So, That's Awesome

"God Only Knows" by The Beach Boys

...I may not always love you / But long as there are stars above you...

Sniki texted me early this afternoon. She is a blogger and a blog reader (I feel as though that sounds so culturally contrived).

She texted me about two blogs that she thought were interesting and told me to check them out. Her blog is also quite amazing. She is on my Magic Woman blog as The Niki.

Because I decided to skip my only Friday class, my mind was in no way occupied, not being intellectual, and not being productive.

I was checking out these blogs and then I became a little idle. Some folder in my brain reminded me about a certain someone's blog, and, like an idiot, I decided to check it out.

Now, I didn't know the address so I looked up on Google the email address I remember he uses.

And I found it. And in it, he very measuredly, very casually, callously but effectively, and hurtfully called me crazy. The entry was not even about me and nor was my name explicitly mentioned but context exposed "the last girl I called myself in love with" as me.

I spent hours, hours thumb talking to my counselors Christina and Brittany trying to figure out 1) why he would say such a thing and 2) why I am so upset about it.

Here I am: A few months ago, I received a text asking how I was doing. I did not respond and received another message a few minutes later, a reminder from him that he will always be there for me.

I was enraged. I was so livid. After having "thrown a grenade and running," he was back, I guess, to assess the damage. I cannot convince myself that he was returning to rebuild a damn thing, although I could be wrong. Still enraged, I called him and let my angry lips talk without having thought about what I was going to say. It was profane and mean and emotional and raw, but it was honest. I still don't even know how he managed to get this new number.

What happened? What happened to "I am always here for you"? How quickly we arrive at "crazy" (and he knows I am afraid that people will think I am crazy so that's an awesome choice of a word). After the whole "betrayal" (oh it was such a production), I felt (feel) so slighted that I don't think he deserves to be angry.

But that is not fair. Those are his emotions. I cannot think for him nor can I feel for him. And if there is one thing I believe, I believe that we are all entitled to our emotions. He is angry and I cannot do anything but understand.

And I am trying. I am trying so hard to forgive. I try so hard sometimes it seems like he may feel it. He may feel that I am trying to let go and stop hating him. Obviously, he does not. I am trying to let it go, realize that people do bad things and will do bad things to me, I do and will do bad things to people, and move on with my life.

But it is hard. I understand that he his angry and I have a good idea about what and why. I am a student of psychology and I have already concocted some explanations about it, but it does not help me. It does not comfort me.

I let him in...all the way. I told him all the things that embarrass me, that I am ashamed of, angry at myself for, everything. And he caudled me and informed me that nothing is wrong with me, that I am still lovable, that I am a good person and then he left. And I wonder if he meant any of it. And then I returned to the days when I was certain. I am certain that something is wrong with me. He did not want me either.

I'm not angry. For one, I should not have been on his blog. For two, he is a human being and he deserves his anger and any other emotion he has. For three, he is a good man, a very good man who's ego was slighted. Empathy is almost always wholly silenced by ego. He is a good man, but he is a man.

The Christina and the Brittany responded to me all day with texts of encouragement. They said some unflattering things about my former friend (they may hate him more than I do, and it is not as though I haven't said some things myself), mostly just to make me feel better.

And even though I want to believe them and be angry because it feels so good, so filling, it is not right. I feel for him in the midst of my anger because whether or not I am wrong or he is, both of us are still humans and your pain is always real and never soothed by pointing fingers and dodging responsibility.

I am sorry. I apologize. I hurt you and I am sorry. And I shall never be so stupid as to read the blog again.

It's like I eat stupid for breakfast or something.

Lumières Lourdes

We have again re-entered the 30th Century as of January 26, 2009. He called me as I was making my nutritious dinner and watching the news.

I returned upstairs to view a missed called from...30th Century Man. I smiled like one who has had her sold soul restored by a sheepish, bitter devil.

I called him back and spoke to his voicemail (even though I hate when people leave me voicemails). He called me right back and we talked. He sounded a little disappointed that I did not call him during his whole vacation but I had lost the number. I thought about him often though (although I dare not tell him that). I think he forgave me.

I cannot even really remember the conversation but I was happy to hear his voice on the other line and know that I could call him whenever I felt.

I am not going to outline any plans or expectations or anticipations here. Writing my heart's literature is akin to publishing the future and if the future does not happen like the literature has recorded...I will be highly disappointed.

So I shonuff will keep this manuscript under lock and key, only read in the dark, basement office of my giddy girlhood, and only once in a while. But, this is me admitting that I have high hopes and expectations. I am simply not listing them. Things make too much sense when written and documented. I will keep them hazy and undefined for right now.

As a teaser though, I am hoping he is indomitable competition for Mr. Jones.

Shaken, not stirred and Taken, not single.

Work It Out

"Declaration (This is It)" by Kirk Franklin

...it's a new day / I'm not afraid anymore...

I woke up for Yoga this morning at 8am. Showered. Made a small breakfast. I abhor waking up early in the morning but I suppose I am a "morning person" for my energy level rises to normal level rather quickly.

I have made a pact to exercise more will power and discipline this year. I have extended this to mean I must wake up early in the morning and be productive each day as early as I can.

I have not been waking up for Yoga because I stay up late to study. Not following the healthy schedule.

So I was able to do it today and Yoga was at 8am not at 9. I am not sure if it is because it is raining and ugly, because I am still living under my chronic melancholy, or what but I was VERY upset about it.

I feel as though I have lost control of my life. I therefore try to maintain it in even the smallest areas that I can. I clearly schedule every hour of my day because my time is all that I own and control.

As I walked home, I cried about a lot of things. This is the prayer I sent to God, not as humbly as I should have, but as honest as I am infamous for:

Sometimes I feel like You push me too hard

Sometimes I don't understand why You made me this way

Soemtimes I feel like I can't wait for the morning to come

And for Your blessing to wake me

Sometimes I feel as though You are not listening

Sometimes I feel like my tears are meaningless

As the cheeks they run down

Sometimes I feel like I'm too dramatic

But that just reminds me that I don't understand

Why You made me this way

Most of the time, I don't doubt You because my belief,

My faith is all that I have.

I am still alive and that is all the proof I have that You are alive

Waking up, sometimes, is all the testimony I have

Most of the time I cling to You like nothing else

Because I learned that you don't know that all you need is God

Until all You have is God.

And all I have is God.

I don't have a thing in the world to give anyone

I don't have a maternal hand to stroke my head when I feel the most defeated

And I don't have a tissue absorbant enough to catch all my tears

Which is why I don't release every tear my heart feels it needs to shed

And I don't have a paternal hand of encouragement to rub my back

When the weight of my sadness is too heavy.

But he is a father to the fatherless and a mother to motherless

So let the Devil know that your encouraged.

I hope God isn't mad. And I don't think He is. We all doubt Him and from what I understand, He expects us to. Smart people, critical thinkers, intellectuals write theses to discredit Him, but I don't think He gets offended. He gave us the talent to do so.

People have told me, "Zainab, I don't understand why you believe in God. You're so smart." As if to say only stupid people believe in God. And I do doubt things in the Bible. I don't believe in the story of Adam and Eve. But I know what I have seen and endured. I should not be alive to type this blog but I am and ain't enough luck in the world to have kept me alive.

Besides the doctrines and hard-to-believe-stories, anti-Semitism, persecution of homosexuals, church denominations, hypocrisy, hateful evangelists, my pending degree in science, my inclination to turn to science, and other controversial subject about Christianity, I have just been through some things I should not have survived, so God is as real to me as the keys I am typing on.

The Remedial Arts

"Break My Little Heart" by Jazmine Sullivan

...boy don't lead...lead me on / you don't know how I feel / please promise me...

I know this girl, beautiful girl. Funny, smart and wise far beyond her years. Loyal and honest, generous and considerate. Wide-eyed and ready. Dreams big and feels big.

If humans could even be perfect, she would almost be there.

But this girl doesn't know any of this about herself. She isn't humble. She is insecure.

And we're all insecure. However, her insecurities outweigh her knowledge of her grandiosity almost completely. She sees very little of what the rest of the world loves about her.

It sabotages her in so many ways, like insecurities typically do. She is paranoid about how she is perceived, anxious about who she is, and hyperbolic in the examination of her flaws. She sees very little of what the rest of the world loves about her.

She thinks his actions are whispers about her. His steps are sonar rebukes against the person she is. He isn't just unresponsive to a text, but he is ignoring her soul altogether, as if he is out to break her heart just by living his life. She doesn't see his attentiveness, his sensitivity to her feelings, and his willingness to talk and explain. She sees very little of the what the rest of the world loves about her.

Although my efforts in combating my own insecurities have been quite remedial, I have assumed the task of teaching her how to rebuild herself, love herself.

So I stopped by the computer lab in the library before my 2 o'clock class and typed up a syllabus for her. I described the course in self discovery she would be taking, listed the textbooks, and gave her a rudimentary outline of the assignments in personal growth she would have to complete.

And while I have her do all this, I, the professor, too will read. And we will repair ourselves together.

We will perfect the original projection of the image of perfection the world can already see.

The Lights are On

"Teenage Love Affair" by Alicia Keys

...nothin' really matters / I don't really care / what nobody tells me...

It is a random, uneventful Wednesday, Hump Day. I have no class on Friday so my weekend starts tomorrow.

I was supposed to go to Yoga with Brittany at 9am but when I woke up, I was right tired so I decided to skip out. I feel a little bad about it because although when I wake up, I feel indomitably exhausted, no matter how much sleep I get, it subsides after a few minutes.

But I can never inspire myself to last for the few minutes it will take me to really wake up, so I go back to sleep.

Nonetheless, I woke up a little later and made my healthy breakfast, practiced my correct posture (good posture makes you feel important, maybe erroneously so), watched the news, and laughed. I feel playful today. I feel like I should have a good day. I want to have a teenage love affair with my life: happy, fulfilled, irreverent, and secure. That's what I felt like during my teenage love affair.

I'm not going to skip around downtown Richmond like a fool, but my heart will. I only have my one class today: English 215: Reading in Literature. My professor, Dr. Sharp, resembles George Carlin very much. It is some kind of creepy. He is a very smart, sarcastic, funny man too.

I know he will mention President Obama's inauguration. It's impossible to assemble a group of people on campus and the President is not somehow mentioned. My sociology professor sent us an email reminding us of the sociological significance of his election. Sociology is the study of society and society has changed immensely in recent years.

So, I'm off to have my teenage love affair with my life. Deuces.

Dante's New Beatrice

"Round Midgnight" by Ella Fitzgerald

...I do pretty well 'til after sundown / Suppertime I'm feelin' sad / But it gets really bad / 'Round midnight / Memories always start 'round midnight...

Nineteen days into this new year, I am quite proud of myself. Classes have commenced and I'm in love with my brain. I love school. I love to learn and I am taking the kinds of intellectually stimulating, humanity connecting classes that my mind was truly created for.

I am taking a World Studies class about the classic The Divine Comedy by the epic Italian poet Dante Alighieri. My professor is this balding, handsome, compactly built Italian genius who stolen my mind with his vast knowledge and my heart with his accent and animated English.

I imagined that this class would be messily boring (because I resent "the classics" written by these dead white men whose offspring annihilated what would have been African classics). But it is not. Dr. Piciche offers information about Dante the writer.

He provides historical and social contexts for many of the things Dante includes in his poem. He comments that times never really change. The technology gets better so more details are recorded and more babies are made so there is more to record. But times never really change.

Hence the term "classic". Classics survive time; remain relevant. Time gives us the illusion that things have changed so we hang on to very few things. And classics are the few things we hang onto.

Education sophisticates people. I do not mean sophistication in some saddidy, I-read-more-and-better-than you kind of way. Education sophisticates one into being humble. It reminds a person how big the world is and how small every person is...unless you decided that there is something that you can do to improve the world. That is what makes one grand.

In this new year, I have decided to discover and display my grandiosity. I have taken to praying far more often than I used to, eating as good as I know I should, being patient, and even more empathetic. I am calm.

I am still the same. I am uptight and I worry too much. I am pessimistic and I am dramatic. But I can calm myself down within a few seconds. If not, eventually, the situation dissipates totally and I think about it in a far less tragic way. It becomes correctable, manageable, necessary even.

I think I could be happy even though the situation has not changed. Beauty is a state of mind.

Like a Rock

"No Diggity" by Blackstreet

...I like the way you work it / No diggity / I'm 'bout to bag it up...

I found and read an article on www.CNN.com about a young boy with autism who was lost at sea with his father. I identified with all the things the father spoke about(click here to read it). The father kept track of his son as the boy drifted farther and farther away by reciting lines from Disney movies his son loved. (They were both rescued and survived).

My brother has autism and I often shout out beginning lines of catch phrases from different shows and movies he likes for him to complete them. He always laughs when I begin them. He understands it as a game and he loves it. I thought it was so cool that someone else does that with the child with autism that he loves.

It is a strange affinity. I love him because he is my brother. I love him because he is sick and I think if he knows he is loved, he can do much better than if he didn't know. I feel like I have to protect him, defend him, and save him from a world and culture that may not care about him.

I love a giggly, energetic boy with autism named Lima. He is the last of us to be born and the reason that we stick together, despite the tumult that is our family relationship. I was talking to Bri today and mentioned that. We go through a lot as a family and although our culture strongly emphasizes the unconditional love of family, I am not sure we would have upheld that without Lima Bean.

No matter what goes on within our family, no matter how angry we get with one another, we seem to be willing to reconcile for his sake. He is our atom and we are his electrons.

Even in this current tempest, his 18th birthday is this month and my parental unit is throwing him a birthday. Despite the fact that I don't really want to talk to them, I will definitely go because he is my sunshine, our sunshine. It hurts sometimes that the trials in my life have trumped my obligations to my brother. However, no life is without trials, so when court is adjourned, I'll return to my duties as his loving and attentive older sister.

We don't say things like "I love you" at my house, or show much affection at all, but we all tell Lima that we love him, when he wakes up, when he goes to sleep, when he returns from school, randomly when he passes through a hallway. Lima is the only thing we love more than we love to fight.

I love a child with Autism.