England is Gone

Staring at my shoes

as the plane rumbles underneath me

Staring at the dials on the ceiling

To hold the sadness inside my eyes

Staring across the aisle at the oval of the sky

As the world tilts away

I don’t look outside again

Until I know it’s safe, until

I know that I’m high enough

In the air that maybe I can stop wishing

I was still on the ground

By the time I turn to the window again,

England is gone, and all I can see now

Is clouds.

Something Else Lost

It doesn’t feel like I’m important to him anymore. It didn’t feel personal. I was just another half-finished part of the assembly line, nameless and undistinguished. It was routine. It was something I felt I had to do and what he thought he had to do instead of what it used to be. It was no longer the thing I looked forward to but the thing which was expected. I could have left the line and just gone home, maybe that would have been better. I’ve never done that and maybe I would have if he hadn’t stopped and scooped me up in his arms from behind on his way to the souvenir table. I’ve never left without saying hello but then again he’s never forgotten how to spell my name, he’s never treated me like any one of the other fans, just another autograph and quick hello. There was none of the spark there always used to be when he kissed my cheek, no butterflies when we hugged. When the show was over I was glad instead of wanting it to go on, and I didn’t care that he didn’t try to hit that last note. I gave up on that a long time before I gave up on him. Why should it be different than the other 28 times? He never has and he never will and it’s just not worth wishing for anymore. It’s the same canned speech and the same stupid whirling patriotic lights and little American flags, the same songs in the same order and the same jokes and the same woman waddling up to wipe his sweat and the same little girls running to wrap a lei around his wrist. He wiggles his hips and drapes a scarf over my neck and leaves just a trace of chapstick behind on my cheek but it’s all the same cheap karaoke and it’s just not exciting anymore and it’s not any fun. The platitudes are forced and the hugs don’t mean anything and I still have to smile to their faces and grimace behind their backs and pretend I’m not dying inside because one of the last reachable things that kept me going after everything is gone.

the apology

Dear Me.
I'm so sorry.
I apologize to you profusely.
I'm begging for forgiveness from you
For putting you through all I did
In my idiocy, my naive sense of
"Hey, maybe this'll work".

Dear Me.
Look what I've done to you.
Torn you.
Ripped you apart from what you were
And turned you into something
Unrecognizable.
I was selfish, I was stupid,
And I'm sorry.

Your dignity.
Your innocence.
Your trust.
Your hope in the goodness of people
Whom you've loved in a cloud of dirty tricks.

I've stolen these from you
Tossed them over the bridge
For the sake of an adventure that's left
Us both a former fraction of ourselves.

Dear Me.
I'm so sorry.
I think I knew while it was going on
That nothing this twisted
Nothing that only felt right 15%
Of the time
Could end well for anyone.

Dear broken, shattered, shadow-of-self me.
I'm so very, very sorry.

"We Are Not a Bargaining Chip"

Hello readers!

First off, I want to thank everybody for sharing and reading and all that, I really do appreciate it! My pageviews have EXPLODED!! You guys rock.

This post is semi-- sorta-- somewhat related to the series of posts I called Project Islam, in that it deals with discrimination. But the discrimination I'll deal with here is slightly different and, if I may say so, even sadder.

We had a guest speaker in my Ethnic Studies class (the same class which assigned me last week's project), and I will simply call him "Mike". This is mostly because I've forgotten his last name. Ha. Anyway, Mike came to our class a couple days ago to talk about the remaining Indian reservations in our area, White Cloud here in Nebraska, as well as Pine Ridge and Rose Bud in neighboring South Dakota. He was about in his late thirties, early forties, and had lived on White Cloud reservation since he was a teenager.

What I liked most about this guy is he didn't try to pretty things up. He told it straight. He even cussed a few times, and each time I saw my professor wince.

What he told us about mostly was the indifference of those just outside the reservations. He talked about how there'd be murders, and the authorities wouldn't come unless the victime was white. The mentality was "oh, it's just a drunk Indian". Nothing would be done. It was assumed that any dead Indian had died as a result of alcohol and their own stupidity. And literally, there was and usually still isn't any criminal punishment for offenses against a Native American. Basically, a white man can get away with anything as long as he doesn't do it to a fellow white man.

One of the most striking things I remember Mike saying is, you aren't sent to the reservations to "prosper, but you're meant to die." The policy for the Indians is "managing, not solving" the problems that are all too present. Violence is a big problem, but the fact that the violence is essentially ignored is worse. It's like we've forgotten that they were here first, and that the white man is encroaching on native territory. And yet we've pushed our culture, our rules, our stereotypes on them like we own them. We encourage them (somewhat) to build enterprises, they build and own casinos, which do financially help the reservation. But we don't allow them to thrive. We barely allow them to live.

Mike also told a personal story. He's not full native, or even half, but he mentioned his early life working on oil fields for sixteen years. This continues to be a common trade for natives on the reservation, unless you're lucky enough to get what minimal education they offer and find something slightly better. His grandfather, however, was full Native, and worked in the grain elevators here in Nebraska. He was thought for the longest time to be Mexican by the other employees. When it was discovered, however, that he was actually native, he was killed. He was beaten to death with a hammer by these men, and nothing was done.

The final thing Mike said was political. And though I proudly voted for Obama, I can see Mike's point in what he said. He said the president treated the laws concerning land protection and Indian rights a "negotiation point" with the opposing party, something to use and manipulate to his advantage. His exact words were "We are not a bargaining chip. We are a people." Native Americans have unalienable rights just like the rest of us, have endured more tyranny and destruction on their people than most Anglo-Saxxon peoples, and deserve respect for being the ones who welcomed the white man to the great land that is America today.

Project Islam: Day 5: Comparisons

So this is the comparison shot. On the left is me on the first day, Monday. I wore the same blue hiijab every day, and of course no makeup. No jewelry, and I had to keep my hair completely covered at all times. The skirt went down to my ankles. I however wore long socks or stockings as an extra precaution, as Nebraska is a particularly windy state ;)

The picture on the right is basically me on a normal day. The fuzzy black photobomber is my kitten, Abby :)

It's been a long week, but also a week of growth and experience. My heart goes out to all Muslims, and all those living under religious and cultural suppression. I respect you. I can't say I necessarily understand what you have to live with on a daily basis, your whole lives, but I respect you immensely and will make a point to stand up for you whenever I can. May Allah bless you a thousand times.

Project Islam: Day 4: Westernized

It's really not the same. Here I am on Friday, the last day really of my project. After what happened on Wednesday, I discontinued wearing the hiijab and the traditional clothes, and went back to wearing what I normally wear. I still said my prayers, I still followed the diet rules. I went about the traditions as I had while wearing all of it.

But it wasn't quite the same. It didn't feel right. Dressed as I usually am in jeans, a tshirt, and sneakers, I didn't feel like I was connecting to the religion as solidly as I had while wearing the hiijab. Which, I supposed, might be some of the point. Because it isn't just going through the motions. You have to fully envelope yourself in the belief, the custom, and the tradition of Islam for it to truly mean something.

It's just a shame to me that my experience of such a complex, devout religion had to be hurt by the fear that if I put the hiijab on again, something worse than a bowlful of cottage cheese would come my way. Maybe by the same hands, maybe by others. Because unfortunately, those three boys, who will hopefully be identified by camera come Monday, are not the only ones with this misguided hate inside them. Misguided, yes. Meaningless. Hate in and of itself is bad enough, but a hatred based on lies and one's own insufferable resistance to the very idea of, gee, I don't know, learning a little bit about someone who's different than you are-- that's worse. That kind of hate is an acid. It's an acid that spreads and oozes and creeps and eats away at any logic and cooperation there might be left.

There are plenty of bad people in the world. There are plenty of bad people in America, people who grew up Christian, ate their vegetables, prayed to Jesus and still found it within themselves to commit terrible acts against humanity. Yet how many people wearing crosses or crucifixes around their necks are frisked at the airport? How many of us get nervous when we realize we're on the same flight with a priest? No. The truth of the matter is, yes, the Taliban exists. Yes, there's a pocket of radical Muslims out there screaming Death to America. This fear we Americans have when we're on any type of public transportation and spot a man in a turban, or a woman in a bhurka or hiijab, this is not an innate fear. We have learned to hate and fear these people because the sad fact is, gossip spreads faster than truth, and bad news travels faster than good news. We want someone to fear. 9/11 just gave us another excuse to do that.

Truth be told, I missed the hiijab. I won't say I missed the long skirts, because I have always felt way more comfortable in jeans. But when I left my dorm room Thursday morning without the hiijab, I felt exposed. Three days I'd worn my hiijab from the time I left my room to the time I went to bed at night, and never went outdoors or in the company of other people without it. Then because of one act of bigotry and misguided hatred, I was forced to resume my "Westernized" identity, for fear that something worse would happen to me if I didn't. Ah, did you catch that? Fear. I was afraid. Afraid to express and represent 'my' religion, an identity I'd taken on for a week. And it struck me: as only a 'pretend' Muslim, I could go back and change into jeans and a tshirt and expose my blonde hair, and I could see those same three guys again and they probably would never know I was the same girl. I could hide. I could hide behind my makeup and hairspray and rainbow-Technicolor shoelaces, but a real Muslim, a practicing Muslim woman doesn't have that option. If someone dumps food on her hiijab, she must wash it and dry it and wrap it back around her head and take on another day, keeping her head down and avoiding dark alleys. And that's not fair. The fact that I could dress up as anything, a nun, a hooker, heck, I could probably wear an "I Love Nixon" tshirt and nobody would touch me (haha, bad political humor)-- I would go virtually unharmed dressed as anything else.

But dressed as a Muslim, I was laughed at. I was pointed at. I was stared at. I was hated, and I was blatantly assaulted.

Moments

It's sitting in a black leather chair
In a room full of pictures of tattooed women
While a guy with gages you could shoot hoops through
Pokes ink into your arm while you try not to cry
And wish desperately that your mother was there.

It's sitting back in a blue polyester chair
With a paper dress on over your clothes
And trying not to swallow too many times
While a doctor who looks like your parents' boss
Asks you about your hobbies, all the while
Digging in your neck with a needle,
Looking for cancer.

It's riding along in the comfort of a baby-blue upholstered bench seat
Of a 1993 silver Crown Victoria, wearing the sunglasses which belonged
To the old man who drove this car before you, the man whose obituary
You keep in the glove compartment, and he keeps you company while you drive
Along, in that quiet way ghosts have, and the whole thing reminds you of your favorite
Country song.

It's fidgeting in the hard wooden pew at the front of the church, uncomfortable
In a dress and already messing up your makeup with endless tears that you can't seem
To stop, because your favorite big brother, your only brother, is getting married today,
And he gave you a bracelet that matches the bride's necklace, and you could barely get through
That bit you were supposed to read because the two of them are absolutely perfect together, and
You realize the groom is crying just as hard as you are.

It's kneeling in the dirt in the front of your house, pushing that little blue cardboard box into the dirt and covering it back up, that box which holds the last ashes of the first pet you really ever had, the one who was secretly always your favorite, and who is resting now beside the ashes of his best friend, the one you never really knew the age of or where he'd come from, or how he'd come to be a part of the family.

It's leaning back in the scratchy, buttery-smelling seats of the movie theatre, watching a movie you've already seen twice but it makes you cry again, and you lean in closer and closer until he finally puts his arm around you and you both feel awful from the worst fries you've ever eaten, but it's okay because the movie's a musical and he actually wanted to go, and he smells like leather and wood smoke and just a little bit too much cologne.

It's moments
In loss
In life
In hope
In fear
In joy
Forever in our memory.