Mental Recessions

I write under the strict orders of A.

She wonders why I haven't spent more time on my blog since I've been spending the last 4 months creating an ass perfect dent in my couch and doing little else. I guess I've just learned that the life of a bum is insanely complicated. There's lots of sitting to do, lots of whining, lots of feeling sorry for yourself, and lots of avoiding things that you now have time to do. It's a wonder things get done in the world. I've spent 24 years of my life being incredibly busy, and telling myself I would do a million things if only I had more time. Now, all I have is time, and I find myself hating time. I want to be busy. Now.

I'm having a mental recession. Come back another day, or year. Really.

There's Something About Love and the Many Ways to Fuck it Up

Aging has a funny way of making you think that you're becoming wiser. Something about turning a year older makes you believe that you can make much better decisions than you did the year before. Of course, there are many circumstances where getting older makes you a little smarter, makes your decisions a little more prudent and overall adds to the rationality of your life. However, I think that when it comes to matters of the heart we are fucked no matter how old we are. Age is certainly nothing but a number when it comes to love, or whatever we call that queasy feeling in the pit of our stomachs. Basically, I'm no closer to understanding the intricacies of the male-female mating dance that I've participated in since I was 16.

I've been back in Toronto for 3 days and have spent 2 of those days with Noel. I realized quite quickly that spending 5 months talking to somebody on the phone from across an ocean builds a lot of anticipation plus a whole lot of expectations. I wanted what I felt on the phone in person, but it didn't quite happen that way. The thing is that the phone as a medium comes with a lot of transformative power. While on either end of this technological marvel (thank you Mr. Bell) people are often braver, more honest, and certainly more likely to be open. Noel is shy, often awkward, and nerdy...I knew that going in, but I didn't know whether that would transfer well from the phone to sitting across the dinner table from him. Going through the beginning part of your relationship from different continents is more difficult than you can imagine. I spent most the last 5 months convincing myself that knowing him so intimately in an emotional and psychological way would make being together in Toronto even better. I consoled myself with the idea that knowing somebody so deeply could only make being together easier and more wonderful. The problem is that you can't ever account for the unknown. When I got back to Toronto, Noel and I were more than we were when I left for London in January and certainly the expectations were higher. I hate to say it, but it has been far harder than I imagined, and more awkward than I believed. Even worse, my feelings are swinging like a pendulum.

Let me make myself totally clear. Noel is the kindest, sweetest, nicest guy in the world. I don't think I believed men like him existed. Am I total bitch for thinking that he's too nice? I thought that all I ever wanted was a good guy who was enamored with me. I have one now, and all I want is somebody who'll stand up to me and won't look at me with stars in his eyes. I can't seem to enjoy being looked at the way he looks at me because it feels unrealistic and I live in the real world. I am not even close to as perfect as he thinks I am. I'm afraid to disappoint him by being as imperfect as a human usually is and also by doing anything that could possibly disillusion him. But sometimes, I revel in how much he likes me (I am a total bitch). In turn, he gets so nervous around me, and I don't think he's totally himself. When we get on the phone, even now, he's so much more open and direct. In real life he's afraid to do anything to push me away. He's on eggshells, and I'm feeling jipped because the guy I want (and was promised) only seems to come alive when we've got phones attached to our ears.

I want to react differently than I have in the past when situations with men have been less than what I wanted them to be. Usually, as a friend likes to say, I squash things before they even really get started. If he's a bad kisser, I'm done. If he doesn't excite me, I'm done. If he's not my ideal, I'm done. What's wrong with me? So I've decided that this time, I'm going to be different. I'm going to give this a chance and see where it goes. Maybe he'll be less nervous over time. Maybe he'll be exactly what I want and need. Obviously I liked, and still like, him for very good reasons. He's still smart, and kind, thoughtful and honest. I mean, he bought me a box of chocolates (each chocolate personally picked out) for our first date since I've been back in Toronto. See, thoughtful. Do guys do that anymore? Why can't I be happy with that?

I'm at a crossroads. I'm 24, older this year than last, and hopefully a little better at living life. However, it seems that love has trumped me again. I have no clue how to deal with this situation. I've got a strategy, though, and I guess all I can do now is see how it plays out.

Music, Lyrics, Life, and Other Stuff That Doesn't Make Sense....hello.

I should probably write about the things that have been happening to me in the last couple of months. Much of it feels like a blur really. I went to Los Angeles...almost died over Kansas City....started my thesis...and I'm currently closing the London chapter of my life. Seems like too much to write about, surely too much to string together in coherent sentences without getting carpal tunnel.

I want to be a songwriter. Honestly, I find myself feeling so many different kinds of emotions that my emotional state almost begs to be put to some sort of chord or note or string. I can't help but think that my current state of life would best be captured in song (maybe even a dance). When I listen to particular songs I feel like somebody "out there" got the music and lyrics to my life right. Sigh. Have you ever heard Matchbox 20's Unwell? If you haven't then you should get on that...quickly. If you ever feel like you're going crazy and can't be understood, I'm pretty sure Rob Thomas understood which is why he wrote that song. You know what I listen to now? The music of my life. That consists of random conversations with people at international airports, figuring out mathematical riddles for my seat mates on planes, falling in love with watermelon juice at trendy LA happy hour bars, watching Stephen Colbert and laughing like a crazed woman (the man is comedic gold), writing the kind of thesis that might change my life and falling for an amazing guy who makes me believe the impossible (mostly that not all men are complete assholes). I'm at a place in my life where adulthood is greeting me with a briefcase, a list of "must do's", and a road map to possible futures. I like the one that shows me happy.

I'm supposed to be making sense and I hope I am. However, I'm feeling dulled by the fight I had with Noel last night, and the making up we did this morning, the small tokes of Mary Jane I partook in last night, and the revival of my addled brain this morning.

I'm saying goodbye to London, and hello to Toronto. I'm say goodbye to distance, and hello to closeness. I was supposed to grow. Did I? I can't wait for hindsight to come-a-knockin'.

I'm stopping by to say I haven't forgotten about you, but that I've been a little preoccupied with watching my life put together some music and lyrics for me. I want to see this song play out. Afterwards, I'll have some words that seem less...distracted. Soon. Goodbye. Oh....and hello.

April's Fool

It's been almost a month. Many things have happened, but mostly I've been trapped beneath the weight of academia trying to survive the month of April. I'll give a quick recap.

April 1st I turned 24...for the first and last time. I don't get to turn 24 again. That's it, folks. It was a one shot deal. Noel sent me a box full of goodies from Toronto. I think I fell for him in that moment, because for the first time a guy made me cry in a good way. I didn't even know you could get good tears from a guy considering my eyes have a separate tear duct labeled "For the Assholes!"

After my birthday I spent the rest of my days writing papers about global governance, agribusiness and globalization, gender roles in disaster vulnerabilities and urban disaster risk. It's been a scintillating month I tell ya. Besides that, I've spent every non-academic moment on the phone with Noel talking for so many hours I'm pretty sure my ears experience withdrawal when they don't hear his voice. What the fuck am I doing?

I'm a one-person girl. I can only handle one thing at a time and considering what a handful I am I can say with all certainty its enough just to deal with myself. So Noel is another woe on top of the many that just live inside of me like squatters in a broke down, boarded up house. The biggest problem that I have with him is that I can see this working out just as much I see it failing. I'm equally prepared to have him in my life as I am to live without him. There is no bias. I am cynical enough to believe that come May 29th when I return to Toronto things will degrade to the level of a nuclear breakdown. Think Hiroshima. I am, also, hopeful enough to believe that for a girl who knows nothing about healthy, loving relationships this could turn out to be everything she's never known. Think every RomCom ever created. For the most part I alternate between believing that "this is it" or feeling like maybe this is just one more due I have to pay before the right one comes along. Funny how a situation like this can appear so disjointed when your own mind is so disjointed. Cynical to hopeful...two sides, same coin, generally pathetic situation.

I wish I could say this has something to do with Noel, but after psychoanalyzing myself I've realized this is more about me than anything. He is quick to reassure me. But isn't that what they're supposed to do? He is fast to make me feel good. But would I be with him if he didn't? He says all the right things. But, honestly, why wouldn't he? He can't make a move without me fucking it up for him. I should give him a chance, but really, does that sound like me at all?

I spent the last couple of days losing my brain cells and steadily lowering my IQ by watching The Pussycat Dolls Present: Girliscious. Of course I have no excuse for this behavior except to say that when a girl is constantly reading UN documents full of depressing details a little fluff and vapidness goes a long way. Unfortunately, we took a bad turn towards "low self-esteem road" and I was broken down by a show with a title that is enough to turn any academic into a raving lunatic. One girl on the show had the nerve to declare that "beauty is a talent, I mean, not everybody is born beautiful." That's right. Tell that to the girls with a complex about their looks, with enough issues about their weight they could bury themselves with it. Irrational as it is, this comment made by the most vapid, ignorant, absolutely idiotic, glitter loving, lip gloss fawning, hair flipping waste of food (really, she probably doesn't eat) made me feel utterly gross. So I can't wear a pair of 3 inch heels and dance in cut offs so short I could easily have an offensive Britney moment. What does that matter? Fuck. Why do I give a shit? Maybe I should just buy a bikini and put all my worth in a piece of string and 3 triangles that cover just enough....but not too much.

I guess my talent is constant worry, easy self-disgust, confidence on a pendulum, and a brain that can process complex documents but couldn't figure how to sing and dance at the same time. No beauty talent here. I'm just a woman with a stressful life, a guy she can't seem to reconcile mentally with, and a need to wonder why, if beauty is skin deep, people aren't equipped to see to that depth. Apparently, beauty is like a UV ray....our eyes just aren't made to see it.

Excuse my fat ass.

I spent part of last night watching Penn & Teller: Bullshit! on Showtime via my new favorite TV website www.surfthechannel.com. I had my choice of episodes and stumbled upon one named Exercise v.s. Genetics. I had to watch it as a woman, like many others, who has struggled with her weight most of her adult life. Because of this brilliant show with a serious no bullshit attitude, and a penchant for dirty words (fuck is a favorite of theirs and mine) I was once again reminded that you are your genes. As a university graduate from a biology and physiology program with more knowledge about genetics than the average person I couldn't believe I had allowed myself to forget that. I'm a fuckin endomorph. I'm not going to be predisposed to being tall and lean like an ectomorph (although bless the God who made me tall and therefore hid some of my endomorphness) or have a muscular build that allows me to lose weight quickly making me a veritable fitness machine like a mesomorph. As an endomorph I am defined as: soft, round or curvy, and generally pear shaped, predisposed to gaining fat and muscle easily but with major trouble with losing weight and fat. Basically I'm genetically fucked and I should be happy with it, or at least that's what Penn & Teller tell me.

I'll put this into context. I'm generally athletic, I've been a tomboy my whole life, played sports throughout my teens, but I've never be skinny (well at least at no point past 14, really). I've never been truly fat either, although many people have called me that. In my mind if the average woman is a size 12, and I'm a size 12/14 I'm pretty normal, and not fat. But, after all, I'm not a size 4 and therefore, of course, I am indeed fat. I'm a lard ass. I shop at regular stores, and wear all the same things most people do, and just because bikinis scare the shit out of me doesn't mean I'm an obese monster. Granted I would love to lose a solid 25-30 pounds, but you know what, I'm not inclined to do it right now as my life is filled with more important things to take care of.... like my life!

Like most women who are not a size 4 I've received all the lovely epithets such as "You have such a beautiful face...if only you lost some weight" or "You probably shouldn't eat that" or "You should exercise more, its really good for your health" or "Do you know how much prettier you would be if you just lost some weight". Thanks, but no fuckin thanks. Who are these people who feel they have a right to comment on the state of my ass? Do you see me going up to skinny people and telling them to shove a pizza down their throats? NO! Because I'm apparently under the misconception that I don't have any right to involve myself in a person's eating habits, fitness habits or their physical appearance. What's next? Do I tell the girl with a slightly larger nose to get a nose job? Tell the brunette to go blonde? Who gives a fuck, really? So I can't wear a bikini....I can still have a stimulating, intelligent conversation about poverty, AIDS, world hunger, global warming, evolution, and genetics! Why does that not count for anything? Oh that's right, I can't have this conversation while wearing a belly top and short shorts (as if I would even if I could!) therefore its obsolete.

I am proposing that I lose 5 pounds for every important and legitimate personal character trait that I have. So....

- 5 pounds = I am intelligent woman who is very well educated.
- 5 pounds = I am a kind, generous human being who focuses more on being a good person than the state of her thighs.
- 5 pounds = I care deeply about alleviating world poverty, decreasing anthropogenic damage to the earth, taking strong measures to control AIDS and the promotion of free trade
- 5 pounds = I can have an intelligent conversation on a multitude of topics
- 5 pounds = I think I'm funny as hell
- 5 pounds = I find it much more satisfying to give a very personal, thoughtful gift to a friend than to receive one myself

Would you look at that....that's my 25-30 pounds gone in a flash. If only it were that easy to win over the world without getting on a treadmill. The irony of it all is that I am not an over eater (in fact I get full after a second slice of pizza) and I eat very healthy (hell, I'm a vegetarian now), but, damn it, I'm an endomorph. Excuse my genetics.

I do love food because it is a wonderful part of life. Experiencing the flavors, the cultures and the differences in each dish is a gift that is not afforded to all. Many people starve in the world every day and yet somehow in the developed world we are so disdainful of such a life sustaining product. I'm going to make it a point to tell the 25,000 people a day that die of starvation that they should hate food because it'll make them fat. It is this disgustingly hypocritical, socially unaware rhetoric of the Western world that reminds me how absolutely ridiculous it is to worry about fat, rather than to worry about important things....like starvation in the Third World!

So, after being called fat last Thursday by a man who is far bigger than me and told to exercise more by another man who I thought had the sense not to comment on my lifestyle, I want to say that I don't give a shit if I can wear a bikini. The value of life is not in the cellulite on ones thighs, the rolls on ones stomach, the stretch marks on ones arms, or the slight waddle is ones step. Good God people, do we not have bigger problems in the world? Are there not people dying from hunger, aids, poverty, war and injustice? Why are we so preoccupied with something that does not reflect a person's most important traits....like kindness, intelligence, awareness, humility. I sure as hell haven't seen a correlation between hotness and goodness.

At the end of the day I'd rather have a Ghandi than a Jessica Simpson. It is through the work of people who are not "traditionally" attractive that the world has come to see its greatest pioneers, activists, revolutionaries and leaders. Nelson Mandela is no Denzel Washington, Mother Theresa was no Halle Berry, Albert Einstein was no Brad Pitt and to make my point clear, nobody gave a crap if Anne Frank was skinny or fat. I ask you now, what does my weight have anything to do with who I am? If the answer is nothing then we all know where the problem lies....and that's not with me.

The Love Jones

I was reminded of the movie Love Jones....a true, passionate love story with a rhythmic tale about words and poetry, love and fate. I downloaded the soundtrack and after listening to the mellow sounds of love in its many musical forms....jazz, soul, blues....I remembered that love, above all else, is a journey. Love Jones is simply a tale of that journey where love is made to jazz, and inevitably, the souls were made to love.


It's in the words, the verbs, the verses, the soul
Expressed in sweet touches skimming down low
Fingertips laying on the small of the back
While skin to skin it plays out like fact

Ringing out in the silence of the night
The soft caress of the muted limelight
Voices humming in the aftermath
Warm, and lazy, along this destined path

Intoxicated on kisses like juices flowing
Sleeping over love made, but not slowing
Inside the sweetest thing that's ever known
Outside the greatest feeling that's ever shown

Too deep in the bones to lose
A jones so embedded it cannot move
Too heavy on the body to lift
A fate so true it cannot shift

It's in the words, the verbs, the verses, the soul
Played out on the hip, the skin, the lips, the whole

Life and Death

2:35 pm on a Saturday and I was sleeping only to be woken up by the ringing of my cell phone. It was my father calling with the kind of news people seem to be getting more and more these days. "There was a shooting..." that's all I heard before I sprung upright in my bed. See, I have two brothers, one who just turned 17 and another who is 20. In a world where young black men often find themselves on the wrong end of a bullet I hear the word "shooting" and my thoughts automatically go to my brothers. But why does my brain do that?

I come from a middle class family background, my parents have a mortgage, two cars, 5 kids, where 3 out of 5 are in post-secondary education, 1 is in high school, and me, in graduate school in the UK. My immigrant parents have worked so hard to give us the opportunities that our war torn country couldn't and still can't. My family has thrived because of their hard work. We've been blessed with the love of great parents, their time and patience, and because of all of that we've turned out to be good kids. We work hard, and we aim to be educated, law abiding participants in society. My parents have never had to deal with drugs, alcohol, gangs, pregnancy scares and I count that as a serious blessing in a world of teenage pregnancies, gun violence, and substance abuse. So why do I still worry about my brothers? They're good boys (almost men) who go to school, work and are home at a normal hour. They play football with their friends, spend their days playing video games, and bugging their sisters. Why do I hear the word "shooting" and automatically feel like I'm going to have my heart ripped out?

Last week, 6 young Somali boys were shot by one gunman. 5 survived, and 1 died. The place it happened is about 20 minutes from my house, an area I've been to, near one of the malls I frequent, and not so far removed from my neighborhood. The police released a video of the shooting and I felt both disgust and shock while watching it. To watch one person literally shoot out an entire round on 6 men trapped in an enclosed area without any mercy, with such casualty dumbfounded me. But why should it? I'm from a country that's been at war with itself for years and has racked up the death toll to match. I live in a civilized nation where gun violence is rising and the death of a young man is yet another news story among so many others. Why does death surprise me? My aunt was shot in the leg in Somalia a few years ago during a carjacking. My father is a military man who I'm sure has shot a weapon before. I guess I know bullets, but I don't know bullets.

The young man who died, Abdikarim, told his mom he would be back soon before leaving his home for the very last time. I have brothers who say that to my mom when she asks when they'll be back. I have brothers who say that to me if I catch them leaving the house without telling anybody where they're going. Simply, I have brothers. I don't want them to be a statistic. I don't want either of my brothers to be yet another black man killed by a gun. Is it too much to wonder at why there is so much black on black violence? Why do young black men feel that they have a right to claim the lives of anybody, let alone another young brother in the struggle? Can life really seem that insignificant? I ask myself if the lives of my brothers only matter to me and my family. Do others see their lives as unimportant? For me, I see two young men who are benefiting from a great life that their parents sacrificed for, who have so much to live for and to see and yet I am constantly worried that somebody else will not see that and will have no qualms about ending their lives. Why?

Abdikarim had a sister. I actually met her last year at my university where she was a first year student. We happened to know the same group of girls and I remember thinking to myself that she was so young and I felt so old in comparison. I was graduating, she was finishing her first year and the difference in age felt staggering. I remember thinking she had the most beautiful hair. She was, without a doubt, a sweetheart. Young, excited and full of promise about what life in university was going to be like. Now, after the death of her brother, she's an adult. She's been forced to see real life in a way that nobody should have to see, through death. My younger sister's best friend used to go out with Adbikarim. I remember her coming over to my house and telling me she had a boyfriend. I thought to myself, "you're too young to be dating." I also thought, "holy crap, this little girl is doing a better job at dating than I am." I laughed about it. She was almost 16 at the time, and now, at 17, she's witnessed the death of her very first boyfriend. What do I do with that? I can't imagine what her thoughts are, what her perceptions of life and death have now become because somebody thought that this young man's life was not important enough. And it was. It was important to his sister, to my sister, to my sister's best friend, to a community who is in shock and to me, just another girl with brothers she loves and worries about.

This morning when my father called to tell me there was a shooting I felt my heart skip a beat. I couldn't form any words. He was calling to tell me there had been a shooting at a coffee shop in my neighborhood. 4 young men were shot while sitting inside, drinking coffee and talking, by one or more people from outside the shop. The location? The coffee shop in the plaza where I get my pizza slices, where I get my hair cut, where I rent my movies, where I buy my groceries, where I go to the doctors, where my dentist gets rid of my cavities, and where my brothers hang out. How easily could have one of those 4 young men been one of my brothers? Luckily, all 4 sustained non-life threatening injuries and will live to see another day. That's all they have, another day. This happened at 1 am, and my brothers are very much at home at that time, but only because of the iron fist with which my mother rules. Then again, do gunmen run on a time schedule? I don't think so.

The attempted massacre of 6 young men in Toronto has served to remind me of how precious life is, and how easily it can be destroyed. Something as small as a bullet can shatter the lives of families, communities, and make me, a regular girl from a regular family, wonder and worry about her two brothers mortality. I want to worry if they're going to harass me on MSN tomorrow, or if they'll go cross-eyed from watching too much TV, or if they'll do well on their tests, or if they just stole the last slice of cake from the fridge. I don't want to think of their deaths.

I'm in London, experiencing the beauty of life and love and travel, and yet I am now reminded of the other side of life....death. Having said that, I am in deep prayer for Abdikarim's soul, and his family. My heart is with his sister. My thoughts are with his mother. My hope is with our community.

May Allah (S.W.T.) bless his soul, grant him entrance to paradise, and may he rest peacefully in a better place. Amen.