thezmab

revamped

Empty Hangers | Settling down into a new coffeeshop. There’s no music playing. One guy is reading, one guy is coding, and I’m the writer. The color scheme here is white and light wood, the floor and ceiling an industrial gray. No paintings hang on the walls. It’s a minimalist’s dream, the kind that invites you to expand your mind and your thoughts to fill the space you find yourself in. Listening to the sound of a steam wand frothing milk. In anticipation of my future, I’m starting to strip away all the things that are unnecessary. In between stages, saying goodbye, and saying hello, packing, and unpacking. I’m walking the bridge between fear and fate. It’s a beautifully frightening place to be. I speak in between these lines. The writer in me wants to document these days. The artist in me wants to share it with the world. But I know I am not ready. Perhaps, if we share a cup of coffee, and you ask the right question, it’ll come pouring out. My ventricles are brimming. Thus far only those close to my heart knows what it beats of. I am so grateful for your pouring love, your constant support. Taking sips of courage. Remember in primary school when we learned about tectonic plates? That is your twenties. Ever shifting, ever drifting, ever searching for the home they’ll finally settle in. We are nomads. And just when you think you’ve figured it all out, something comes to shake it up. And just when you think it never is going to get better than this, it does. These hangers I hang are empty. They’re waiting for the experiences I’ll wear next.

Just like shadows dancing on a pond. I am static. I am in motion.

Zainab, a current medical student, shares her experiences with her patients and what her interaction with death on a daily basis has taught her about life. Integrating poetry in her talk, Zainab eloquently details her effort to add humanity in the battle with mortality. Zainab Mabizari is a first generation Algerian American born and raised in Houston. She currently attends Baylor College of Medicine and aspires to use her medical degree to advocate for public health policy and global health in underprivileged communities. She is a writer, and a poet, and believes in the power of storytelling. This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at https://www.ted.com/tedx

and the patient looked at her, looked at me, looked at her, looked at me, then finally looked at her and incredulous, replied— “You want me to talk to a painting?” and dozed off. -the time an attending asked a patient on pain meds if I could take a history

...and I think this is the year for claiming labels—writer, poet, activist, organizer, author, doctor, artist and I think this is the year to build empires

Winter Lights

so much my eyes have yet to see

It was the last week of surgery, and as was custom for medical students at the bottom of the medical food chain, we pressed ourselves against the wall for morning report as the surgeons hashed out all the traumas and admits overnight. Report finished and we were filing out when the chief of staff/surgeon-in-chief silently called me over. My (all male) classmates looked around in shock. He asked me for my name, how I enjoyed surgery, if I was being treated well. He then told me that the whole month I was there he was trying to figure out where I was from-and he finally decided to settle on Libya. I laughed and told him I was impressed because that’s pretty close to Algeria. And then we had a pleasant discussion on the history of Algeria, and he told me he had learned about the Berbers, and he was convinced he had to visit my motherland to complete his tour of North Africa. And that was that. - Shout out to my ancestors, for giving me something that always makes people want to know what the heck is going on with my genes.

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we are much kinder to ourselves in retrospect- reminder to be kind, now (at MoMA The Museum of Modern Art)

Finished a year of clinics and on break now-which means I can be creative and stuff. And coffee dates, lots and lots of backed up coffee dates. And answering all those emails and messages (I’m sorry). (at Magical Winter Lights Houston)

Frida ft Zainab | a lesson on art and self (at MoMA The Museum of Modern Art)

my best stories involve a cup of coffee

magnificence | walked through a winter wonderland on my way to the hospital and my heart is full

reminder-that I’m 24 and there’s more of this life to cherish

at the bedside | I sat with a patient with his second failing heart. He was a talker, never left a moment silent, the kind afraid to because the voice in his head kept asking how many beats were left, if he would be able to get his third transplant, if this was the end of the line, if all the fighting he had done led to lying in a hospital bed, IVs, pressors, a pVAD, and a tired heart. But silence fell between us, and I waited. Saw his struggle between wanting to say something and being afraid to, and waited. He broke it by asking me if I ever felt inadequate. I paused-wondering if this was some sort of trick question. Half of me wanted to fake confidence to gain confidence because logically speaking the last thing you want to tell a person you’re caring for is that you’re feeling inadequate. But in that moment something in me told me be honest. Yes, I do. He smiled. You’ll become a great doctor, he said. I hope so, I said. You will, he said. And he lay, in silence. And I sat, listening. . #thezmabwrites (at National Gallery of Art)