I see no evil,
In misdeeds undone,
But hidden, hushed tones,
Where are the seekers?
I ask my jaded soul.
For this place is a puzzle,
And I’m drowning in pieces.
Yet again, the burrowed mole.
Hidden To find the burrowed mole🕊🕊
I do not expect you to understand.
Every time you bear witness to my tears, I feel ashamed.
You see, every time I go back, this wound tears apart, never healed,
A fresh cut, bright red, only stings.
I scurry to piece together my bandaged, broken wings.
This hole, I have yet to fill,
Will swallow me whole.
I am numb to the world around me,
Because up until now, I have not reckoned,
When my vulnerabilities beckoned,
For me to try, For me to heal.
Around me, I never wanted this to revolve.
With me, I only wanted to deal,
My broken heart.
And, no, I do not need your guilt.
This plight is blameless,
If my tears are shameless.
What I need is you to tell me, “It will all be okay,”
What I need is your promise that there is a better way.
This Isn’t Exactly a Feathertale…
This weekend, I attended my cousins wedding. A cousin I had lost touch with, who I had once been so close with, we were practically like sisters.
Let me start from the beginning, or at least the part where things got tangled up. There was a time in my life when I moved away from home to a new place. An armpit of a place, also known as, Bakersfield, California. I had moved away from my family, my friends and my first boyfriend. I was fragile, sad and lonely. Fortunately for me my cousin and her parents lived there too. They took me in, and she spent almost every day with me. She was there for me when I needed someone to laugh with, some guidance in life and a shoulder to cry on when I got my first ever heart break. She was my only friend for a time and she helped me through my personal struggles with social awkwardness and body image. Over the years I spent in Bakersfield, I got the chance to get to know my cousin and my aunt and uncle in a way my brothers and other cousins would never get the chance too. They were not perfect people. My uncle, was not one for female empowerment, had affairs of his own and often lashed out at his stay-at-home wife, my aunt, who held fast to her youngest daughter, my other cousin. They both had their own prejudices and passed those stigmas on to some of their children. For this reason and more, I stopped talking to my cousin. I stopped going out of my way to see her, because I wasn’t enjoying my time with her anymore. I was getting tired of it. I didn’t want to sit there while she said hurtful, frankly, racist words. I didn’t want to sit there while she body shamed others. I didn’t want to laugh with her while she judged our family members. And yet, when I first came to live in the same city as her, that is exactly what I did. It didn’t occur to me at first, that by appeasing my cousin, I was going against my own fundamentals.
“Why were you making fun of those girls on Facebook with your cousin? That wasn’t even funny. It was straight up mean. That’s not you, Nina.” My boyfriend at the time had pointed out to me one late night studying. I was working on my undergrad and my cousin was taking a few science courses for a change in career paths. She loved to join us for “study nights” which were meant for studying. However, my cousin never wanted to actually study, instead she wanted to laugh, joke and pick apart our other cousins on social media. I have so many bad memories with my cousin that sometimes it clouds the good ones. There are the phrases she likes to put to use, and often at that. Her favorites were “riff-raff”, “trash” and my least favorite, “dirty _____.” (Some phrases I can not bring myself to type out fully and post because they are too hurtful, so bare with me please). Her sister once told me that my cousin has said “there was nothing worse than being ____ and fat.” Her father once told me that the reason Bakersfield is so polluted is because of the hispanic population. Needless to say, they are both trump supporters.
My cousin and I had a lot of spats because of this, one of the worst was when I actually talked back. See the other times I would take to avoiding her or picking a fight over something else. It’s a good time to mention that we are Arabs, and despite this fact, when my cousin sees a hairy olive skinned man driving recklessly, she refers to him as a terrorist. Repeatedly. During the viewing of this individual’s careless driving and afterwards. There was also the time when we were, again, “studying” with a friend of hers. Her friend mentioned there was a Muslim girl in her class who wore a hijab. This girl was white and not too familiar with why people of the Islamic faith chose to cover up and she asked us if we knew any Muslim girls. My cousin responded with “no, I don’t know any ninjas.” I was annoyed with this jab, because it wasn’t the first time she had made fun of Muslims. She had been known to say things like “those girls must be so dirty under those scarves, who knows what they’re hiding under there.” I reminded my cousin that she did know a Muslim girl and that she was my friend. They had met a few weeks ago and that I didn’t appreciate her remarks. She of course laughed this off, as she so often did and chided me for being so serious. For the first time, I didn’t laugh back. I looked at her and told her that her comment was racist. It was mean. She left the room in tears and I eventually had to go console her, tell her that I had been too harsh. That’s what my cousin excelled at. Manipulation. I don’t really think it was on purpose. Her parents instilled this prejudice in her and no one had ever told her that she was wrong.
Let me elaborate on this note, my aunt, her mother, had once completely cut off a family friend because she converted to Islam and took on the hijab. When my cousin began to date a Hispanic man, her mom stopped letting him in her home when she found out they were seriously dating. My cousin has kept it a secret from her parents for over a year, because he was Mexican. Based off her mother’s reaction and influence, my cousin broke it off with this man. They actually had a pretty good relationship. They laughed for hours together and he didn’t even mind when she made fun of him for speaking Spanish or saying “quesadillas” the right way. She had once told him that if they had children, she wouldn’t learn Spanish and didn’t want them to know it. She told me, privately, that she couldn’t imagine a life of backyard parties with hispanic music playing and his family there. Or quincinyedas. I had to sit and listen to all of this whenever I hung out with her, which was often because the two of us had been close.
When I had gone to phlebotomy school I once complained to her about a class mate who kept prodding at my arm, missing her target every time. She asked me “was she mexican?” I responded, “no, she was a white lady.” She looked at me perplexed and said, “oh, but they’re usually good.”
A few years later, I moved away from Bakersfield and my cousin did too. I moved to San Francisco to live with my now fiancé and she moved to the Pleasanton to find herself a new life. When I visited her for the first time, she relented to me that she was so relieved to live somewhere without “riff raff.” Pleasanton is one of the whitest places you could find on a map of California. I should also mention that I have three brothers. One of them has been in a relationship with a Hispanic woman who I have know since I was a teenager and love dearly. The other one was also in a relationship with a Hispanic woman. That relationship ended, but that’s hardly important to my point. I also was dating a Honduran man at the time. Once visiting, my uncle asked my mom, “why do all your kids date Mexicans?” To which my mom responded, “who cares?”
I can not fully blame my cousin for her predispositions on nationalities. Her parents are the main culprits for her narrow mindedness and perhaps it is my fault for not pushing harder to set her straight. Instead I chose to walk a cowards path, I stopped answering her texts with enthusiasm. If she asked to hangout, I made excuses for why I couldn’t. I posted many progressive and inclusive statements on my social media accounts during the 2016 election. She deleted me off of Instagram the day I posted a picture of myself at the Women’s March. She had texted me earlier that day to see if I wanted to go out to dinner with her and her new boyfriend for my birthday. (The march happened to be on my birthday that year). I replied saying I had other plans. Her disapproval was clear and I let that suffice as enough of an excuse to not reach out to her at all.
That was two years ago. Since then, I have met up with her four times. In early fall to meet her new fiancé and to have dinner with her and catch up before I moved again, this time to Atlanta with my fiancé. The last time I saw her was yesterday for her wedding. She and her sisters who I haven’t seen in years, looked exuberant, happy and in good humors. I had a great time seeing them and couldn’t remember all the reasons I let the disconnect happen in the first place. That’s why I wrote this. So I could remind myself that there are always reasons behind the decisions we make. Not always easy ones, not always great ones, but, alas, they are what they are. Paths I have set for myself. People I have let into my life and those I pushed out. My other cousins frown at me for my distance. They do not understand my reasons because I never told them and never plan to. Somethings you have to learn for yourself. As for now, I think the relationship of long distance is for the best. The day my cousin comes to me and says, “you’re right my view point was skewed. I said some ignorant things,” is the day I would do almost anything to rekindle our broken relationship. But there’s about a 0.25% chance of that ever happening and I have to keep living my life. I now chose to surround myself with people who actually care about the implications of ignorance and arrogance. I know that when I post this, if anyone actually reads it, some will think to themselves, why didn’t she do more? And, yet, others will be offended by my words.
If I could change the past, I would have spoken up at all the right times. I would have clearly and gracefully shown my cousin and her parents why they should be more open minded. But I didn’t and I can’t change the past. I can not change how my arguments were emotionally fueled. I can not change how my temper rose every time I felt their ignorance was impenetrable. But isn’t that just it? Isn’t that the problem we face today? Haven’t we let our emotions, not only cloud, but rule our better judgement? How do we get better? How do we cross the line of pride and the barrier of stubborness and bad influences? Maybe we can start by being vulnerable. Maybe we can start by being honest.
One thing I purposely did not mention earlier, is that my cousin did reach out to me and ask why I was so distant. This was a year ago and I decided to tell her. She was hurt, but, ultimately, she ignored it and we remain distant. I can’t force her to see things from my perspective, but that doesn’t mean that other people will be the same. Things haven’t changed with my cousin, but maybe they can with yours. Maybe they can with someone else. All I can do is learn from my mistakes and try to be better. That is really all any of us can do, but let us not walk away before trying.
(The mental doctor that is)
The Squirrel & The Fox
“I suppose I should write. I should really write something down,” said the sad fox to the lonely squirrel.
“I find that it is best to write in times so grey,” the squirrel returned.
“I think myself a lion, at times of brave display”
“Me thinks you’re just a coward, who likes to laugh and play,”
“Or, perhaps, I am a bird, flying free beneath the clouds!”
“Or, perhaps, your head is dense and heavy, and your wings are made of shrouds.”
“Dear squirrel, dost thou mock me? With lines so dry and grey?”
“Dear sir, why I would never, your mind doth carry you away. Oh my friend, I know your plight and I shall aid you in this quest! I can rid you of your riddles, and form a key to all your locks.”
“Dear squirrel, pray, you help me! Can thou free me from this box?”
“My dear friend, hear me closely. Your fur is brown and short, your eyes are dark and wide, your paws are sharp with daggers. Dear sir, you are a fox.”
One of the first poems I had ever written was when I was twelve. I wrote a quaint little poem about colors and I submitted it to my teacher, Mr. Someone (For lack of a better anonymous name, I will be referring to my teacher as Mr. Someone). Although I did not realize it at the time, I was head over heels for Mr. Someone. See, for a twelve year old girl, who never felt like she fit in anywhere, having a teacher who believed in you was everything. Every morning in Mr. Someone’s english class he would set aside thirty minutes for free writing. He told us we could write anything we wanted. I asked him if I could write a poem and he said, “of course!”
So when he gave me back my poem about colors, I was pleased to see that he loved it! His exact words were “Hey, I’m color blind and I love this!” I was mortified. I had no idea that I had just wrote a whole page worth describing colors and handed it in to a man who could not see them. Despite this minor embarrassment, Mr. Someone continued to encourage me to write poems and so I did. I wrote poems about sadness, happiness, friendship, courage and my fears. What I did not understand at the time was that this teacher had reached in through my invisible wall and turned on this creative engine I did not know existed. I truly loved writing. It gave me a sense of freedom to speak my mind that I never really thought I was capable of. So, then, what happened?
I grew up. I changed. I listened to those who told me creative pursuits would get me no where and make me no money. Instead, I took the advice of those older and wiser than me, also known as my dad, and followed in my mom’s footsteps. I majored in biology and became a laboratory technician. Three and half years later, that is what I am today. But the truth is, I am not happy. If I could go back, I would tell myself to write a different story. In fact, maybe that’s exactly what I am telling myself right now. As I pick up the keyboard and begin to write again, I feel alive. I feel like my truest self. I want to write every day and be free of the confinements I have been locking myself in since I decided that following your passion was not what “normal” people did. It’s okay to not fit in. It’s okay to be different and it is never too late to change.
A small excerpt from a fantasy novel I am working on:
Cursed am I, for the crickets do chirp,
At night in a land, so quietly serene,
So desolate and vast,
As I sit here gazing at the dust in the sky,
I am but nothing
But a mourner, a sea-side foreigner,
In the desert of my mind,
Shalt my body whither so divine.
Sometimes its a song, spinning my mind in circles
Of what we had,
Of who we were,
Of how it was.
In these rose colored glasses,
I see only the good.
The two of us laughing in the streets,
Forgetting our way, our path, our reasons.
Rain soaked us through to the bone, but carefree we ran.
Paper bag, not on head,
Because that pie was more important,
Handmade in the city that made us.
That wove us,
Together, like two separate strings of yarn,
You blue and me pink.
The two of us sinking into the sandy deep,
Sunset over the horizon,
I cover my face with yours, just before
That high rushes me towards the water.
And you laugh, your face splashed with smiles.
Its just a smile,
Thoughts of us bring to my reminiscent face,
Filling me with glee, as I delight in our memories
In the way it was.
And in these moments, I forget the way it is.
I forget the struggles that this dream has cost us.
I forget the goals we wrote,
With fast pens and slow hands.
My mind forgets it all,
But my heart remembers how it was.
In that life, we had no reasons, no consequences.
We lived in the now, and oh,
Katrina had met Lola on her first flyfish catching trip. Her parents had been so excited to have her participate in this age-old Truxton Village tradition. Every year on the first day of spring, Truxton villagers would take their children who were between the ages of nine and ten years old to the Truxe River to catch their first flyfish. It was said that catching a flyfish would bring one great wisdom and help them to grow into the person they were meant to be. Being from out of the village, Katrina’s parents were always trying their best to assimilate to the Truxton ways. They wanted Katrina to fit in and feel like she belonged here.
Katrina had made herself comfortable in a dry dirt spot next to a soft grey-white round rock that seemed just right for her to lean her back up against as she peered into the wild running river before her. As she gazed at the clear blue flowing river just before the water met the rocks turning it into beautiful white rapids, she wondered what her life would be like as a flyfish. Would it feel like freedom to swish your tale from left to right until you hit the waters surface, spread your scaly pink wings and bound into the air. For a few glorious seconds, would it be worth their inevitable demise? Would it be worth becoming some random villager’s dinner?
It was 7:15 pm and with just a few minutes before night fall, the fly fish would be out soon. Katrina’s parents were just down the river a few feet away from her, conversing with some other parents about the excitement of their childrens’ first fly fishing event. It was then that a tall, skinny girl with hairy legs and glasses sat next to Katrina.
She shyly said, “hello,” and then starred down at her fishing rod. She seemed either quietly anxious or, simply bored by the activity to come. Like many Truxton girls, the shy girl wore a long brown dress that cut off just before her ankles, exposing her skinny, hairy legs. Maybe her mom didn’t let her participate in the hair removing ritual of young Truxton women, Katrina thought. Perhaps her parents were strict and forced her to come here against her will. Well I better talk to her and save her from this hairy mess. After all, Katrina once had hairy legs herself.
Nine-year-old Katrina turned to the girl and piped up, “My parents are making me do this. What about yours?”
“Huh, oh. Yeah, me too. I don’t really like fishing much,” the girl responded.
“Well, maybe instead of catching a fish we can jump on one and fly away!” Katrina exclaimed with child like glee.
The girl politely chuckled. “I would like that. I’m Lola.”
About twenty minutes into their conversation about their parents being completely lame, the sun had fallen from their sight and darkness befell the forest. Katrina looked around and noticed the other children gathering around her new favorite rock to get a better vantage point at the river. They waited with baited breath for the first flyfish to leave the water. Katrina was half mad that they had squeezed into her special rock area, when she heard it.
The first splash sounded lightly like a pebble being flung into a pond. The first flyfish had a large gaping mouth which billowed as air rushed inside of it. It’s wings spread open wide as it emerged from the dark blue water revealing scaly patches that sparkled in bright shades of pink in the moonlight. As barrels of flyfish followed it’s lead and lept from the underworld, the other children readied their fishing rods dutifully as their parents had taught them. Katrina looked down at her long, black shiny fishing rod, with its wiry white string and rusted metal spindle. She then proceeded to let it fall to the forest floor. She didn’t want to catch any of these miraculous creatures. She just wanted to watch them. Her parents still down the river, she looked over at Lola, who had a similar expression of awe on her face. They exchanged looks knowing that neither one of them would be eating dinner tonight. As the other children struggled with their fishing rods and impatient parents, Katrina and Lola sat by the soft grey rock and watched as a stream of glistening pink glided over the dark blue.
Brown eyes like murky wells so deep, they stare me down in the night.
Blinking back my shallow depths, I hopelessly peer,
For I have lost my sight.
Time passes, I carry on.
What have I to fear, as I saunter towards the facade of the light.
Nothing, or so it appears, waits for me here,
But if my eyes could dig deeper,
Like sharp claws to a loose branch,
Then those eyes could guide me home,
My owl in the night.