- me: I'm so cute
- me 15 mins later: I hate myself
Eventually, everything connects. I’m a firm believer in fate. It’s a big world we live in, and we pass by thousands of people in our lifetime who we never get the chance to meet. But the ones we do happen to lock eyes or share a handshake with, all add a little something to the puzzle. For some it may be only a small piece, and some might end up completing it.
It could take a while for the full picture to reveal itself, but eventually, everything comes to light, and everything works out just the way it’s supposed to.
Ladies def don’t understand they def fitnah. One time when I was creepin at the masjid and staring into the women’s side to make sure all the ladies hijabs were done correctly and modestly, And then I saw an ankle and I could not control myself. I ripped off my thobe and threw my tasbeeh in the air like a helicopter and just cried out “lalalalalalalalalalalala”. Like why would you show ankle and make this happen. Ladies fault. Ladies fitnah.
My frame aches in all the places that
you’ve never touched. In every birthmark
that has yet to be kissed by the bronze of
your skin in moonlight, in every bend of
my bones that hasn’t had the privilege of
cradling you to sleep, in every fiber of my
muscles that have fused whimpers within
the pronunciation of your name,
I feel you everywhere.
Two days ago, I ran into a glimpse of
your hair color by the train stop and
misplaced my athlete’s pace; I forgot
how I’d conditioned myself to forget you.
Last night, I drank to find numbness
but only unearthed slurred poetry and
a constellation that linked heartache and
migraine beneath a star-crossed smile.
I am every inch sore from loving you
and you’ve never even slipped bare
beneath my fingertips. But see, my hands—
I think my hands are the most tortured
part of my body because they can’t stop
writing to someone who is not here.
I still feel you everywhere,
just everywhere except here.
Here’s to the security guards who maybe had a degree in another land. Here’s to the manicurist who had to leave her family to come here, painting the nails, scrubbing the feet of strangers. Here’s to the janitors who don’t even fucking understand English yet work hard despite it all. Here’s to the fast food workers who work hard to see their family smile. Here’s to the laundry man at the Marriott who told me with the sparkle in his eyes how he was an engineer in Peru. Here’s to the bus driver, the Turkish Sufi who almost danced when I quoted Rumi. Here’s to the harvesters who live in fear of being deported for coming here to open the road for their future generation. Here’s to the taxi drivers from Nigeria, Ghana, Egypt and India who gossip amongst themselves. Here is to them waking up at 4am, calling home to hear the voices of their loved ones. Here is to their children, to the children who despite it all become artists, writers, teachers, doctors, lawyers, activists and rebels. Here’s to Western Union and Money Gram. For never forgetting home. Here’s to their children who carry the heartbeats of their motherland and even in sleep, speak with pride about their fathers. Keep on.
Immigrants. First generation.