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Archive for the tag “nonfiction”

In Thinking About My Mortality: My Top 5 “Regrets”

“I’m less interested in why we’re here.  I’m wholly devoted to while we’re here.” Erika Harris

I am in my backyard sneaking a cigarette.  I am NOT a smoker, but, lately, I will bum one, light it up and suck it in deeply.  It is cold tonight, only days after this week’s snowstorm which left ten inches of white stuff above our rocky grounds.  Jaxon is running around me, paw-deep in the hardened ice, excited that I am outside with him while he plays.  It is after 1am and I have been home for less than a couple minutes, enough time to put my purse down and coax my pet out of my housemate’s room and drag him to the yard to help mask my dirty, smoky secret.  The cold bears down on me after a few drags and I start to feel the tingle in my fingertips and the flare-up from my toes.  I inhale some more, looking up at the sky. It is clouded white and the silhouette of the bare tree branches are black beside it.  Suddenly, I feel alive.

This morning, a friend called me to see if I would be interested in going out to see WAR.  His lady-friend had to work at the last minute and, of course, he thought of me.  It was perfect timing, I told him.  I was feeling really low, staving off depression and suffering from cabin fever. I needed to dance. He did too: His father recently stopped chemo and has maybe a few weeks.  I gasped.  It’s okay—tonight, we will dance, he assured me.

And we did! Lonnie Jordan and his crew got into it and by the end, I swore I would order myself a harmonica from Amazon.com!  The concert ended promptly at ten and we decided to get a beer and some burgers before we called it a night.  We got back to our side of town and stopped at a neighborhood tavern near his dad’s house—a place they all frequented as a family.  It was busy, but there were two seats at the bar waiting for us.  We talked about the concert, his lady-friend, my recent love and the highs and lows of our lives over the last ten years we’ve known each other. And then I asked about his father. Having lost my granny less than two years ago, I still feel the ache of her absence.  He had been spending a significant amount of time with his dad since his diagnosis a couple of years ago, and I know there would be no guilt about that, but I wanted to know that my friend was okay.

Yes, yes—I’m fine, he says. Listen, my dad’s so brave. You know, they say people sometimes have so many regrets when facing death.  But my dad, in all his years, he says he only has one: that he waited to have kids when he did and now he won’t be around to see his granddaughters marry.

I stared at him.  My heart heavy—for my friend and his father, of course, but also for myself.  How many regrets would I have if, at this moment or even years from now, I was looking at my imminent inexistence?

Somewhere between exiting his car at my door and the last couple of puffs on the cancer stick, I thought of what could be my top five regrets should the curtain close on me before these things are accomplished.  Even at the risk of being a bit morbid, I would like to share this short list. So, with no further ado, here it is:

5. Never carrying and birthing a baby.  I have a plan to adopt within the next couple of years if I have no partner to create a child with, but I have always wanted to have life growing inside of me and I feel like I would be forever unfulfilled if I am unable to experience that.

4. Never having owned a house.  These days, I truly believe that I am a city girl.  However, I do have a strong desire for a country home where I can write and spend summers on a swing porch reading and sipping lemonade.  My dream has always been to build a little cabin on our land in Somerville, Tennessee near our little summer house that was once my great-grandmother’s home.

3. Never having published a book.  Although I am currently working on my first novel and a memoir that I envision as a short story, I think all writers suffer from anxiety that something will happen to their computer and backup and all of their writing and longsuffering will be lost somewhere in cyberspace, no matter how many drives it’s saved on.

2. Having a strained and somewhat non-communicative relationship with my younger sister.  My brother recently confronted me about how little my sister and I interact with each other and I was so embarrassed that our lack of engagement with each other was so obvious.  We live on opposite coasts, she is married with a family, I am busy with my ambitions— none of these reasons justify why we haven’t spoken on the phone with each other in over a year and haven’t seen each other in more than two.  I should be more proactive—I have this conversation with myself daily.

1. Not loving who I want to love and to the best of my ability.  I was recently in the relationship of a lifetime with someone I thought the world would not approve of.  It ended just as I was coming to terms with the fact that I only get this one life and I should spend it with who I want. At once, I realized that I wasn’t living for my parents, for my friends, or for those who I love in other countries—I am living this life for me.

There is a great quote from the movie, Braveheart, which says:

“Every man dies; [but] not every man really lives.”

Make no mistake about this blog post, I have no plans of dying anytime soon. I do believe, however, that in thinking about death, we are inspired to live our best lives.

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Before Living Where the Yellow Wallpaper Is

Day 8.  Reflections while People watching. Journal entry. Circa 2013

She stood at the corner of 18th and Sansom talking to herself– poised in business attire with an oversized wool coat and a pair of shabby brown boots, likely all digs found in a thrift store or taken from a soup kitchen. Her head was shorn and what grew on top had been dyed blonde and already pushed out by new black growth. She stood there all theatrical with a full face of makeup– mostly hues of pink and much too light for her skin tone– and lamented about what went wrong between “them”. This wasn’t a monologue, it was a dialogue. She saw her companion before her and pleaded for understanding, “You just don’t see what has happened with us, do you? I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m torn and you don’t even see it.”  There was a shrill in her voice, but the words came out proper and perfect– so perfect she would be accused of sounding “white” in the most urban parts of the city. A couple of young girls passed her and took a second look back and chuckled loudly with confusion at the woman. I took in an eyeful of her as I passed and dared not laughed or even smirk at her position– tall but hunkered over with desperation in her eyes. My brain rattled with how close I have come to losing myself in hurt and in love– never seeing myself on corners cursing or sobbing or begging, but coming pretty damn close.

Sister Girlfriends

Day 6. Excerpt from “Same-Sex Spirituality” an essay from the “Faith and Bullshit” collection. Circa 2011.

She had a lot to drink at the party and it has become pretty typical for her to get into some type of funk once the music stops and she has to move from dim-lit dance floors to concrete sidewalks to the carpet in her bedroom, a new mood unveiling itself along the way.  But tonight she is more contemplative than usual.  She and her partner of four years recently ended their stint and it’s obvious that the idea of her ex-girlfriend dating men and moving on makes her feel empty.

We arrive at her house, sloppily climb the stairs and fall on the bed.  Any other night, she is rambling off obscenities and spewing slurred lyrics that make us both laugh until sleep overtakes us.  But not now.  We lay in bed fully clothed.  Close.  The sole light source comes from beyond the windows and the quiet is interrupted only by the swoosh-swoosh of cars on Broad Street and the low hum of the miniature heater that we turned on to knock out the 2am March morning chill that hovered in the room.

I am fading to sleep.  I turn over first to make sure she is already dozing before allowing myself to slip into slumber.  She is staring up at the ceiling.  In the darkness, I see her lashes move with each blink, but otherwise her eyes are wide open.  I turn my body towards hers and move closer, resting my chin on her shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Pumkin?” I ask her through her dreadlocks which are splayed across the pillow.

“I’m sad, Nique.” The sniffles begin and the tears follow. “I miss her.  And I hate this dating shit.  And I don’t feel like I can talk to anybody about how I feel,” she managed between heaves.

“Awww, Pumkin,” I kiss her wet cheek and taste the salt on my lips. “You can always talk to me.  I’m here.”

I wrap my arm snugly around her. She tilts her head to rest on my forehead and continues to cry.  She doesn’t acknowledge my offer tonight and we say nothing more before going to sleep.

One God. Same God.

Day 2. This is an excerpt from my senior thesis work,

a collection of essays titled “Faith and Bullshit.” Circa 2011.

There is no light outside the window when he begins to move restlessly in bed—only an orange glow that spills onto the carpet and against the walls from the lamppost across the street.  I finally feel his warmth slipping away as he slowly peels back the comforter and sheets, careful not to disturb me.  It is minutes from sunrise and Hasan has to make his first salat.   He slips into a pair of shorts and t-shirt and tiptoes to the bathroom to make wudhu before he makes his prayers.  I lie awake in bed, silent as if still asleep, and listen to the way the water moves in the bathroom: the steady stream from the faucet to the basin intermittently interrupted by his cupped hands scooping water to his face, around his arms, and on top of his head—and then the squeaky turn of the knob to close the water valve.  He shuffles out of the bathroom, feeling his way through darkness until he reaches his designated place of prayer—a little area in the corner of the bedroom that allows him to face the Ka’abah.

 He begins the series of movements that accompany his prayer routine—takbir, ruku, qiyaam, sujud, jalsah—as he utters the rhythmic, foreign words from his mouth, his monotone voice sounding musical at certain intervals of his recital.  I am completely awake in bed now, eyes fixed on the ceiling, pondering when and how I would get on my knees and make my own petitions to God.  I decidedly keep my place after convincing myself that Hasan is hardly worried about who is holier than who—that was usually my role in our relationship.

After several minutes, Hasan completes his sura and, for a brief moment, there is stillness in the room.  The morning light has finally rested on the pillows and throughout the house and I am able to clearly make out Hasan’s silhouette as he disrobes before rejoining me under the sheets.  My body is considerably warmer than his now, so he pulls me close—my back to his chest and one of my breasts already cradled in his palm.  I feel his humid breath on the nape of my neck before he settles his lips there to whisper a sweet and sensual “good morning” which will serve as his invitation to commit today’s first sin.

It wasn’t long before meeting Hasan that I had settled into my own religious walk— the original faith of my childhood now repackaged and reintroduced as a personalized adult version of Christianity.  This new and improved God wanted to be my friend, my father and was described with words like patient, forgiving, full of grace which were different from the harsher and more familiar terms like angry, wrathful, and jealous.  While it seemed so much easier to worship this nice God, it was often just as bewildering to have once been plagued with legalistic checks and balances to now only be covered in the “blood of the Lamb,” once and forever after repentance. The Presbyterian doctrine of today seemed so different from the Pentecostal gospel of my youth.

Yet I never revealed such ambivalence about my beliefs to Hasan.  Instead, we engaged in stimulating conversations about our respective faiths—he maintained that there was only one God, and both Muslims and Christians served the same God, while I insisted that his religion lacked the vital component of recognizing Jesus Christ as Savior of mankind and ultimately the channel through which one reached salvation.  Hasan would allow me to say my piece before he offered a reassuring smile, sometimes lifting my hands to his lips before speaking again. After a long pause he would respond softly, “Zenique, the truth will find you.”

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