#leemah

when i was a little girl, every book was my favorite book. but one of my most-requested bedtime stories was We’re Going on a Bear Hunt. as a family of four goes, as the title suggests, on a ‘bear hunt’, they encounter several obstacles. however, long wavy grass, a deep cold river, a big dark forest, and many other roadblocks prove no match for the characters. each time they are forced to stop they consider turning around, and they look around for some other way, any other way. and each time, they reach the same conclusion: “we can’t go over it. we can’t go under it. oh no! we’ve got to go through it!”

there is a twitter moments compilation of Day 1 in ‘Trump’s America’ and it is my worst nightmare come to life. people are having their headscarves torn off of their heads, being teased that they’re getting deported, being taunted about the impending overturn of the legality of their marriages, waking up to vandalism and threatening messages. i know that a lot of people who voted for Donald Trump did not do so because they are racist/sexist/xenophobic/whatever or because he is. however, whether intended or not, and whether one likes it or not, there is no denying that Donald Trump’s candidacy and election has brought a very scary and hateful part of our population out of the wood work. people are terrified, and the prevalence of hate speech and hate crimes since election day is validation of that. my friends who wear hijabs don’t know if their religio-cultural traditions will be a threat to their safety. my friends who use birth control are frantically researching IUDs, because they can outlast a presidential term. my friends who are queer are living in a country that elected a vice president who believes in shocking them until they turn straight. my friends who are trans are painfully uncertain of if or how they will continue to get the hormones they need. people are scared, and it is not for no reason. it is insulting and willfully ignorant to suggest otherwise. 

i have seen a lot of posts telling people like me to suck it up, to move on, to stop being crybabies. to that i say, i would love to stop crying. i would love to be able to talk to my best friend without being reminded of sitting next to him on election night as my world seemingly fell apart. i would love to be able to keep full meals down, and sleep well at night. but my feelings are my feelings, and the thing about feelings is they demand to be felt. republicans have gained control of the white house, both houses of congress, and soon the supreme court. they have not, however, gained control of my emotions. i will probably be angry and hurt and nauseous for a long time. and it is in everyone’s best interests to let me. 

grief is an interesting thing, and one i have been better acquainted with in my young life than desired. for better or for worse, life has afforded me a bit of an expertise on the subject. it is a long road to acceptance and healing, and it is not the same from person to person. it’s not pretty. but it is necessary. if people really want to see this country re-unite and if people really want to see this country heal, they have to know it will be a long, ugly, slow-moving process. brushing these feelings under the rug is in no one’s best interest. like a broken bone that doesn’t heal properly, or a wound that didn’t get the necessary treatment to begin with, expecting people to quick-fix their pain in the wake of this election is inviting that pain to fester into something much worse, and much more destructive in the future. understand that allowing us to feel our pain full force is our best bet for a tomorrow where we can be stronger together. 

this election outcome and the subsequent heartache/uncertainty/fear has been, for myself and for others, our own big dark forest. it would be nice to circumvent it, but we don’t have that luxury. so while there is a lot i could say, want to say, probably at some point will say about this election, today i am saying this: stop telling people to get over it. like long wavy grass, we can’t go over it. we can’t go under it. we’ve got to go through it. 

Sunday, July 5th, 2015 16:57 // 19 Bedford Place

It seems that I left you all with a bit of a cliffhanger. Between my social anxiety, jet lag, and the general stress of traveling, I was downward spiraling into a little puddle of homesick-ness quicker than you can say “peanut butter” (seriously, why is that so hard to find abroad!?).

Two days later I am pleased to report that: • the jet lag seems to have left my system (though the lack of air conditioning makes it tough to sleep on these stupidly hot nights) • I [think I] know how to get from my flat to LSE’s campus, which is seriously such a weight off my shoulders (though I’m still abso-bloody-lutely terrified to begin classes tomorrow, so #pray4leemah) • I made friends !!! So far everyone of on the trip, once removed from the cloudiness and exhaustion of jet lag, has been pretty nice. At the top of the list are two of my [four] roommates, Paige & Caroline. P&C are both Alpha Gams at Alabama (roll Tide!), and they are such a gift to have around. I can not stress enough, God bless their sweet, Southern hearts, as well as whatever powers made us roommates. Caroline and I are starting a list of things we agree on because for all intents and purposes, we seem to be the same people. It genuinely feels like a heaviness is slowly being removed from my chest as I get to know people and the central part of London a bit better. 

As far as the program goes, we’ve had different pieces of orientation every day since we arrived, and we’ve also done a fair share (read: an insane amount) of sight-seeing. I fully intend to write up a post about all of that ASAP, but - thanks to that very same touristing - I’m a little too worn out at the moment. (Warning: Reading that post may lead to jealousy and cause one to purchase impulsive tickets to London!)

Despite my fatigue, there’s one more thing I must mention. To all of my friends, family, and those good ol’ workplace proximity acquaintances (as the great Ron Swanson would say) who reached out to me with words of sympathy, empathy, and reassurance: thank you, I love you, and you’re making me miss you all and home even more. Lucky for me, I’ve embraced the realization that this is not a zero-sum experience. My desire to be home with my nearest (figuratively, of course) and dearest, and my positive sentiments towards this adventure can and probably will grow simultaneously. 

I’m going to eat dinner with my aunt and uncle soon, so I’d better wrap this much calmer and more content spiel up. I’ll throw some pictures in just for funziesz, so look for those at the bottom! 

Ever Onwards, A stubbornly optimistic and still quite homesick Leemah

p.s. AnnaJean Scarborough is my hero. More on that later. 

p.p.s. Please write me!  e-mail: [email protected] insta&twitter: leemahperu post: Leemah Nasrati (16D) / 19 Bedford Place / London, UK / WC1B 5JA + iMessage, What’sApp, and Facebook! 

I’ll happily respond as wifi access allows. :) 

As the title may suggest, I’m not adjusting well. To clarify, i’ve thoroughly enjoyed my time with my family. London is well and good, if not a little warmer than anticipated. But today... today I had to move into my program provided housing, and go through safety orientation for the coming weeks. 

I hadn’t exactly been looking forward to this part of the trip, but I’d done my best to remain cautiously optimistic about meeting the other program participants. The optimism seems to have been in vain, because so far only like three people have talked to me, and only one of my roommates has said more than “hi” to me. I’ve somehow - don’t ask me how - been dubbed the shy and quiet one of the program, and at this point I’m so exhausted that I can’t be bothered to change that impression. I’m genuinely trying my best to meet people, and remain positive, but my willpower is wavering as my social anxiety grows stronger and stronger. I’m sure this doesn’t sound like much of a reason to be so completely low, but alas, here I am. It’s only made worse by my keen awareness that this is probably normal, other people are nervous too, and that it will get better as time goes on. But for now, I’m stressed to no end, and I just want to be home, or at least some place familiar. 

Right now I’m laying on my bed, eating salt & vinegar potato chips (or crisps, if you will), and willing time to go faster until it’s time for my family to pick me up to go to my other aunt’s house. 

Hopefully things get better. I’d say we can only go up from here, but I don’t want the universe to take that as a challenge, so I’ll stick to quiet prayers and requests that I not feel so miserable in the days and weeks to come, and that I can somehow return to cautious optimism. 

It seems that I have good wifi in the student housing, so please please please do not hesitate to e-mail me, facebook me, iMessage me, facetime me... literally anything. I could use some friendly faces.

30 June, 2015 21:28; somewhere over the Atlantic

Well, where to begin? I woke up this morning in my own bed, in my own house, in the city I’ve always lived in. It was quite literally my comfort zone. After a decent bit of hemming and hawing, I forced myself out to get dressed and finished what remained of my packing. After double, triple, and quadruple checking, I finally made my way upstairs. Fully expecting to be greeted by a cheerful Donna, I was surprised to find myself alone in the living room. As it turns out, the quiet solitude was exactly what I needed. (I also broke a bowl in half, but that’s neither here nor there.)

Travel is a funny thing, and, for whatever reason, it always forces me into a spiral of introspection. It’s an important thing; looking inward before moving onward. I feel as though this whole trip is a culmination of my trying to get to know myself. Who is Leemah Nasrati as she closes out her teenage years and moves on to her excitingly intimidating 20s? 

In a few hours I will get off of this plane in London, and I will experience the city without my mom for the first time. I will hug my relatives, stare wide-eyed out the window on the journey home from Heathrow, and attempt to allow good ol’ London to sweep me away into its entirely foreign yet eerily familiar transatlantic embrace. It will surely have its moments of being disconcerting, scary, and exhausting. But, I suppose, there’s nothing for me to do except try and adjust.

Ever Onwards, Leemah [AIEU]

P.S. I’m actually transcribing this from my journal at 23:01 on the 1st, from my Khala Zakia’s sitting room. P.P.S. plz write me 

A/N: To me, from me. Also to you, if you so please. I didn’t proof read these. Sorry ‘bout it. 3 years. Fuck.

To my 19 year old self:  Today will hurt. Today always hurts. From the roots of your hair, to the tips of your toes, to the corners of your soul… today will hurt. Let it hurt. Let the wind in the trees at the cemetery brush across your skin and remember your mom’s hands — Doctor’s hands, strong and steady — checking you over each and every time you fell down. Let the wind push your body the way your mom pushed you to try new things, even though it terrified her. You were, are, and always will be her proudest moments and most prized possession. Let the sun warm you and remember each time her body was next to yours; a provider of security and a presence to keep you anchored. (Don’t remember the last time your body touched hers… in the hospice room as you held her close and kissed her and cradled her and cried infinite apologies followed by even more I love you’s to ears that could no longer hear them.) She is the wind, and she is the sun. She is everywhere. She is in everything. She is in you. 

To my 18 year old self:  So college, huh? It is good, but it is so wrong. Your RA seems nice, but your mom wasn’t there to help move you into your dorm. You’re making friends, but they’ll never meet her. (How can they truly know you if they never know her?) You get into something called FCLA, but you can’t tell your mom and hear her say that she /so/ proud of you. (You tell Donna and Coyner, and they love you, and you love them, and they’re beaming with pride, and it’s almost enough. Almost.) You’re starting to tell the difference between fast friends, and lasting friends, but every time someone asks about your family you feel like maybe you’d rather have shallow relationships with these new people. (You’ll get past it. Kind of. Not really. You’ll TRY.) You’ll apply for a mentoring program called NHRI and angrily cross out ‘Parent’ on the form handed to you before your interview, instead writing ‘Guardian’ in its place. (You love Donna and Coyner, but they’re not your mom. It’s insensitive and non-inclusive language, anyways. You’re not bitter.) You’ll do fine for your freshman year — GREAT by some people’s measures — but it won’t feel like it’s worth anything. It is. Your education is worth everything. Your mom didn’t try her hardest to hold on until your high school graduation for nothing. (She missed it by 14 months.)

To my 17 year old self: This is your first full year of life without your mom. You cry every single day. Sometimes silent tears, sometimes sobs that are ripped from your chest so forcefully they feel stolen. To be fair, you’ve always been a crier, but it’s a much different experience when it happens without the woman who held you each time, and felt your hurt as deeply as you did.  You graduate high school and you don’t cry when they call your name, or when your family takes turns hugging you, and you think you might get through a day - THIS MONUMENTAL DAY, OF ALL DAYS — without crying. But then you drive yourself home, and “That’s The Way It Is” is playing on 104.5. You remember years and year’s worth of car rides singing along to Celine Dion, harmonizing with your favorite person in the whole world. Maybe part of you feels like your mom is there with you, but more of you feels empty and alone, and that’s what triggers an unbelievable yet inevitable onslaught of tears. The subsequent blurred vision almost causes you to crash your car. (You hurt so much that a part of you wishes you /did/ crash.)

To my 16 year old self:  This is the worst year of your life. It still hurts too much to write about. 

To my 15 year old self:  You’re a sophomore in high school and you find nothing embarassing about the fact that you tuck your mom into bed every night — kissing her forehead, saying goodnight, and reminding her that you love her more than anyone or anything else. Your 19-year-old self is so proud of you for that. Since mom passed away, 19-year-old you has started a tradition of kissing her necklace and whispering those same sentiments into the dark each night before bed, but there is no one to say it back. She usually cries at this point. 

To my 14 year old self:  Your mom tells you she might be sick as she drops you off at school. Don’t blame her. She knows you better than you know yourself, and this was the right way for her to bring it up. This is the beginning of the end. How could you have known? 

To my 13 year old self:  Welcome to your teenage years. Everyone keeps telling you that this will be a crazy time in your life. They also say that you’ll be dramatic and moody, and get so fed up with your mom that you’ll ‘just wanna kill her!’ (You’ll probably shout something to this effect before slamming a door or two. But a couple hours later you will poke your head into her room, apologize, and crawl into bed with her. The joke’s on you. Cancer will kill her instead.)

To my 12 year old self:  During your prolonged stay in London, there will be a period where your mom will leave you with your aunts, uncle, and cousins, in order to attend to some things in Omaha. You miss her so much that you can barely eat. When she gets back, and you finally get to hug her again, you thank your lucky stars that you have so much time left with her. If only. 

To my 11 year old self:  You graduate from elementary school and your mom is glowing. She says she is even more excited to see you graduate high school and college, and you are, too, because you’re pretty sure you could live off of the love and pride shining in her eyes as you show her your diploma. She won’t make it to your high school graudation, and you’ll hardly make it through the day. 

To my 10 year old self:  Your 5th grade teacher stupidly doesn’t recommend you for 6th grade Pre-Algebra. Your mom calls the Superintendent of the school district and gets your name on the list for the placement test. You pass with flying colors. You recognize that your mom will fight for you. Soon you will have to fight for yourself. It’s not fair, and it’s scary, but you have the best possible teacher. 

To my 9 year old self:  You and your mom move out of your dream house. You don’t have the money for it anymore. The world is cruel and no one wants to hire an Afghan Muslim in post-9/11 America, especially in Nebraska. She didn’t explain this to you back when she first stopped working at the Med Center, but she explains it now. This marks the beginning of your awareness of, and battle with, racism and islamophobia. Your 19-year-old self is sorry to inform you that she continutes to fight this battle every single day. 

To my 8 year old self:  You have a solo in the school’s music program. Your mom has a work conference in Las Vegas. But somehow, when the concert is over, there is your mom. She left the convention early, caught a flight home, and snuck into the gym just in time for your song. You cry happy tears because you understand that she will do anything for you. That never changes, even when everything else does. 

To my 7 year old self: Your mom gets frustrated calls from your 2nd grade teacher, Mrs. Streff, every day for the first two weeks of school. “Leemah is disruptive in class, and it’s distracting to her peers.” Your mom doesn’t yell or punish you. She says the teacher will have to figure you out eventually, and offers a knowing smile that reminds you that your mom has had you figured out since the day you were born. A few days later, Mrs. Streff calls your mom down for an after school meeting. You think for sure you’re in trouble this time, but instead, your teacher apologizes to your mom. She says something about how she should have realized you were only acting out because you were bored after finishing the material so much faster than everyone else. Your mom winks and you and says, “That’s my girl.” It is the best title you will ever have. 

To my 6 year old self:  One day in the first grade, Mr. Moore turns on the TV. You can’t process the images at this age, but you can tell it’s a plane hitting a building. Mr. Moore has sons in New York City, and it’s the first time you see a man cry. The whole thing sets you on edge. When your mom picks you up from Club 66 that night, she holds you a little closer, and lays with you a little longer before bed. You don’t know why, but you aren’t complaining. You are never safer than when you are in her arms. 

To my 5 year old self:  You’ve been in daycare most of your life, so kindergarten isn’t a huge change in routine for you. You love learning new things in school, but you love when your mom comes to get you even more.  You get a doctor’s set for your birthday, and you scream with glee in the middle of Chuck E. Cheese. You want to be a doctor, so that you can be just like your momma. 

To my 4 year old self:  On October 17, 1999, you write out the alphabet for the first time all by yourself. Your mom saves the paper, adds a note about how proud she is, and puts it in a binder that she will eventually stuff full of your accomplishments. You find this note late one night after she’s died, and you cry more than you thought was possible. She is so proud of you. 

To my 3 year old self: Experts say we don’t have memories from our lives at 3 years of age. They’re probably right. All the same, I know you are the most adored and cared for little girl from any time or any place. I’m sure your mom makes sure you know it, too. 

To my 2 year old self:  Your mom leaves your abusive and alcoholic father to ensure you have a safe, healthy, and happy life. It’s just the two of you, and it’s more than enough. She is the best Dad anyone could hope for. 

To my 1 year old self:  You are the luckiest person in the whole world. You think your mom is the best one out there. You are correct. 

To me, on the day I was born:  Leemah Nasrati; 6 lbs. 8 oz.; 21 in. long. Born to doting mother Sania Wali on July 20, 1995 at 1:50 AM on the fourth floor of Clarkson Hospital in Omaha, Nebraska.  You are on day one of 6,094 with your mother. She will fill each moment with enough happiness to last long after she is gone. You will need it. She will be taken from you far too soon. But welcome to the world, baby me. You are so loved. 

Author’s Note: If you read my previous post on here, you’re probably very skeptical about reading another one of these. BUT I promise this one isn’t as sad. I wouldn’t necessarily call it happy, but you won’t cry. Probably. Unless you’re a very emotional and weepy person like myself. (If that is the case we should be friends and discuss how even though the Twilight movies weren’t all that spectacular, I cried during the end of the last film when they had the montage of every actor to appear in the movies, and if you had a similar experience).  Also I cuss again, but not as much. You’ve been warned. A song suggestion for this reading experience: Hero by Family of the Year. Just ‘cause I like it a lot.

  It’s my mom’s birthday, and so I’m gonna tell you a story about her.

  When I was little, and my mom still worked at the Med Center, she would go on frequent trips to conferences in places like St. Paul, or Vegas, or Los Angeles. As the relatively spoiled only child and frequently proclaimed center of her universe that I was, I understandably expected gifts upon her return (though I should say, seeing her there to pick me up from Club 66 on the nights she got back instead of whoever I was staying with while she was out of town was always the best part). One trip, towards the end of her time with that job, brought back something called ‘Mama’s Biscotti’.

  My mom was a stickler for ‘everything in moderation’, and so months down the road, there was still a decent stock of Mama’s Biscotti sitting on top of our refrigerator.  One day – and I cannot tell you what day – I was reading a book (probably Harry Potter, let’s be real), and thought to myself ‘I could really go for some biscotti right now’. My mom’s door was only open a crack, and I knew which floor boards creaked, so my odds of getting to the kitchen and back without reprimand were pretty solid. I realize now that I forgot to tell you the most important part of Mama’s Biscotti. Inside every individually wrapped piece, there was a little card, similar to a fortune from a fortune cookie, that said “Mama Says: [insert conventional wisdom of your choice]”.  I usually was too busy stuffing my face with biscotti goodness to read it until much later, but for some reason this cheesy set of words gave me pause. It read, “Mama Says: “Everything has it’s beauty, but not everyone sees it.” It is, admittedly, not all that profound, and is probably more likely to be a quote displayed on a motivational coffee mug than a quote to shape a person’s entire life, but shape my life it did.  Maybe it’s because it sounded so like something my mama would say. With that thought in my mind, and a new outlook on my elementary school life, I set out to go tell said mama all about my life changing experience. I even decided to give her the biscotti because I was a much more mature person ever since reading that quote two minutes prior, and I was pretty sure mature people shared their biscotti with their mothers.

  After sock-sliding my way down the hallway to her room, I dramatically swung her door open expecting to impress her with my newfound wisdom. Instead, I froze, and kind of sort of felt like my entire world had shifted off its axis.

  I can’t tell you how old I was at the time despite how detailed my memories of the day are, or how long it had been since she’d gotten back from her trip, but I can tell you that – in retrospect - she had probably lost her job, or knew it was coming, at this point. If that was the case, then she definitely knew we were going to lose our house- her dream house, the one she’d spent years hunting for, and thousands of dollars remodeling, and countless hours imagining me growing up in.  It was the crowning point of her realization of the American dream™ (which is a bunch of bullshit, but we can discuss the messages of The Great Gatsby another time).  And she was seeing all of it crumble before her eyes. (Due, in no small part, to the fact that she was an Afghan Muslim, and 9/11’s perpetrators (a group of sad excuses for devout practitioners of a religion that would never, ever under any circumstances condone their actions) had led Americans to believe that Islam was a religion of terror when it is in fact a religion centered on peace and health. But it’s whatever.)

  Knowing all of this now, I shouldn’t have been so surprised by the sight I was met with when I burst into her room.  She was sitting in her bed, surrounded by her blankets, Qur’an in front of her… crying.  I had never seen my mom cry before, and it literally felt like my world was ending.  She immediately perked up when she saw me (I’m not kidding when I say I was the center of her universe, and she was the center of mine), tears quickly subsiding as she smiled and patted the space in front of her on the bed. With the memory of her crying quickly pushed from my mind, I eagerly climbed up into my usual spot and told her that I had brought her a present. I brought my hands out from around my back and handed her the quote, and the biscotti. I remember that she cried again when she read it, but that her tears were much less bothersome to me then.

  She always told people that story; praising me as her sweet and thoughtful little girl, and for the rest of our life together we bought anything and everything we saw emblazoned with the quote.  When I came home from school and complained that everyone had contacts and my glasses made me an ugly nerd that no one would want to be friends with she replied with what we’d claimed as ‘our quote’.  When I was upset about my lack of love life, and insecure over the fact that all of my friends seemed to have boyfriends or girlfriends, she sat me down in front of a mirror and prompted me to say it to my reflection.  When she told me she was sick and wanted to soften the blow, she went to the store and brought me home a journal with a picture of two birds on the cover and in gold writing those same treasured words.  When she made the decision to shave her head before chemo could take her hair from her and cried at the aftermath, I said the words right back to her.  And today, as I celebrate another of her birthdays without her, I would like to share those words with you all.  I only ask that if you choose to carry them with you, you also carry some of my mom’s spirit: bold in times of injustice, soft and sweet in times of comfort and reflection, intelligent, commanding, as ever-changing as anything else in this life, but always, always, always beautiful.