Eid Mubarak! A Prayer For You Upon Returning Home

Eid Mubarak!

 

Look, some of my Muslim fam sent me Eid tidings! I sent one too. See if you can guess which one is me!!!

 

 

Even though Eid was yesterday for many Muslims, I couldn’t attend Eid prayer because I was undergoing a super minor surgery that turned into a rather painful event, though still minor in the grand scheme of things.

 

I was emotionally bummed after the surgery, but my mama went for the win! She brought home dim-sum for lunch which, it turns out, actually goes super well with valium and Tylenol plus codeine. Then, she made a four course gourmet meal of chicken and broccoli, chicken soup, and goose grass vegetables. My ma who loves me dearly has realized that Iftars and Eid are opportunities to spoil her biggest baby. I’m so grateful and hungry that I gobble everything I can.

 

My sister drove me to the appointment and back for an hour + and brought over her kids who managed to only yell at each other a little. I taught them to play Pente and took great joy in beating them (one is 10 and the other is 6 so is this weird?)

 

I got cool Eidi. My brother gave me swiss army knives (KNIVES) from Switzerland and pictures. I got to watch tons of episodes of Eternal Love until my eyeballs peeled off. Loving friends sent me kind messages and supportive shares about me peeling off little parts of my insides to share with the masses. Both my sibs wisely elected to not read my blog post from yesterday so that they could be extra nice to me on Eid. Thanks guys!!!

 

Friends of mine sent the most AWESOME photo of Muslim community in NYC. They put on a direct action at the NYU Washington Square Park Eid Prayer. Together, they showed courage in public and prayed in a mixed gender line, organizing themselves to write a letter to the Imam in advance, and to prepare with allies. It went very smoothly, and I am so grateful to know these folks. Also, of course, I miss them hard right now. Brings tears to the eyes. This is a BFD.

 

And despite all this wonderfulness, I found myself overwhelmed at night. Not only because I was in pain, but because I was finished with Ramadan.

 

Also, I no longer know how to eat properly (I do know how to gobble), and I felt funny inside.

 

Today, I woke up and found out that my great professor and mentor, the brilliant storyteller, Tayari Jones has won the 2019 Women’s Prize in Fiction. WHUTWHUTTTTTTT!!!

 

 

I was determined not to let the weird feelings ruin my Eid.

I realized that there’s a bonus to being a non-denominational Muslim!

 

I could have an EID Do-Over. THANKS ALLAH!

 

I attended Eid prayer this morning at the South Bay Islamic Association at the Santa Clara County Fairgrounds!!! Their holy people didn’t sight the moon on Sunday night. In fact this year, the day-after faction was pretty strong. I was happy to join their ranks. This year the moon wasn’t technically sighted on the 29^th day of fasting by many masjids – meaning fasting continued until the evening of the 30^th day. Eid is a full cycle, new moon to new moon.

 

People use their eyes, you know, to see when the moon wanes and waxes.

 

Eyewitness identification is subjective and unreliable in all instances, and especially with respect to holidays and matters of emotional import.

 

At SBIA, I was especially happy to meet a couple friends there, Lalla and Balla. I’ve been having major issues wearing a hijab this past year, to the extent that I’ve avoided going to Jummah when I would’ve otherwise done it. But, this morning I swallowed my pride, and I thought to myself: “You’ve never been so afraid of not conforming that you weren’t ready to try something new.”

 

So I unwrinkled my baby blue tie and my hot pink scarf (from last year – I didn’t have time to go get a new one). I put on a polka dot collared shirt, and I ventured out to the Santa Clara County Fairgrounds. I did get a lot of stares. Likely because I wasn’t dressed in gender conforming gear (and maybe there was some confusion about the hot pink hijab), but as Balla (and Hafez, previously) have said to me: “People are probably extra nice to you, you know, because they think you’re a convert. Otherwise, you’ve gotta come correct.”

 

Hafez definitely warned me, “Just wait until you get fully incorporated, then the aunties are going to reign down on you. People will order you around.”

 

I live to fight another day.

 

While there, I was comforted by Lalla and Balla’s presence. They kept it real and gave me the history of SBIA, explaining that it was a very South Asian and Cham (which is great cuz peeps actually look like me!) group, very working class, and not one of those pretentious, bling-bling type expensive people’s mosques. They talked to me about homophobia in Masjids. We talked about where I might be able to pray, with or without a hijab. To be around family is a gift, especially for me, because when I go to a mosque, I’m usually there alone.

 

After Eid prayer, the fairgrounds were operating with their ferris wheel and cotton candy. We had delicious food. I love me a great goat biryani esp b/c goat was the specialty in the village where my father grew up in Taiwan.

 

Then, I went back to feeling awkward.

 

 

You see, Eid is very, very special, but it’s not like other holidays I’ve experienced. It’s got the scale of Christmas, and the religiosity of Easter (whether or not you fast), plus a month of intense fasting. When you go into Ramadan, you enter the vortex. Your brain becomes the fast brain. Everything slows.

 

What is critical in the outside world, is not critical in the Ramadan world.

 

This can be very hard for people who aren’t Muslim to understand. They think Eid’s just a day where you get to eat again. But it’s more than that. Who can ever explain what it means to give yourself completely to a religious experience, the cost of it, and also the blessing of it. Non-Muslims want to interact with you as if you aren’t undergoing a major transformation. Because you seem, if anything, kind of tired but mostly okay. But you’re 5 billion light years away, and okay is a relative term. Your schedule book usually doesn’t include times for –

HUNGER IS FREEZING MY BRAIN

THIRST HAS REMOVED MY ABILITY TO UNDERSTAND MINUTES

I HAVE A HEADACHE AND ARE YOU A GIANT BANANA?

 

Imagine a starship whizzing to the ends of the universe, traveling not only through space but time itself, veering toward the Big Bang, and one night comes — you muster the energy to look up to the sky. Somebody says they see the moon, and somebody else is like – “Hey it’s over.” Then you’re back.

 

Don’t talk to me about motion sickness.

 

Or, let me put it another way.

 

Eid’s the day you come home after being away for a month.

 

Can you believe I was in Joshua Tree a month ago? Or Washington before that? It feels like the speed of light, but I don’t know if I’m the one moving or not.

 

Coming home requires preparation. If your house was a mess before, it’s probably not tidy now.

 

I mean the dishes have piled up; you’ve got nothing but well-intentioned, rotting vegetables in your fridge; clothes need to be washed; the bills may or may not have been paid; people’s feelings have been hurt by your inability to communicate regularly; other people have no understanding of your pre-Ramadan life (you might not either), and so much shit needs to get done! (By the way, I’m about 10-20 emails behind, so if you sent me a line and I haven’t responded, that’s the only reason why – I’m gonna write back!)

 

Worst of all, your anxiety is back and the questions that you realized weren’t really important to your peace of mind or to the core of your existence are now at the CENTER OF THE UNIVERSE.

 

That’s why people like me hang onto Eid like it’s a lost puppy. We hold it tight.

 

I went to Eid prayer because I needed to say something to myself. That’s what ritual really is. It’s a reminder. A period. A way to understand something about beginnings and endings. To mark the passage of time, the sanctimony of happening, the moving away and the return, to God.

 

The fulfillment of a commitment we made.

 

 

So I want to share with you my prayer that I made for you, this Ramadan. That’s right, if you receive one of my emails announcing the daily blog posts, OR even if you are only reading this blog, I found clever-ways of grandmothering in my “blog readers” into the prayers.

 

These are some of the specific prayers I made during Ramadan. One of them may have been requested by you. Not everything made it onto this list, so please know that if you wrote me and asked for a prayer, I copied it down and prayed it.

 

I pray for you that all your prayers come true.

I pray for you to experience gratitude for the love that you’ve been given, the forgiveness, the hope.

I pray for you that you will have the children or child that you’ve always wanted.

I pray for you that you will find housing soon for yourself and your parent.

I pray for you that you will get that job you’ve been wanting for years and that you will heal from the pain of not getting the job you deserve sooner.

I pray for you that you will pass your Boards.

I pray for you that you gain greater ability to take care of yourself so that you can take better care of your family and your community.

I pray that you will be able to resolve that conflict with the group you’re in, where everybody’s really mad at everybody else and hurt and triggered.

I pray that you can have an abortion.

I pray that nobody will discriminate against you for being trans and that you will get the job you want.

I pray that you will be able to come out on your terms.

I pray that you will be able to afford and have transition surgery.

I pray that you will get an amazing, well-paying and secure job despite the tech industry’s ageism and racism.

I pray for you that you will finish your book and that it will be amazing and garner all the awards and success you want.

I pray for you that your pain at losing your mother will be eased.

I pray for you that your child will be less anxious.

I pray for you that the pain from the partner that left you will diminish and that you will find an even greater love following that one.

I pray that your poetry will be heard.

I pray that your body and mind will be healed and that your disease will be slowed, that mercy will be shown, and that you will live longer than what you currently believe.

I pray for the chemo to work and to grant you respite.

I pray for ease and relief from the chemo.

I pray that you will never lose your memory, of anything that is important to you, good or bad.

I pray that your family’s upcoming departure is filled with ease and that there is tenderness.

I pray that upon leaving, your family and you will be able to say goodbye in a meaningful way and in a way that helps ease the hurt and makes the transition more full of joy and support for each other.

I pray that if death is coming that you will die in light and love, especially for yourself.

I pray that I have the strength to accept what I need to in my life.

I pray to work the miracles of God.

I pray for the ability to forgive you.

I pray for the hurt I caused you to depart, and for you to be healed.

I pray for the cut on your head to be healed.

I pray for the move to go smoothly.

I pray for the confusion to end.

I pray for your stability.

I pray for you to stop coughing.

I pray for you and your family’s health, always.

I pray that your show will be sold out and that your career will continue to prosper.

I pray that your family is able to accept you and show compassion for you, and likewise.

I pray that even though I don’t know what is going on with you, that your parents remain in good health and that Allah ease any suffering they may be experiencing.

I pray that your heart will be open to loving and that your heart will grow.

I pray that you and your partner have better communication.

I pray that you love yourself.

I pray that my father is in Heaven.

I pray that you are safe in prison.

I pray that you are able to be reunited with your loved ones very soon and to have your freedom returned for the rest of your life.

I pray that my messages are reaching you.

I pray for the courage to love myself.

I pray to meet somebody who has the capacity to love me as much as I love them, and that we love each other well.

I pray for the greatest love of my life to be ahead of me, and not behind me.

I pray to stay grateful.

I pray for help.

I pray that Allah protects you.

 

All of this, I pray for you and will continue to pray for you.

May all your dreams come true, Insha’Allah.

May you know how very much I care for you, Insha’Allah.

May we be held in the light, Insha’Allah.

 

 

Now, to the extent that it may still be relevant, I need to fulfill some blog promises:

 

I said at the beginning of this year’s posts that the Galumph would be back to answer questions, but they never really came back. I guess they were on strike or vacation or being totally lazy. Hard to tell. But, the Galumph did get a question, thankfully only one, but it’s a doozy and wonderfully phrased. So here goes.

 

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Dear Galumph,

 

My ma is facing yet another tough spot in her life. She’s been unemployed for two years and blown through her savings and steadily going through mine. Not for want of trying to get a job – and this is the part that makes me extra sad – my ma has worked at least one job, sometimes two at a time, since she turned 17. For some of that time she was working and penniless because she had to hand over her paycheck to my da. And now, when she is supposed to be, according to the data, at her earning prime, she is unable to get a job. My first question is about my attitude towards helping her. I vacillate between feeling privileged and humbled that I am in a position to help and feeling scared and burdened by the responsibility and sometimes even a bit resentful that I am doing all of the supporting and not being supported. How do I eliminate the resentment? How can I share my anxiety with her, since she is my parent after all (even though the roles are reversed), without upsetting her and making her feel worse about her situation? In a few weeks we have to move out of the house we are living in and I have to find a place for us that I can afford on just my salary. So my second question is how do I find a place for us without resenting the fact that I am looking for a place for us when what I really want is to live alone. We have a precious relationship and I fear damaging it at this difficult time. Thank you.

 

Sincerely,

Mixed-Up Bout my Ma

 

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Dear Mixed-Up Bout my Ma,

 

I want to say that the answer is easy (to say as opposed to do). I want to say as Rilke did that you will live into the answers. I want to say that I know what to say, but I don’t. I don’t have good advice, but perhaps I can offer some comfort or perspective?

 

Please don’t eliminate the resentment. You cannot eliminate it. You can allow yourself to feel it. It’s totally normal. It’s okay. Feel it. Listen to it. I, for one, would be pissed at the world and totally feel resentful if my mom required me to do a ton of stuff for her. Even typing that, I feel totally ashamed of myself.

 

I’m an entitled kid because in my head my mom is supposed to take care of me, and if she doesn’t, some part of me cannot handle it. I don’t think you and I are that different from most people we know. We are of a time and a place. We’re raised to think that our success is about us as an individual, rather than about our parents.

 

Feelings do not cause actions. Our ability to work through our feelings rather than react to them is what allows us to become the people we’ve always wanted to be.

 

When I read your letter, I wanted to say that I think you’ve asked me the wrong question. The question isn’t how do you not feel resentment? Or how do you communicate with your mother (which is fine to ask, but that’s not the threshold question)? Or what do I say to her? Or whether you should say your anxiety with her? I’m not sure you should.

 

The question is: how do you get right with yourself?

 

You may not be seeing yourself very clearly in terms of what you’re already giving to your mom. Attachment to your self-image as taking care of her is likely bending your ability to see the reality of what your mother needs and wants.

 

I know enough about your situation (outside of this letter) to know that your mother is making decisions too. She’s taking risks, and she doesn’t expect you to be her safety net. This experience, likely, is humbling for her. She’s finding her way through, and you need to let her, because, for her, it’s about finding the right balance of your help to make her dreams possible. She doesn’t want to achieve her dreams if it means costing you too much.

 

When I went to work at my family company after my father’s death, I couldn’t leave because my mom had an emotional guilt-trip stranglehold on me, not to mention my own shame and grief toward a man who had died disappointed in me. My career as a public defender was suffering (and suffered, though not terrible or in the ways that I thought). I was in a bad place. But leaving the company and allowing my mom to find her own way was the best thing I ever did. What kept me from moving forward was the constant feeling that without me, my mom would completely crumble and fall apart. I thought the company would die if I wasn’t there too. That the last “living” part of my dad was gonna be lost too.

 

That it wasn’t safe to let her find her own way without MY help.

 

It didn’t help that she thought that way too.

Turns out we were both wrong.

 

Reflecting back, I would make the same sacrifices over and over again because that choice allowed me to see clearly who I am, and the limits of what I can give. I lived into my values.

 

Yes, my mother is and was better at business than I’ll ever be. Yes, WE had no idea tat was true. It wasn’t until I stopped enabling her, or masking her talent and ability with my desire to help, that she really stepped up. Though this isn’t all about rosy endings, unfortunately.

 

Our parents do need us sometimes, and yet we also need to take care of ourselves. So stop judging yourself for your needs. Judgment on self causes the brain to go haywire.

 

Figure out what’s actually a sacrifice, practically, and how long you’re willing to give it. Also, how are you benefiting from your mom being present? Or how are you using her as an excuse to not get what you want?

 

Be clear with yourself. Know what you really want and how long you’re willing to give that up. Ask her what she really needs to accomplish her dream. Only after you’ve listened to what she wants can you tell her that you want to help her. You can only help her as much as she is willing to accept.

 

If you can listen to yourself and then say clearly what you do or don’t want, then perhaps in the end even if you hurt her feelings, it’s better than hurting the relationship.

 

I couldn’t do it, you see. I couldn’t figure out how to meet my own needs, so they went unmet, and as a result, I became a nightmare. I yelled – a lot. I don’t like who I was becoming by straining to always meet my mom’s needs, rather than my own.

 

I know that I’m not you, but still, ask yourself this – what is it that you think you’re really giving up? Is this really about money? Do you not have money you need? How much more do you need? vs. Want? What are your mother’s limits in terms of what she’s comfortable with? What hurts your feelings the most in this situation? That you can’t take care of your mother? Or that she can’t take care of you?

 

Are both of you trying your best?

 

Where is all this hurt and resentment really coming from? Where does it go once you’ve felt it?

 

It doesn’t disappear. It goes somewhere, the somatics folks say, in your body, and there it causes other problems and lives its own life. A life that may be at odds with yours.

 

Your mother may not want more than you can give. She may want more than you can give. I don’t know. But what you can actually give is fluid. Are you clearly examining your present situation, or are you locked into a pattern from the past? Are you tactually the person that you’re using to stand-in for you, when you reflect on the situation?

 

Until you’ve made peace with how much space you need and why, and for how long, then you won’t really be able to get what you treasure most – which is a great relationship with your mom.

 

A great relationship with your mother, I think, is built on honesty with yourself. Where does she end? Where do you begin? People who don’t make the time to know themselves often think their choices are inevitable, even and especially when those choices surprise them. Instead of saying, I take responsibility, they often say: this happened to me.

 

That, as we’ve discussed, is an honesty so radical it needs no other label than honesty itself. Know what you want and prioritize from there. I believe you can get it.

 

Sincerely,

Serena standing in for “The Galumph”

 

 

On Ramadan Day 16: In the Middle of War, I Got Your Back, I promised that I would write a paragraph to the song of choice for whoever correctly guessed which song had these lyrics:

 

Watching every motion
In my foolish lover’s game
On this endless ocean
Finally lovers know no shame
Turning and returning
To some secret place inside
Watching in slow motion
As you turn around and say

 

Yes, that’s right, the winner is none other than Lisa Ko, author of The Leavers. “Take My Breath Away by Berlin. OF COURSE.”

 

And if you haven’t read her book – DO. (I’d blurb it but I’m totally biased). So, I’ll use the words of another, less biased writer…

 

“There was a time I would have called Lisa Ko’s novel beautifully written, ambitious, and moving, and all of that is true, but it’s more than that now: if you want to understand a forgotten and essential part of the world we live in, The Leavers is required reading.” —Ann Patchett,  author of Commonwealth

 

There’s a reason I chose Ann Patchett’s quote: Lisa once took me as her guest to a fancy schmancy literary event where they gave us a bunch of books in tote bags. I still have mine! Ann Patchett was there in a gown, and she was walking around looking for Lisa Ko. I bumped in to her. She asked me if I’ve read Lisa’s book, and then goes on to GUSH that she had read it herself because she owns a bookstore. “I contacted the publisher immediately to let them know that I wanted to blurb the book, if that’s what Lisa wanted.”

 

Also, later that evening, I crammed a whole cupcake into my mouth while a famous poet was talking to me about another famous poet. I stuffed the whole red velvet deliciousness into my mouth in one gulp. I’m pretty impressed by this ability of mine because my brother is also known to do this, and I like to identify common family traits.

 

And Lisa, I listened to the song you sent while I wrote this post, so I’m not sure if this counts as the paragraph or a poem. If you’re reading this, please let me know if it counts. LOL.

Chosen by Blood Orange

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gzDTMEo-g2k

 

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And now, I want to say that I am so grateful to you, dear readers.

Thank you for reading along and supporting me during the fast.

I especially want to thank each and every one of you who dropped me a note, long or short, expressing that you enjoyed something I wrote. It meant so much to me. Because of you, not one day that I wrote went by without someone having something nice to say.

That was a gift.

Thank you.

EID MUBARAK!!! WE DID IT!!! RAMADAN IS DONE!!!

 

If you’re gonna miss me a ton, don’t fear, please come out and see me read at the Fabulous Lyrics & Dirges Series (running for 8 years) with the Amazing Poet, Novelist, Memoirist and co-Founder of VONA, ELMAZ ABINADER. Check out the other awesome guests on Wednesday, June 12th at 7:30pm Pegasus Books in Downtown Berkeley.

 

I also did a lot of reading and cheerleading this Ramadan.

Here’s a roll call of some accomplishments by PEEPS I know:

 

My friend Ayesha Mattu, wrote this piece: “This Ramadan I’m getting Intimate with God. And, ‘Ramy’”

 

“If we aren’t honest with ourselves, is it even possible to be intimate with God? … In 2018, Gene Luen Yang, an Asian-American cartoonist, told “The Science of Happiness” podcast that stories can be mirrors or windows; both are a necessary foundation for a just society. A mirror reflects your own story back to you and teaches you to love yourself. A window allows a glimpse into the lives of those who seem different and teaches you to love them as well. American Muslims need more mirrors — in books, film and elsewhere — so that we can see and embrace the complexities of our diverse communities.”

 

Ramy El-Etreby is putting on his solo show The Ride at Los Angeles Hollywood Fringe Festival (Details HERE.) It’s all about what it means for him to be Gay! Arab! Muslim! And also somebody (maybe me) makes an appearance in my best feline form. (Details HERE.)

 

Speaking of Muslim and Queer, one of my celeb idols, Wazina Zondon is featured in the Advocate as one of the 104 Champions of Pride. Wazina is the founder of the show Coming Out Muslim, and is a beloved friend, podcast host, bad-ass, and community member.

 

Another rock star friend, the poet, biographer, Doctor, journalist — Seema Yasmin, was awarded a huge book deal to write a book based off a tweet, now turned essay (and soon to be forthcoming book), “Muslim Women Do Things.”

 

My beloved Zahra Noorbakhsh, pocast co-host of Good Muslim, Bad Muslim with Tanzila Ahmed, the comedian with the moistest – I said mostest, but the typo is funny and Zahra is funny, so… (no?) … is doing a HUGE Comedy Special, On Behalf of All Muslims at the Brava Theater in SF June 21-22. (Details HERE.)

BUY YOUR TICKET NOW SO YOU CAN SEE ZAHRA BEING FUNNY, AS ALL MUSLIMS ARE!

 

LOOK! The hippest of the hip, Queens-based Christine Kandic Torres completed her novel. BTW, for all you mama writers out there, she did this after getting preggers and knocking out the cutestest little patootie! Here’s her pitch on twitter, please go over and show some love @christinemk #pitmad f you love it as much as I do. 🙂

 

 

AND LAST BUT NOT LEAST!!!!

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SANDRA!!!

 

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You may wonder how I can know so many great people.

 

It’s simple, they’re people, struggling to do the things we all do: make a living, create a life, deal with their identities, healing from their pasts, and trying to be proud of themselves in an environment that makes it hard to love yourself.

 

The mystery of life may be simpler than first thought.

We met, didn’t we?

 

Ramadan Day 29: A Jihad on Jealousy

Dear Lyo,

 

 

I want to tell you I saved my best post for this last day of fasting. I didn’t. I only saved the hardest post for me to write. This wasn’t how the day was supposed to go, but hey I guess Allah is helping me keep it real.

 

I wrote Brass, who conveniently sent me this possibly affirming, half-sarcastic meme. All of my signs (Sun, Moon, Rising, Mercury) fall in the communicates-I-love-you half, but truthfully, I relate more to all the discomfort I’ve experienced saying those words over the years.

 

 

My brother came home this weekend, joining my mother, sister, and I at a cousin’s wedding in Thousand Oaks, CA. He’s been abroad nearly a year in Burundi-Geneva-Thailand-Geneva. While our family time together was lovely, the first time we’ve all been together for nearly a year was, for me, a cloud of loneliness, punctuated by jealousy. Even though family was present, delicious foods and other comforts abounded, a lot of happy folks milled about, and even though I was rarely alone, I struggled.

 

Part of it was that ending the fast to take a road trip and attend a wedding with my sister and mother to the Southland felt abrupt. Returning to fasting, especially on what is likely the last day of Ramadan, was always going to feel a bit rocky. The rhythm that I’d been building for the past month had been interrupted.

 

I don’t know where to pick up.

 

Instead of getting to go to Eid prayer…I have to go through a biopsy (nothing life threatening) tomorrow that involves a lot of painkillers.

WAIT, THIS JUST IN – the local Santa Clara Masjid (through my friend Ayesha Mattu’s piece “This Ramadan I’m getting intimate with God. And Ramy,” I learned that I might identify with the term “unmosqued” which means to practice Islam without attending a mosque or to leave the faith entirely) is actually celebrating Eid on Wednesday not Tuesday, so I might make it to Eid prayer after all …

 

Weddings, in general, can be difficult events. Not only because they were off-limits to queer folks for much of my adult life, but also because even if they weren’t, I’ve gone to many weddings single and feeling some kind of way about it. Often, they seem like unthinking celebrations of capitalism and hetero-normativity.

 

What really surprised me was that despite an uneventful trip, I returned with extremely mixed feelings. More than even feeling like an outsider at the wedding, it was as if all the anxiety I had amassed about feeling like an outsider was waiting for me to resume fasting.

 

I was scared that if I wrote on the topic of jealousy, this blog would become a vomitous litany of all the people who’ve wronged me. About all the petty, bitter hurts that I’ve tried my best to let go, for decades, and sometimes failed.

 

Jealousy plagued me in law school. When I became an attorney, I experienced quite a bit of professional jealousy from others. I’d like to say this is because of my success as an attorney, but it was more than that. It was partly success, partly being an outspoken advocate, but it was more. Not only was I successful, I wasn’t what people expected success to look like. It was almost as if, some mediocre white folks being at the same level of success as me was unattainable, but what I busted my butts to have was something anybody could have. Probably the opposite was true. For some, what I accomplished was an inspiration. For others, it was because I was _______________ (insert criticism here.)

 

When my beloved Brave Bird sold a brilliant book, she was deeply hurt by one of our friends who used to call and text all the time. The friend is also a writer, and she abruptly stopped communicating directly with Brave Bird soon after the Book was first published..

 

I remember saying to Brave Bird, “Oh yeah, she’s probably jealous because she’s been writing with you for a while, so she’s always thought of you guys as being in the same place. Maybe because your book was published and so widely received, she felt bad about herself.”

“I don’t know. Many of my friends don’t have a book, and they’re still talking to me.” Brave Bird glanced at me, and I may have sighed.

“It’s not that I’m not maybe jealous on some level. It’s that I don’t compare myself to a lot of writers because it’s my second career. If I hadn’t had a whole career first, and one I loved, then I would define myself by the success of a book. It’s not because I’m better.”

 

The jealousy in the writing world is much more intense than any jealousy I’ve observed in the legal world.

 

 

In my romantic life, I’ve had jealous partners and lovers who couldn’t abide by my closeness with friends, or even strangers. It’s odd to me that even when I’ve been single, I’ve dealt with a particularly aggravating kind of jealousy. You may find it familiar.

 

The one where people who were once my friends distance themselves because they’re worried that their partners like me, or more hurtfully, when they’ve chosen to be less close to me because their lovers were threatened by me. I say aggravating because it feels misguided. So often, my jealousy or attachment isn’t of one person or another, but of what they have together. I don’t think I’ve ever broken up a couple. I more want them to invite me to go on road trips as friends. With queer folks, it’s a lot for couples to find it all in each other – romance, community, family. Yet it also seems sometimes that many of my friends believe only an intimate partner can provide that.

 

Jealousy trips you up when it’s aimed at you because most of us are suffering or struggling in our own ways. Well, actually, let me amend that: most of us think that we’re struggling. So it’s a hard sell to embrace that we have so much good stuff that other people want it for themselves.

 

Observing jealousy in others works like this: I have no idea why some folks were cool, cold, or downright hostile, then maybe, a friend would say, hey I think _________ is jealous of you, and I’d hear a ping! And only after will I realize what was happening.

 

I want to acknowledge that if folks start to behave weird in unexplained fashions, jealousy is a possible culprit. But, it’s also a tough diagnosis. Pretty much nobody, not even my friends, are willing to say when they’re jealous. Most of the time we don’t actually know that we’re experiencing jealousy.

 

Jealousy is also one of those things that none of us like to point out to those close to us. It kind of doesn’t get a great reception if you say to somebody who’s upset at somebody else, “Maybe you’re saying that because you’re kind of jealous.” I mean, you could be wrong.

 

Jealousy is, among other things, deeply felt.

It’s an art of comparison.

 

 

The best way to comfort friends who are experiencing jealousy, I’ve found, is to try and soothe their insecurities directly, or to reflect back to them why what somebody else is doing is either irrelevant or inconsequential to them.

 

But how can we do that without minimizing another person’s valid hurt and frustration?

 

I realized that the question on my mind today is how do I deal with jealousy?

I’ve struggled all day with this, and for years truly. The topic makes me feel like a failure.

 

When Hafez and I did our Qu’ran study, we read Al-Baqarah, Sura 2: 190:

(translated by Laleh Bakhtiar)

And fight in the Way of God those who fight you,

but commit not aggression;

truly God loves not the ones who are aggressors.

 

There’s some other oft-quoted verses below this about killing people who persecute you, but I honestly feel like I’ll stumble in explaining them. Whereas the phrase I quoted provides the important context.

 

Hafez was quick to point out that this part of the Qu’ran is often related to jihad. The word “jihad” or holy war, scares a lot of people because their beliefs are rooted in the media’s use of the word in conjunction with racist violence and stereotypes. I myself had a limited understanding of the word until recently. I was hesitant to use it because it seemed intense or scary. I knew how ignorant I was being, but I didn’t know how to correct that.

 

Hafez expounded that jihad can be used to describe internal battles – holy struggles within oneself. That part of the problem is people assume it’s about literal war.

 

Aggression comes from a place of fear, of sinking into a loneliness where nobody is left. Where nobody cares for you. War can be an act of self-defense, but at what point do we need to stop fighting?

 

After reading this verse, I realized the reason I was having such a day of internal conflict in this possible last Ramadan fast is because I want to commit myself to a more peaceful existence. The only way for me to do that is to figure out what is causing strife.

 

Ergo, jealousy.

 

When I was at residency last year, I met Arendt, who was fascinated to hear that I was one of three kids in our family. “Please,” Arendt asked, “tell me that it was fine that there were three of you, that the odd number wasn’t a problem, and you all ended up with okay personalities.” She confessed that she’d deliberately chosen to have 3 kids, rather than 2 or 1.

 

“Why pick 3? It’s an odd number,” I said.

“Because I’ve always found people who were from three-kid families to be super charming and fun, really wonderful people skills. I used to wonder why this was happening. I realized that they usually grew up in an environment of treachery. One or the other of them were always being left out, and so they had to compete to gain affection. This led to certain skills.”

 

You can imagine that my gut was heaving as Arendt describe my situation to a tee.

 

We all wear masks, and I’ve found that my smile is the brightest and most effective mask in my arsenal.

 

I very much grew up feeling that shortage of love, not in terms of material comfort or acts of service, but in terms of security. Not only was I a part of a trinity, I was raised by a trinity.

 

My mother was a constant comparer – not to my siblings (as I was the eldest), but to my lackluster accomplishments compared to other kids my age. Everything came into question, my athletic ability, my intelligence, my musical ability. My dad was impatient and angry when I couldn’t perform basic arithmetic to his satisfaction, and his general disposition was fun but critical. My grandmother spoiled all of us. She was of a generation that felt boys were better than girls; she dimmed her focus on my sister and I when my brother was born. I grew up thinking I was dumb and ugly, and I kept that self-image past college.

 

All three of my parentals were sexist, not just in the roles they demonstrated to us, as to who did what labor, my mom and grandmother with the cooking and cleaning, my dad with the outdoor work. The irony was that when it came to emotional labor – pretty much none of the adults were outwardly demonstrative or touchy-feely. They certainly didn’t know what to do with the very queer eldest and youngest kids they had, who also both happened to be gender non-conforming. One, a theatrical prince in overalls and the other, Wonder Woman in ballet slippers collecting My Little Ponies.

 

As kids, Bustin and I fought so badly that other adults used to pity our parents. Ernie complained (until she had kids of her own) about how she had PTSD from us fighting. She used to go into a room and just stare at the wall for hours while we were at each other’s throats.

 

Bustin and I raged almost every night until I graduated from high school, and then when I came home from college for dinners, we would resume fighting. I dreaded dinners because I knew he’d be there, hostile. We fought physically and verbally – I was violent and temperamental to my younger (5.5 years) brother. I don’t remember it, but he claims I threw him down the stairs once. I believe that and worse. He also says he found a journal of mine in which I’d written that he was the devil, and it wasn’t cute.

 

It got so bad that our father would lay hands on both of us. Sometimes, that could get really rough, especially for Bustin. And we could never stop, even when my dad took a fire poker to the beloved gameboy because we wouldn’t share. I had an inexhaustible fountain of contrary inside of me, while Bustin was also quick to butt heads.

 

My upsetness came from jealousy. I didn’t know this until years later, but I think I wanted my parents to see me as the special little unicorn I was, and deep down inside, I believed that they held my brother in higher esteem even though in my head “he didn’t deserve it.” I’ve always rankled at unfairness (maybe because I have libra to the max in my chart). I already knew that in some ways my brother was getting special treatment in life, whereas my sister and I had different expectations for what would make us happy.

 

My sister, unlike me, had a gift for contentment. She accepted her lot in life, and it seemed very much to fit with what she wanted for herself. I was the restless one.

 

When I came out, well, it’s frankly so painful that reliving it often leads me into a somewhat depressive state. But what hurts me most these days isn’t necessarily the story about the rejection I experienced from my parents. It’s the damage I feel that homophobia and my own bad temper/lack of emotional control has brought in my relationships with my brother and sister.

 

My relationship with my sister went downhill quickly after I came out. We were about only a year apart, but the gulf that opened up was insurmountable until recently. Part of it was that my sister went through a really difficult time at her undergrad about the same time that I became depressed and no longer wanted to speak to her. Scorpio-like, she absorbed the wound to some place within her soft tissue while her outside remained crisp. My parents had such an extreme reaction to my being queer that I cut them off. I didn’t have to cut her off too, but it was too much for me, knowing they were telling my younger sister all the time that something was wrong with who I was. Collateral damage. My brother and I continued to ignore each other, except for our occasional spats. He suffered too, being still in the house while my parents fumbled toward God and homophobia.

 

I don’t know if Ernie would’ve been a source of support, or vice-versa. I only know that it would’ve been better if I had reached out to her during that time.

 

Meanwhile, my brother continued to speak frequently to my sister. They were always close, but he was struggling with his sexuality (by himself), and he couldn’t confide in my parents who were having a meltdown about me. They directed a nuclear ton of shame at him. Not to mention, my father was struggling through Stage IV cancer and Bustin became a caretaker.

 

Although he says he was in the closet until the months before my father’s death to both himself as well as my sister, I’ve always wondered about the narrative. Once, he told me that when I came out his first thought was not yay she’s gay too, but “Serena can’t be gay, I’m gay.” It’s true that my brother knew and struggled with his sexuality since he was five. I only lived with it for a couple of years, at least consciously, and I came out without any real deliberation or worry, because I’d fallen in love. I didn’t think it was going to change my life.

 

I don’t prioritize the coming-out narrative as the most important one. I think that’s a privilege. While my own story is relatively traumatic, I wasn’t alone. I had an uncle that was sympathetic, and my sister was never homophobic. My parents didn’t technically disown me. They still wanted me to be around, even if the purpose of that nearness was to change me.

 

That being said, the so-called closet is one of the worst experiences for any person. My sympathy for internalized shame feels endless to me because I’ve lived it. Sometimes, all those war years get to me. I hear about people claiming queerness who’ve never felt the deep shame that was inflicted on so many of us. They want to keep hetero-normative privileges while avoiding the oppression lived by many queer people.

 

I’m disturbed by the thought of policing queerness because I don’t want anybody to feel shamed for who they want or the gender they are or desire. By the same token, the word queer has become emptied of the meaning it carried for me two decades ago. I think now that I don’t know how queer functions: is it a political label, an identity label, or simply a sexual preference/action? All, none, multi?

 

Some words are eroded by power until they become sand.

 

What I don’t want is for the things that shaped me, the things that still feel really hard, to become somebody else’s token coolness or badge of progressive politics.

 

The irony with sexuality and gender identity stuff is that because people can lie about it and perform gender or straightness — many of the most outspoken people, the spokespeople if you will of queers, aren’t always the ones who’ve suffered the most or have the most on the line for public identification. That’s probably true about a lot of traumas.

 

Those of us who’re oppressed often respect and want the shield of privilege.

 

But here’s the twist: oppression has become a blinder. I know folks who’ve been so bullied and assaulted that they won’t listen to anybody who’s more privileged than them in certain ways, especially systematically. This can be to their detriment in interpersonal relationships where connection becomes about trauma or actual card-throwing, rather than problem-solving.

 

There are people, Hafez said, who are always over-responsible, saying sorry all the time, seeing things as their fault. By that same token, there are people who are rarely responsible, seeing themselves as victims or the oppressed even when they’re harming others. Everything is someone else’s fault. These are dispositions. They can exist with any amount of privilege.

 

Some of my worst experiences have been at the hands of my own communities, who police endlessly. It’s almost as if because we don’t have a ton of money or other resources, we defend our labels and identities as our one true resource. Or maybe because being crapped upon by society usually doesn’t make you charming and likeable, it often helps to produce an angry and defensive person who doesn’t even recognize that they’re communication ability is bottoming out.

 

Another thing about trauma – there’s some fear and anxiety that comes with having to lie to others, just to survive. There are lies we tell out of necessity and then there are lies we tell out of convenience. Lies are usually self-serving, and humans are inherently self-centered. I’ve found that lies start with something small – something justifiable — but eventually they migrate outside of our control. They occupy our whole lives, and they become the center of our existence. We learn that we can lie to spare other people’s feelings, and eventually we lie to spare our own.

 

Recently, Ernie introduced me to a Chinese martial arts show just like the ones we watched all the time with my grandmother, called Eternal Summer. I’ve been gobbling up episodes. Today, I saw an episode where a teacher tells her student that she’s going to test him for his attentiveness. “It’s said that you would never even step on an ant, that you are very kind. But I need to know if you’re attentive. In Heaven, kindness and attentiveness are paired virtues. You cannot have one without the other. How can you avoid stepping on the ant if you don’t see it?”

 

In the years before my father died, I remember flying home for my parents to meet my sister’s boyfriend, now husband. I remember the sensation of being fully eclipsed by my sister as my parents had a fancy dinner and toasted him, all the while both my parents were saying some pretty terrible things to me. What made things worse was that my sister’s husband, a White man from Wisconsin who’d grown up with very little money and family support, was not a particularly sociable person, even misanthropic at times. He wasn’t warm to me or to my brother, nor did he value family (or extended family) closeness in the ways our parents raised us to care for family. Culturally, we were miles apart. Gone was my dream that once my sister met somebody, all the pressure on me to be somebody else would stop. Magically, my sister and I would repair the rift between us.

 

My father and mother were so happy that night Ernie brought home her boyfriend. But I knew I’d never be received by my family the same way. My self-identified position in the family as the one who lived up to expectations was now damaged beyond repair.

 

Growing up, I had the most affinity for my father, more so than my mother or grandmother. I was that so-called daddy’s little girl. I clung to him. While that relationship was crushed when I came out, it was when he died that I really understood what it meant to be alone in our family. My sister and brother were close to each other, and frequently I was at my mother’s throat. I watched them comfort each other. I stood apart.

 

Maybe my sister was the acceptance and kindness my brother needed, and maybe my brother gave ease and companionship to my sister, preparing her in some ways for motherhood, whether either of them liked their roles or not. Maybe it was just that my brother was scarred by our fighting. Maybe it was just that my sister could never forgive me for abandoning our relationship when I came out. Maybe they just had more compatible personality types? Or maybe, I was just too messed up to have healthy relationships with family members. Whatever the reasons for their closeness, and their distance from me, I began to notice that a new family had formed after my father’s death. Those shifting dynamics often excluded me.

 

Working on myself is not an option for me. If I don’t do it, things come crashing down.

And like it or not, I was being slowly eaten alive by jealousy.

 

 

Two years ago, in possibly one of the most traumatic times of my move back to the Bay, my sister and brother and I were fighting. Me with both of them, separately. The two of them rarely fight. I was living with my mother, but I was super stressed living there because of my rage and disappointment toward her.

 

So my sister let me temporarily move in with her because I didn’t think I could get pregnant under so much stress. One day, my sister and I had a huge fight, and her husband reacted to seeing her upset as was his then-custom – he created a scene and yelled, this time at my sister. Later, he gave her a choice to either ask me to leave, or he’d stay somewhere else for the night. So my sister asked me to leave. I moved back in with my mother.

 

About 6 months later, in an effort to bring peace to the family I invited my brother-in-law to coffee– to open the lines of communication since I hadn’t stepped foot in their house after being tossed, even though my sister had invited me back several times. I asked him if he could talk to me when he was upset, instead of storming out, because it wasn’t helpful. I told him that I hoped we could have a better relationship. He opened the talk with: “Are you just upset because you’re jealous of your brother and sister? That they’re closer than you.”

 

The next time I get a painful truth revealed to me, I’d like it to be from somebody who cares about my well-being.

 

The worst of that moment wasn’t that he had hurt me, but that he was using my brother and sister to hurt me. I hadn’t really thought it true until that moment, but now I can fully admit it. I was jealous. I wanted to feel loved and cherished and special, and I didn’t know how to get that from anybody in my family.

 

Within the week, I’d separately asked both my brother and sister if they were closer to each other than to me.

 

My sister said yes, then said that she loved us both the same. Why do you care so much about this? she’d say.

 

My brother said that he was close to us in different ways. Then, about a week later, he and I took a walk in the park, and he said that he’d lied to me and he was closer to my sister.

 

All of it broke my heart. I knew what was broken, but I didn’t know how to fix it, or if I should even try, or if it mattered.

 

As I said, jealousy is comparison. What difference does it make, I reasoned, if my brother and sister are closer to each other, if they both also love me, and I love them. What difference does it make?

 

No matter what anybody says, no matter how much sense it all makes, nobody likes knowing that their family members care more for each other than you.

 

I cried to the Doctor for weeks, and he repeatedly said, “Family dynamics change. It’s good that they can be honest with you, and that they can see you handling it so well. Because that’s what leads to closeness. Things can’t change until you’re able to be honest with each other.”

 

 

Today is a very good day and a very bad day. It’s a bad day because I’m consumed by the green-eyed monster. It’s a good day because instead of having a long, drawn-out confrontation with my siblings, I’m fasting from acting unkindly despite my jealousy.

 

I still have hope that by working on my relationships, my sister and brother can say that they’re as close to me as they are to each other, or that we’re all close in different ways. That they won’t lie to me. We all hurt each other so much, I realize.

 

I hope that as time passes, I will do a better job at being there for them and at protecting them. I’ve waged many jihads to get to where I am now. Once, I told Brave Bunny that I was scared of becoming a writer. She asked me if it was because I missed being an attorney.

 

“Nope, it’s because my whole life the one and only thing I’ve ever really been good at is fighting. I’m an amazing fighter. It sucks because I support peace.”

 

I’ve changed,

but I can’t want or expect anything less or more than I have.

The gratitude I feel toward my family is real. It’s for everything they’ve been doing to support me in my struggle to have babies, my writing. Ernie’s gifts and Bustin’s sweet listening sessions (And gifts) are what gets me through all the jealousy and the hurt. Love finds its way to me every Ramadan and even through all the rough times.

I’m grateful for every year that I get to spend working on old hurts, the patterns of ache and pain.

I’m not afraid to work for what I want.

The forgiveness I feel toward myself for being so locked up in jealousy is immense.

I’m letting myself build slowly toward healthier relationships.

 

 

It’s powerful. It’s not comfortable. I suspect no Jihad is.

 

 

---

“Twenty-Sixth Day” by Kazim Ali from Fasting for Ramadan

 

LATE EVENING

 

“Sometimes when you are fasting you feel very

lonely,” one of the speakers at the fast-breaking

meal told a room full of Muslim and non-Muslim

students.

 

It’s true, but that was part of the charm for me. The

fast was something secret inside, something I didn’t

have to share.

 

…

 

To fast many times is like rereading a beloved book,

but even fasting for only one day and only once will

open some windows of perception for you.

 

…

 

Yet, I always considered my fast to be private, but

perhaps reflecting on fasting so publicly this year in

the online journal postings allowed me to share the

practice with others in a community.

 

…

 

Experiences start out extraordinary and then they

become ordinary.

 

But what we pray for is that most special of gifts:

to be able to see the ordinary as extraordinary

once more.

---

 

Ramadan Day 28: With the Owls at the Dispensary

I didn’t know what to expect as I’d been to several residencies, but Hedgebrook was always a bit of a red herring. Between 2012-2015, I’d applied three times and been rejected. I stopped, discouraged. Last summer, at a kitchen table for Iftar with two friends, Seema Yasmin and M who were both Hedgebrook alum, I was encouraged to apply again. Acceptance was a shock, good news at a low point. I was nervous. What would it be like to be genderqueer Taiwanese American at a women’s residency?

My time in residency was a joy. We were a cohort of mostly women of color: four Black women, one Vietnamese American, one mixed Filipina and White woman, one White woman, and one Taiwanese American. For a period even, we were all women of color. At least four of us were queer identified in some way. My nine previous residencies have been at best, majority white, and at worst, I was the only Asian among a sea of White faces. Three of the seven other residents were in their early seventies and mid sixties and jokingly termed themselves, “the seniors.” Stefani, Anh-Hoa, JoAnn, Bettina, Anni, Jessie, and Christola were the dreamiest folks I’d ever met.

I became particularly enamored with the seniors, the way that they shared their stories at dinner: delighting in the perfect cook of the salmon skin, the brightness of the kale, and the crisp of the radishes, bemoaning the trials and the manner of climbing up and down the wooden ladders that led to the lofted beds in each cabin, swapping stories from growing up in the sweet cradle of Harlem civilization, pet monkeys in Sierra Leone, adult children that still needed parenting, being the rare Filipina woman for miles around in Delaware, and of course, the hurt and love that was the legacy of their own parents struggling to give a bit more, and then just a little bit more.

During the days, I romanced the two llamas with apples leading Bettina to dub me #animalcassanova. At night, the chefs and Bettina dispensed culinary insight and treasure, and afterward, I walked into the forest with JoAnn hooting, “Who Cooks for You?” When an owl almost landed on my head, we redoubled our efforts.

One night over dinner, Christola, explained that she was suffering from jet lag and JoAnn mentioned that she wasn’t sure as to the amount of pot in the cookies her son had gifted her.

“It’s legal here, isn’t it?” somebody asked.

Anni, her hands to her cheeks, shouted, “I saw a giant sign in the middle of the road and it said CANNIBAS! I couldn’t believe it, right there in the middle of the road,”

“I can drive us into town tomorrow!” JoAnn stood up.

Christola said, “That’s perfect. I need something to help me sleep.”

“You should get the gummies,” the baby-faced thirty-something’s explained. “They have some really great ones which mainly have CBD, which is medicinal and totally different than the THC that gets you high.”

“We wouldn’t mind being a little high,” the seniors chorused.

That next glorious Spring day, the seniors and I spun out of the gravel driveway toward a recommended dispensary, Island Herb.

We had heard there was a senior’s discount.

“Don’t worry, you can use our discount,” the seniors said, patting my back.

First, we drove to the grocery store where we loaded up on wine and munchies. I was last in line, but when I got to the exit, Christola pointed to the lotto and said, “Make sure you get your ticket!”

Only after I had my lucky numbers did we navigate to the herb shop.

“Where’s the store?”

“I can’t see it.”

“It’s not here.”

“Guys, I think it’s over there,” I pointed to the obscure sign where the words “Island Herb” were written in small font, camouflaged in the grain of the wooden sign.

A couple of the seniors peered over their glasses. In the backseat, Anni eventually leaned over to JoAnn and pointed in a direction, “Maybe it’s over there.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you where!” I laughed.

We did a couple more loops before we parked.

“We’ll say you’re our carer!” Anni said, and they all agreed.

Right before we entered the store, I said, “Everybody, turn off your phone. You know the government is listening.”

Each senior nodded and frowned at the government, solemnly turning off their phones.

Inside the store, a 70’s Motown song prompted Christola to get up and dance.

“This place has got a cool vibe,” JoAnn said.

We learned that while it wasn’t senior’s discount day, there was a sale on gummies. We shouted with glee. For half an hour, we peppered the kind store clerk with questions. She explained which chocolates were made in store, the flavors of the pioneer squares, and how the ghost pepper nugget really was spicy.

Christola, an ER nurse, precisely interrogated the right balance of CBD vs. THC before settling on a 5 and 5 as a nighttime aid. “I’ll start with a quarter,” she conspired with me as sat on a comfy leather couch watching the others pore over the selection. “Don’t want to over do it.”

“Make sure you’re up there before you take it,” I said. “You gotta be careful not to take it before you climb up the ladder.”

“You don’t know exactly when it’s gonna hit.” Christola nodded sagely.

“Give me that 10 CBD!” I heard Anni pronounce, adventurous as ever.

“I need a few bags,” I heard JoAnn purchasing enough for her family that was coming to meet her. “I’ll split one with you,” she said to me.

We were a noisy, happy parliament as we headed home. All the while, we chatted about the dosage and planned the timing of our nighttime bathroom trips and how many pads were enough.

“It aggravates me,” I hesitated, not wanting to be a party pooper, “that so many poc have gone to prison for marijuana-related drug offenses, but now we have a situation where mostly White owned corporations are making all this money off of weed. That’s why it’s legal now.”

“You know in NYC, there are a few legislators still holding out. They’re making sure it’s not legal until everyone who’s suffered at least gets their records expunged. People have been locked away for this. They’re staying strong,” Christola said. “Bless them.”

All three seniors immediately chimed in that it wasn’t right: marijuana shouldn’t be legal until the right thing is done, including restitution, for people who’ve been criminalized for it.

We shared a moment of solidarity, understanding that in this space we had found like-minded creatives. As people of color, we write for our communities, not only for ourselves. We don’t enjoy our time in residency as if we don’t have a stake in racial justice. We never exist in a vacuum, even and maybe especially in the woods. We go in, not away. Systemic racism surrounds us. Each of us is doing our part to make change.

I’m grateful to have found the deep, knowing support of these brilliant writers in my artistic journey.

Right before we hugged and parted down the green paths that led each to their own cabin and glorious solitude, JoAnn offered, “We can do another trip on Sunday for the senior’s discount.”

Everybody cheered.

 

***

 

Here’s an excerpt from the hour of power writing prompt wherein us April residents gathered once a week after dinner to write together. Prompt was write a speculative flash piece incorporating the line: There goes her face.

 

“The way into the store is through the back,” Christola said. “But I’m not doing that.”

“You go,” said JoAnn.

“Whatever you do, don’t knock on the door,” said Anni.

Each of them took a toke, fortification.

Overhead, I thought I heard an owl screech.

I took a puff too.

At the back, I knocked.

“Hoot.”

“Ladies?” I yelled.

Nobody answered.

When I ran back to the car, there was nobody there. Nothing was there.

Only three owls perched in the shadows.

“There goes her face,” I heard one say.

 

---

[From left to right, clockwise – “Bogoda,” “The Carer,” “The Owl,” and “Heron.”]