Resurfacing

I always come back
to the work my grandfather did.
It lets me break
down
and it clears my
head
to gasp for grace.

I must give back, I must be here. 
Said his heart, to his ear,
Said the whistle of the train,
climbing the mound of his back,
climbing west, into the Himalayas.

I always circle back,
climbing west,
climbing west.

"The Essential Rumi, borrowed from the library"

Before I read the mystic's words,
the flowers of your perfume,
curled between pages you held long and close,
dreamed our release into a tangled garden
of cornflowers, violet and green.

And we, red and gold, hair loosened by poetry,
flew wings of kept birds out of the house
into the glory of that conjured place,
praying for tree houses and swings
with no words, just whooping, sublime and serene.

"Weeds Vs. Sidewalk"

In our garden, we grow weeds
in a cracked tub my parents keep by the sidewalk.

We chanced upon these weeds one spring, the ground so swampy,
the earthworms had beached themselves on the sidewalk.

My parents were so happy, in disbelief, collecting a prized Bangladeshi plant
from soil along American sidewalk!

I was young and imagined Bangladeshis as fourth friends,
braving puddles, just off the edge of the sidewalk,
Who followed me home, me alone,
only to sit in silence among the weeds.

One day, I'm going to be a famous poet

In my last post, I said I applaud Mona Eltahawy for gaining the readership she's gained. Not only that, as explained by Altmuslimah, she got a discussion going. Not only THAT, but I hope she's paving the way for Muslim, feminist journalists and writers on the world stage. That part is only a hope so far because to do so, she can't sacrifice her identity for success. That said, she doesn't need to represent every Muslim feminist out there but selling herself out will likely only cause a barrier for anyone wanting to follow in her footsteps.

I've been thinking recently about gaining a wider readership. And by thinking, I mean thinking of trying to get to that point myself. I don't intend to go via news or publishing corporations. That's not the only way to mass communication. At least, if those corps don't come to own the entire internet, it's not. And I'd like to come at it from a community organizer's point of view, where successful mass communication isn't muddled with the attitude of "trying to make a splash" like it has been for Mona Eltahawy.

In the meantime, I don't want to get lost in Muslim feminism. There's more to me than that. I've had the fortune of growing up in country where ideas flow freely and I can't forget that side of myself. I want to be a part of that free flow of ideas and there's more to my ideas, more to ME than my Muslim and feminist ideas. I want to be a poet so I can take those pieces apart and sew them back together into my favorite outfit. And when I figure out how to be a poet, I want to know how to get people to listen. The people who need it, at least. Who wants to sit around at home in her favorite outfit?

These are big dreams considering my current readership (I appreciate each of you deeply) but I've always been a big dreamer.

To touch base with another side of myself, (but mostly to direct you to something wonderful) I recently watched the premiere episode of HBO's Girls. I had to see what all the hubbub in the female and feminist blogosphere was about. Unfortunately, I was pretty upset about it. I don't even want to talk about it. I'm not watching any more of it if I can help it. I'd rather re-watch ABG.

Goodbye, old tree.

Our favorite tree, the one in front of the house, is gone. The tree fellers were meant to chop down the one next to my room but they made a mistake. We'll miss the shade in the summer. The roots are probably still growing into our foundation. Maybe it will knock our house down, yet. But now, the light of sunset fills the house through the living room window and the front room is a forecastle on the crest of a wave that is the unin-tree-rupted slope of our front yard.

Learning To Draw Again

I'm going to learn to draw again.
I'll learn to look things straight in the eye
and memorize the gesture
of being seen.

I have grown too accustomed
to the pursuit of
the gaze of
privilege.

I have grown too accustomed
to seeing and not being seen.

I have grown too accustomed
to my supernatural position
as a ghost.

I'm going to learn to draw again.
I'll learn to look things straight in the eye
and internalize the gesture
of being seen.

Bengali Lessons

I is ami, rhyming with yummy.
You is thumi, rhyming with Rumi.

In Bengali, there are object pronouns.
As tu turns into te in Spanish,
thumi turns into thomakay,
which kind of sounds like stomachache.

Bhalo, in Bengali, means good.
It means satisfactory, proper, right,
well, nice.

Basha, in Bengali, means house or home
or where you're from.
My father uses the variation bari, when he speaks Bengali,
because up north in Rajshahi they speak Proper Bengali.
Rajshahi is officially
amar bari.
My ammu uses basha
because it's easier
on her southern dialect.
And by south, I mean Bhola,
which is a place
where I was born.

When we put the words together
for good
and
for home
we get the word for love: bhalobasha.

Bhalobasha is the noun and the root
that, when conjugated for ami,
is bhalobashi.

When we put the words together
(for good
and
for home)
Ami thomakay bhalobashi.

9/11: 10 Years Since And It's Time for A Muslim President

Good afternoon, my fellow Americans.
Well, actually, I should be honest,
I’m not an American citizen.
I’m a permanent resident, by chance,
patiently awaiting citizenship since I was a child of two.
But, please, hear me out:

Imagine me,
ten years ago,
seventh grade gym class,
the teacher comes in late,
interrupting my musings
over whether my sneakers made my feet look big,
saying, to the other teacher,
“No, they need to know.”

We fall silent.
He says,
“Guys, a plane flew into the Twin Towers
down in New York. It’s really bad.”

Imagine,
the words meant nothing to me.
I didn’t hear anything else he said.
Gym class moved through its usual motions.
As the day went on, I saw it on TV.
A friend of mine said he was worried
because his dad worked nearby.
As the day went on,
I wrote a poem, watching the second plane,
for the thousandth time.

Later, I was asked to read it at a school assembly.
I was nervous, but that day, I understood I had a responsibility.
I joined the school newspaper
to answer questions from people I didn’t know.
Was I was related to Osama bin Laden?
Did I have explosives hidden in my basement?
Did I believe in Jesus Christ?

The next year,
I joined school government and was elected into office.
The next year,
a friend told me she wanted to be trusted and,
in an act of self preservation,
shed her most protective layer; her hijab.

The next year,
I wrote poem after poem,
trying to understand.
The next year, I began volunteering in my community.

The next year, I watched Fahrenheit 9/11,
and completely distracted from Michael Moore’s snark
by the violent war imagery,
I cried like a baby.
The next year,
I became a media junkie,
holding my breath at every Muslim name,
praying to God,
that this person
was someone like me.
The next year,
my teachers chose me
for the Frederick Douglas and Susan B. Anthony Award.

The next year,
I went to college.
I wanted to study civil rights
and this made my parents very nervous.
The next year, Barak Obama was elected
and my mom said,
“May God protect him.”

The next year,
I wanted to be a writer,
but I didn’t want to write about exotic food,
or men with beards and guns,
or women who were a pair of kohl darkened eyes.

Last year,
some people demonstrated against the construction of a community center,
because it would house the prayer of Islam,
prayer of, in English, peaceful surrender,
which they believed could taint the sanctity
of the nearby sacred space known as Ground Zero.

The Pew Poll found, this year,
Muslims are the most diverse religious group in America,
the most optimistic religious group,
and a group as loyal to America as they are to their religion.
This year, a GOP hopeful said on television
that any Muslim serving under him
would have to take a special loyalty oath.

I read somewhere,
that you aren’t culturally considered American
unless your family has been here at least two generations before your birth.
Every morning, all through school,
I pledged allegiance to the flag
Of the United States of America,
And to the Republic, for which it stands,
One nation, under God,
With liberty, and justice for all.

I’d like to thank you, my fellow Americans,
who’ve been as good on their pledge as I have.