to be a part of changing the status quo," she said, "but I think I use 'I'm busy' as an excuse not to. I don't think there are many situations I put myself in where I'm a minority." I could tell you how true that comment is of me, as well, on a number of levels.

I could tell you about J, another friend, who is actively involved in the leadership or membership of so many groups that he couldn't even begin to name them all for me. He dislikes labeling himself and thus regularly shifts his identity from Mexican to Native to indigenous to Chicano, and back again. "You can't ever think you’ve done your best. You always have to do more," he advised me. "You can never do enough, no matter how hard you push yourself. If you’re thinking you’re doing a really good job, you’re probably not doing enough. Don’t ever be satisfied. You have to be constantly critical and constantly developing into something more, something better."

I could tell you about how the subject for my third interview was A, the Persian student. It was neither the time nor place to bring up the questions that I had mentioned wanting to ask him. But it was a wonderfully thought-provoking conversation nonetheless, and, like J, he shared so many blunt observations and so much practical advice about campus issues that I'm still mulling over it now.

I could tell you about the recognition ceremony for my internship. Along with fellow interns, I had to speak to a roomful of faculty, staff, professors, PhDs, and University administration-level people about my experiences within the internship over the past year. I know how far I've come. I've learned how much further I still need to go. But where I am is a beautiful place, too, and I'm so very grateful for the opportunities this internship has afforded me, for the experiences I've had and the people I've met over the past several months. I'll be working there another year, and I'd do it for longer if I could.

I have so many stories.

I don't even know where to start.

oh, the scrolling, so much scrolling

[Background: A friend asked me a while back to write up a few sentences summarizing why I choose to be Muslim, so she could then publish it in the Muslim campus paper, along with several other students' responses. I kept assuring her that I would submit something, but was frustrated at my inability to articulate exactly what she needed and what I wanted to say. The poem I ended up writing while I was supposed to be studying for a psychology final submitting instead illustrates some of that dilemma, I hope. This one is called Elusion. If it sounds choppy, it's because I'm not used to writing poetry, so it's more like a prose piece chopped up into short lines. Besides, this is only the second real poem I've ever written. The other one involves even more scrolling, so you'll have to let me know if you can handle it. Real post coming tomorrow, peoples.]

She holds out a hand to stop me
As I exit the building.
“Tell me,” she says.
“A few words, nothing more, just
The gist of an explanation.
It won’t take too much of
Your time.”

But I slant my gaze
And turn my head and
Answer in a voice muffled
By years of confusion and regrets:
“I have no words.”

“How can you not?” she queries,
Or perhaps what I hear is just
The reproachful voice
Of my own heart.
“No words for that which
Is so defining, so innate,
So all-encompassing and guiding
For you?”

But I turn away
And close my eyes
As images of the past
And present and what could be
Float through my conscience.
And I, too, wonder at
My lack of words,
Usually so steadfast,
Sentinel guards standing at attention,
Eyes sharp, literary weapons waiting
For my command.

I see her the next day.
I will see her tomorrow
And the day after, and more.
Each day she will approach
Me to ask
For my thoughts and justifications.
And each time,
Despite her entreaties,
Comes my level, distant reply:
“I have no words.”

Sometimes
The truth lies not in words
But in actions and endeavors.
I bathe, hoping someday
The water substitutes for light.
I will pray on carpets that scrape
My sunburnt skin
And on rugs that cushion
My blistered feet
And on marble floors and green lawns
That cool my face in prostration,
Hoping for levels higher
Than that which I know.

I will prove my worth
And challenge definitions,
Even if I must
Redefine challenges.
I will continue to smile at strangers
Unapologetically.
And I will change the world
Tomorrow,
Or the day after,
And more.

Because I,
One woman walking,
Represent so much
More.

And when I see her again,
It will be a new season
And perhaps a new
Me.
I will be able to speak
That day,
To give voice to the muffled words
Of my soul,
To speak of sparks of light
In twisted hearts,
Prayers that illuminate darkened corners,
Joyous laughter that stems
From gratitude for relief
And salvation.

But today
There are still words left unsaid,
Thoughts unknown,
Actions unconceived.
And I stumble on the path,
Fumble for words,
Laugh at my own confusion,
Throw up my hands
To relieve myself of
The burden of justifications.

This season is cold.
My conscience feeds off
My soul.
And there are
Days of darkness,
Nights of rain.

But tomorrow will bring
The light.

the fat cat strikes again!

(Just for Somayya, cuz lord knows we've needed the laughs.)

p.s. Yes, this is how we waste time in the library. And I promise I'll be back soon!

drowning in a sea of post-it notes

belief makes things real, makes things feel, feel alright

He's a graduating senior. He's very articulate, and passionate about diversity issues on our university campus. His family fled Iran when he was a child, soon after the revolution (Which revolution? cracked my father, when I came home and recounted my day to him. Iran goes through a revolution every few years.) He doesn't consider himself American even though he's lived in the U.S. for most of his life, because, in his mind, he's still an immigrant and very much Persian.

These are the things I observed and learned about him during the course of our group discussion. As part of my internship, I've met and interacted with many interesting people during the past year. Still, but for the exchange that followed, I most likely would have forgotten about the Persian boy by the end of the evening.

As we remained in our circle of chairs, waiting for the other group to finish its discussion, he crossed the room and dropped into an empty chair beside me. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," I said.

"Are you Muslim?"

"Yes."

He moved his hand in a circle around his face, referring to my headscarf. "You wear hijab." He then looked down pointedly at my feet. "But you're wearing sandals."

I couldn't help laughing a little. "Wait, so, as a Muslim, I'm not allowed to wear flip-flops?"

He held up his hands. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended at all," I said. "But, based to my understanding of Islam and modesty, what I'm wearing right now is in accordance with hijab."

"I didn't mean to offend you," he repeated. "I was just curious, because I've seen Muslim girls on campus who won't wear sandals."

I raised an eyebrow. "You sure it's not just because they don't like sandals, maybe?"

He laughed. "No. I went up to them and asked them about it. Like I said, I'm very curious."

"That's interesting," I said. "I've never even noticed that. I guess, for some people, it depends on where you're from, where you live. Like I said, for me, what I'm wearing right now constitutes hijab."

"I think you mentioned this earlier, during the discussion, but you're Pakistani, right?"

"Right."

He jerked his chin at my flip-flops again. "And would you be able to wear those, if you were in Pakistan?"

"Of course!" I said, both bewildered and amused. "I'm from a village, and everyone there wears sandals and flip-flops. It's a normal part of life. In the summer, it's really hot – you need sandals. And even in the winter, not everyone can afford to buy real shoes."

He nodded. "Okay. But Pakistan – it's very strict, isn't it? Like Saudi Arabia?"

"I've never been to Saudi Arabia, so I don't know what it's like there," I replied. "And I'm from a village in Pakistan. A village is like –"

"– its own little world," he finished.

"Right," I smiled. "There's a lot of cultural influence there that is not necessarily Islam. If I wanted to step out into the main part of my village in Pakistan, I had to wear a chador. But in the Pakistani cities, as well as in many other places, I think what I'm wearing right now would be commonly accepted as adequate hijab."

He nodded in understanding. "I went back to Iran after tenth grade, and everything was just…different," he said. "Before, women were totally covered, fully veiled. I went back and, all of a sudden, women were wearing capri pants. They said that it was okay, they had found justifications for it. But you know what, people are always going to find ways to excuse what ever they want to. The lines and boundaries are constantly extended."

"Yeah. Each community tends to have its own interpretations."

He smiled deprecatingly. "I really hope I didn't offend you with my questions. I'm just fascinated by hijab."

"Trust me," I said, "If I were offended, I would really let you know."

"I used to be Muslim," he commented. "Up until tenth grade, when I went back to Iran."

The casual ease with which he made the remark stunned me. I tried to hide my blank shock behind a noncommittal nod. He turned to me again. "So how long have you been Muslim?"

Taken aback, I replied, "I've always considered myself Muslim."

"But how long have you been practicing?"

I thought about it. "My parents raised me so that I was constantly surrounded by and reminded about Islam. But I guess I didn't really start practicing on my own until I went back to Pakistan when I was thirteen, and lived there for eighteen months."

He looked at me with an inscrutable expression on his face. "I guess we have opposite stories, huh?"

"I guess so," I agreed.

I had so many questions, but I didn't get a chance to ask him any of them. The other group had finished their discussion by then, and it was time to wrap up and head home. I smiled politely at the Persian boy and wandered back to my colleagues.

While walking across campus toward the end of the week, I saw him performing a spoken word piece during a culture show he had co-organized. Since I love spoken word but rarely get a chance to be at an event, I stopped to listen, and found I could relate to many of his experiences and struggles in balancing his ancestral culture with life in America. He has his grandmother's nose and his father's eyes, he was relating to the crowd, and as a young child newly arrived in the U.S. he used to be terrified of tennis lessons because the relentless speed of tennis balls shot his way made him think of cannons. I tried to fit these pieces together with what I already knew of him.

A few days later, a friend admitted to me, "I used to drink alcohol, smoke drugs. Yet even at the height of all that, I couldn't bring myself to eat meat that wasn't halal."

"Why?" I asked. "What made you stay Muslim? Why didn't you just totally give it all up? What made you keep identifying as Muslim even though your lifestyle didn't reflect it at all?"

He looked at me and replied in all seriousness, "Because I have an English translation of the Quran, and whenever I opened it and read it, I felt that God was speaking directly to me. I could just feel the power of the words. That's the one thing that kept me connected to Islam, even though my life, and the world, and everything else was completely jacked up."

I find it interesting and intriguing, juxtaposing these two young men's very different approaches to Islam. If I were to meet the Persian boy again, I wouldn't be able to stop asking questions. I want to know why this boy - who is such an expressive communicator, deeply involved with student-campus relations, genuinely proud of his cultural heritage, passionate about intercultural dialogue, understanding, and alliance - doesn't align himself anymore with the religion he was raised on.

Other things I would ask him:

What made you decide not to be Muslim anymore? Was it something specific, or a series of events? How did you decide? Did you sit down one day and say, Okay, I'm not Muslim from now on? Did you wake up one morning and not feel Muslim anymore? Why did you totally break away from Islam, as opposed to - like so many others - remaining Muslim in name only yet not practicing? And, by the way, what is your definition of Islam anyway?

But most of all, I want to know why a boy who doesn't consider himself Muslim anymore remains so obviously fascinated by hijab.