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Can I Live?????

There has been a lot said about Scandal and the representation of black women in media. It's absurd to me to think that one show, one character, has that power to define all black women.  Wow. And then there are these reality shows, but guess what... they do not represent all black women either. Because I'm sure Mob wives, or Jersey Shore, or Housewives do do not represent white women...Or Hone Boo Boo, for that matter. We are a selfish society, and apparently we like to watch others make a fool of themselves for entertainment, and then we go back to our own miserable fuck of a life...End of story...
I know it may be hard for many to believe, but black women are not a monolith. Gasp! I think I speak for many black women when I say, I'm tired of being put in a box. One side, from greater society ( read white) and the other side, from Black America..( and in my case Somali too!) I am tired of representing people that I don't share anything with but the color of my skin(or country of origin.) I only represent myself, and I should be judged according to my own actions...And hey, as long as I'm pleasing myself...At least someone will be happy :)
Alright,back to Scandal..I enjoy watching Scandal. I like the complexities of the characters, I like the story line, I like the (often) beautiful people in it, I am a huge fan of Kerry Washington, and most importantly I LOVE fiction. Yeah, sure, art does have power, and it does impact and influence society... But are you saying, women...black women like Olivia Pope cannot exist? All black women are the same? We all have the same ideas, same behaviors, same aspirations, same thoughts, same....No, human beings are complex. When I see Olivia Pope, I just see a complicated, at times selfish, misguided at times, emotional, highly intelligent and passionate character, and then some...Traits that we all can encompass as human beings. The fact of the matter is, you have a myriad of white actresses playing complicated, and sometimes unlikable characters...but instead of them getting flack for it, they get critical and rave reviews...Case in point, my favorite gal Cate Blanchett, who played a boozing,gold digging, sometimes psychotic woman in Blue Jasmine...and she gets an Oscar nomination...
I am probably one of the most outspoken and opinionated people you'll ever meet, and also a feminist. I detest the fact, that my integrity and character is questioned by watching a TV show. "Oh, black women, is that you think of yourself?" What? ....Again...What????!!! And this usually comes from other black people, unfortunately..
I think Black America is much more critical of black women than anyone else. Is it because you're putting us on a pedastal, or are you denying us our humanity? You're not doing us a favor. Despite what you heard, or want to believe, human beings, including black women, are FLAWED. IMPERFECT.   If I'm an actress, I want to play interesting, complex....most importantly, human ( sometimes alien lol) character. The fact of the matter is real life is not pretty...Bad things happen...Bad people exist in all colors..and some circumstances do not discriminate...We're not gonna tell those stories, because we only want one version? Isn't that what we have been complaining about?
Anyways, my entire point here is, stop reading so much into it. Art is supposed to be beautifully complicated. But beautiful nonetheless.
One more thing,about the race of the male actor...Does it really matter? Why can't black women fall in love with white men? Aren't all human? And haven't you seen SO MANY black male characters with white women..but now all of sudden...oh, this is wrong? Maybe, its because I don't really pay attention to things like that, as someone who has and will continue date interracially, but I have never thought that of the race of her love interest as a point of discussion or importance... Call me an idealist, but it wouldn't have any difference to me if Fitz was black.
Finally, on behalf of all black women ( yep, I said it!)," Can we live?"

A Different Direction

Dear Friends,

I've decided to end this chapter of my blog. I'm going to redirect towards a more creative Fiction & Poetry route. I've been writing selfishly, searching for my own healing, and self-discovery. I am at a good place now, and I'm ready to move on. I hope thus far you've enjoyed reading. For those who've enjoyed  Third Leg, I will add some background info, and finalize this story on the original post ( I will not create a new post for it). I warn you, it is not a story of redemption, or glory, but rather loss, and misery. I hope you will still read it.  I may be switching to a different blog to separate my writings. I will continue writing this blog, and it will be mostly my journey and adventures.
Finally, for those of you who support me, thank you so much. It means so much to me to know that you find inspiration in my writing, and I appreciate you so much!
For those of you who don't understand or ridicule me for "airing my dirty laundry," the irony is you are still reading, and deep down, I know you are courageous too, and I hope you will find your own truth, someday. Good luck. Set yourself free, live and let live.
I love writing. I've always loved writing, but I've been shut down for many years now. I'm finally finding my way back home. I hope you stay with me through this journey. Thank you.

Yours Truly,

Ifrah 

My Father's Dreams

For my father.

He is truly the light of my life, my son, and as I run him from one place to the next; soccer, football, dance, theatre, piano lessons, guitar lessons, drum lessons, and more, I am reminded of everything he, my father, has done for me.

How he enrolled me in swimming, so I wouldn’t drown, karate and taekwondo so no one would pick on the lone black girl at school, cooking, since I didn’t have a mother to teach me how to cook, and everything possible to make me the best person I could be. I am thankful, indeed.

As I look at my son sleep, I am reminded of the times, very late at night before he took his shoes off, before he put food in his stomach, before he sat down after a long day at work, and got comfortable, my father would come into my room, watch me breath, and feel my belly to make sure I, his eldest daughter and crown and jewel, didn’t go to bed hungry. He would hug me, and inhale deeply, and hold me tight. I loved that man. He once told me he felt peace when he did that.

Oh, how I loved that man. The difficulty of navigating through puberty and coming of age, and his lack of understanding due to cultural differences proved too difficult for us. He said once, I wish you stayed a little girl forever. I wished I did too.

The love was there, but we weren’t versed in how to love one another. We weren’t on the same path, and we were too stubborn to ask the other for directions on how to love one another. His love was tested many times, and many times, oh to the dismay of others, he chose me. But he also let me down a few times, too, at pivotal times in my life, seemingly when I needed his love the most.

But the love was always there.

Many days, there were deep conversations, only a father and his baby girl can have, with so many tears, and so many resolutions on how we can keep each other, and not lose ourselves in the process. He wanted to be true to himself, his faith, his culture, and I, well; I just needed to find myself. I needed to discover who I really was, not who he wanted me to be.  I thought he had lived his life already. I just wanted the chance to do the same. My father wanted to save me, from myself, and from the world.

I too, hold him, my child, as he sleeps. I kiss his little cheeks, gaze at him with wonder and amazement and I vow, as long as I am living and breathing, not only will he never want for anything, but I will also never stand in his way of becoming who he wants to be, despite what I want, as I have taken my chances, loved and lost, and I’m living as I’ve chosen.

Despite, the conflict my father had over supporting me in my choices, I will always chose my son no matter what I lose, or who else I lose. 

As for my father, yes, I still feel that he was a coward, but aren’t we all at times? Who always knows the right to do, and even if you do, do you always rise to the occasion?

Did I mention, he was brave too, took many chances to better our lives, and he was my hero, and instilled values in me; hard work, dedication, and commitment, among others.
Did I mention he worked like a dog day in and day out, till the soles of his shoes gave out, so that we would never beg anyone? Don’t let what I said in anger fool you. Despite our misunderstandings, I am not too blind to see his sacrifices. Did I tell you, he was the one who bought me tampons, and embarrassingly explained that they were for, for his wife didn’t want to be a mother to me? Yes, he did.
And did I mention how difficult is to raise a motherless daughter?

Yes, of course, like anyone he made many mistakes along the way, and many more since I’ve become an adult.  So many unkind words exchanged, so much misunderstanding, and hurt buried the love, and now we’re both running on empty; still feeling the love, but not knowing how to reach out.  And now, it seems like there is no way back for us, our bond broken beyond repair, it seems, but you know the pain never subsides, no matter how much time passes, and every time I stop, think and break down, I feel his tears somewhere too, wondering where we went wrong, and how to find our way back. I still love that man. 

Same Home, Different Lives

Leave alone the past, she says

It’s easy for one whose life has been

Rather idyllic

There’s always someone who has it worse

Of course, and right now I had it worse than you

So shut up

Leave it to God, she says

I’ve been waiting for that fool my whole life

Where the hell is god?

Where was he when I was lying on my back?

Being slaughtered?

Please, save me the moot dialogue

Or the pity

I’m too angry for that. 

 

Kintir; That Third Leg

 There is always a trigger, something that happens, and sets the course for future events. In this particular story, it’s a simple beginning. There was a girl, and her father. He loved her and she loved and adored him.  Life was simple, filled with happiness, childhood bliss, and love. Then she grew up, and realized that things aren’t always what they seem. And that deception is an art, which the ones closest to you are the most skilled at. Which brings me to my next point of what happened one sunny day in a small town in the northeastern part of Kenya, far away from civilizations and the modern world, where false ideologies are used as reasons for violating, and butchering young women’s bodies.

It was cunning, to say the least, to look at me and tell me I was dirty, no filthy, and untouchable until I got that kintir (clitoris), that third leg, removed.

" No man will ever touch you, let alone marry you," my aunt said to me.  My 14-year-old brain knew that that was all I had to expect from life: a man to marry me. It meant validation; I would've arrived. “Trust me, she said, I know.”  Why wouldn’t I? She was my father’s sister, and she loved me, at least that’s what she told me, and before then, I didn’t have a woman to hold, love, and cherish me. She held me in her arms, and sang to me as she stroked my hair, rocking from side to side. I closed my eyes, and allowed her to hold me, and comfort me. I felt bliss. Her voice and touch was so soothing, I felt loved, and secure. Little did I know I would hate her more than I thought I was ever capable of hating anyone.

It was a sunny afternoon when she arrived. She said she was a nurse. I couldn't help but think, but I'm not sick. She told me to lie down, and spread my legs. At this point in my life, I hadn't even seen a gynecologist, and laying eagle spread in front of some strange woman, nurse or not, was very unsettling and quite awkward.  My parents, well my dad, didn't support visiting a gynecologist. He wouldn't even let me wear a bra, because it was "western".  Yes, it was quite interesting being raised in a western country by a seemingly conservative parent. I say seemingly, because before we came here, he was a wild-child himself, and didn’t slow down for anything. All of sudden, he felt compelled to be man of faith, and rule his household with an iron fist, because otherwise, he wasn’t a man at all, according to the elders.

Snip, snip, I thought I heard flesh being cut. I felt nauseous at the thought of my flesh down there tearing. I felt the pressure, and tugging, but I had no idea what was going on down there.  Later, the anesthetic would wear out, and I would feel the pain hit me a thousand folds.  I lay there in agony, tears flowing down my cheeks, and cursing my father for leaving me there, and cursing my mother for leaving me a long time ago. I felt truly alone, like an orphan.   When nature called, it was unbearable; the pain, and burning, and I kept thinking, " and what was the purpose of this? " I felt angry, cheated, and destroyed mentally and physically. I couldn't help but be so angry with my father. So, this is what he brought me down here for? To be butchered? The bastard.

But when he called, I cried to him, and said, " Please, come back, Daddy. Take me away from this place. I am in so much pain. Why did this have to happen? Nothing was wrong with me!" He was displeased with my aunt, but he didn't come back for me.  He let this indiscretion go, but no one ever asked me what I thought about what was done to me? I felt a piece of my soul was torn, and a piece of my flesh was literally cut, bled, because apparently it was dirty, and hence it made me dirty. Thus, I had to be cleansed. The fact was that there was obviously nothing wrong with me, and an immense transgression had taken place, of which I would never see retribution for, and my father dismissed it like it was nothing. I was angry. And rightfully so.

They thought they were going to preserve my virginity, my virtue, but they didn't know the rage of an angry teenager, and the workings of her mind. I lost my virginity as soon as I healed up. It hurt like hell, but fuck it, this was what they were keeping me from? Like hell, they would.

Then something strange happened. Religion cloaked in fear, crept into my young mind, and stirred something in my soul. Suddenly, I was remorseful for my actions, well, because I didn’t want to go to hell.  My aunt, and I went to the mosque for prayers together often.  On one Friday, I had another reminder of the great Wrath of the One. Every since I was a little girl, I had been told tales of terror and fright.  I remember listening to the man speak telling us about His wrath. I remember literally shaking, and wondering in my little mind, but why? Why would He want to hurt us? What have we done to deserve that? Well, as you get older, you realize human beings are capable of immensely inhumane actions, but apparently, the wrath of the One is greater than all humanity can compass. He has the ability to burn your flesh completely till the bones crumble, and then bring you back anew to repeat the process…forever. The One is so merciful, and so kind, but if you’re not on His right side, His vengeance is like no other. I listened in a daze, staring ahead, imagining this Fire, burning the flesh off my bones, and I shivered, and tears burned in my eyes. I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t want that to happen to me…”God is Great,” the man behind the veil said, ”God is Great.” So I bowed, not knowing why I was bowing, but bowing anyways because everyone next to me was doing the same thing. I slightly looked to the left with my head on the floor, and saw a woman bowing next to me murmuring under her breath, tears flowing openly.  “Please forgive me, dear Almighty One, please forgive me for the sins I have not yet committed.” I was shocked! Why would she ask for forgiveness ahead of time? Why doesn’t she just not do anything? We sat back down, and I faced her. I looked at her puzzled; confused by her declaration. She looked back; her eyes were glazed, teary, and sorrowful. It was a painful existence to live in fear. 

Just the Two of Us

On this Mother's Day

Mother’s day didn’t exist for me until 6 years ago, when I became a mother myself, because I didn’t have a mother to celebrate. It was always a sad day; a day of reflection of all the ways being without a mother affected me. I thought about all the womanly things I had to learn on my own; how to do my hair, relationship issues, and more importantly, how to overcome challenges of being and becoming a woman. I thought of my friends and their relationships with their mothers; great at best, and at worst, pretty horrible. My mother left me to be raised by my paternal grandmother when I was about less than 40 days old. Legend has it that we  met again when I was four, but of course, I don’t remember that, and I probably didn’t recognize her as my mother, because you see, my grandmother had become my mother at that point; my first and my only. She even renamed me, Ladan, because I was hers and hers alone.

            When I was six, my father came for me. Well, not directly, he sent for me. My grandmother couldn’t be contained. She was reported to have said,” My Ladan, I didn’t realize she belonged to someone else.” She loved me, that woman. She raised me as her own, and I think of her today on Mother’s Day. I think of my biological mother, at times, but my real mother was always my Hooyo Hawa.  I remember, I always slept in her hut, and no one else could come anywhere near her; she was mine. I claimed her. I protected her goats, like they were mine too. I often had brutal fights with my cousins, male or female, over my Hooyo’s property; she, and everything hers was mine, and they couldn’t touch it. I suppose it didn’t occur to me that she was their grandmother too.

            Hooyo and I did everything together. She was firm, and direct, but so gentle and loving. I mean, that woman even burned my thumb one time, because I wouldn’t stop sucking it. She’s also the woman that fought hard for me, and let nothing, and no one hurt me. I slept beside her every night, and she took me with her even when she went for the call of nature.  She didn’t trust anyone else with me. I was her most precious thing, and she made it known that I was special; her Ladan.  She sang to me as she held me songs of praise, or “ammaan” in Somali. Ladanay, adigaa aduunka oogu roon, qalbiyay adigaa ammaan istaahishid. I loved that woman. (My Ladan, you are the best in the world. My heart, you deserve all the praise).

            When she died, I cried like there was no tomorrow. I was living with father and my stepmother at that point. My father wanted me to call my stepmother, Hooyo, but I already had a Hooyo! I resented that immensely. No one could replace my Hooyo; she was my heart, my soul, and my sanctuary. She was my peace in this world of chaos, confusion, and loneliness. She kept me company when I closed my eyes, and I thought of her.  When I heard of her passing, I felt sick, and lonely. I was already alone in that house, and now the comfort that I had, my Hooyo and the memories, I had no more. But she didn’t pass. Someone lied to my father, and tricked him into sending money for her “funeral.” In fact, my Hooyo was alive and kicking and she called to let that be known.         

            But she wasn’t going to live forever, and she really did pass in ’99. I didn’t know what to believe, but I knew I couldn’t cry then. I hadn’t seen her, or felt her touch in 6 years. I felt numb, and sick to the pit of my stomach, but at that point, I got used to the loneliness.

            Then on March 1^st, 2007, I welcomed a beautiful, and big (I mean 8 pounds 9 ounces, and 21 inches big!) boy into the world. He became my world. I looked into his eyes as I was holding him, and promised him,” I will always love you, take care of you, and your heart, and never leave you. You will always be safe with your mother. “I promised to him that I would be the mother that I had, my Hooyo who loved me and protected me, and I would never leave him, as the mother I didn’t have, did. Every night, his little body rested on my chest, and I felt the peace and love, I had been missing for so long. I never wanted to put him down. He was my angel of redemption. I love that boy.

            Today, six years later, I am still in awe of him. I am ever so grateful to be a mother. There were times, I didn’t know what to do, or how to do something, when it came to mothering, but I knew love was at the base of the pyramid. I knew that love was everything, and from there, we lived, strived, and went through so much together. He is my true love in this life. My favorite song of all time is Will Smith’s, “ Just the Two of Us,” and I listen to it today, and I remember how I felt on that hospital bed, my stitches ever so fresh, with a catheter inserted in me, in pain and agony, but also so in love; truly in love for the first time. It was going to be a long road and a rough one too; his father was and remained truly hopeless, and my father, well, that’s another story, but the point is, it was truly, “just the two of us.” We made it. I have a year left to graduate with my bachelors, my son is healthy, smart, and has an amazing heart and personality, and our life is filled with love and peace.  Every day is Mother’s Day for me. A mother’s job never ends and even at night as he’s sleeping, I listen to his breath and feel his chest rising, you know, just to make sure.  When I’m away from him, I’m sick with worry, and god forbid whoever is with him doesn’t answer their phone, and I go running to my baby.  Being a mother means everything to me. I want to raise an emotional sound, and kind person. That would be a job well done for me. No riches in the world can replace kindness. I would be more proud of a kind son than a son with any other measure of success in the world, but unkind.  My son today is more kind than any adult that I know. He helps his friends, he opens the door for me, and carries the groceries without me asking, he tells me every day how much he loves and how he’s proud of me, and he shows me that he is a conscious young person with his little acts of kindness. I love this boy, and so far, I am proud of myself for instilling good values in him, despite what people said about how he would turn out. The joke is on them. Yes, those people that said when I was pregnant, he was going to come out with devil horns (Thanks Dhuuxo) and the ones that said, I should abandon him, because you know he was a wecel (bastard) because I wasn’t married when he was conceived (Thanks, so called family), or the ones that treated us wrong in the name of culture and religion (that I’ve since forsaken). Today, he has more heart and humanity than you, and I am so proud of that. Our life, despite all the negativity and anger we could’ve lived with, is filled with so much love and happiness. And you can never touch that, or take that away from us.

            Today on Mother’s Day and every day, I celebrate you Ridwan, for making me the person and the mother that I am. I am forever grateful to you for saving me from myself, from a life of self-destruction, and emotional abandonment of so called family, and giving me so much hope, and a reason to go on and live every day with a purpose. I love you, Qalbi Deeq.