By Laina
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Sara Chirchirillo
Much like America’s congress and music scene, white cis males seem to dominate this comedy field. February 22, 2018
Dear Letters from Women of the World, In the second grade, my school hosted a practice “Art Walk” –an event put on by the folk of Downtown Lafayette, Louisiana, every second Saturday of the month since before I was born. My theater teacher’s special guest was a real life stand-up comedian. Holy cow, I thought, was I ready for the bus that morning or what? We line up at the drama classroom door in anticipation to learn the craft of laughter, and BOOM, before this character even says a word I was introduced to Lesson One in: “the Funny Business.” (it’s called fashion, fuzz—look it up, people will judge your image before your voice). A guy in his mid-twenties wearing a hot pink shirt that read: “All my black shirts were dirty.” Maybe it was just a gender stereotyping/ironic graphic tee, but for me—it was life changing. What a gentle thrill to see someone masculine comfortably wearing a color I held so dear to my heart. As it turned out, a lot of his stand-up was about his first-hand experience with cystic fibrosis, and he passed away February 21st, 2017. But in between those two moments of time, we were able to create a lot of art together, including (but not limited to): our grade school Improv Comedy Club, roughly 7 Summer Youth Shakespeare plays, and "Survive"--a challenge he created for comedians: Tell personal traumatic stories in the funniest way you can.I spoke about overdosing on synthetic acid resulting in attempted suicide, incarceration, and a rape kit. Someone joked about bigots harassing their autism, someone else about being a child of color exposed to racism; and lastly, he spoke about living through a lung transplant. Half a year after his death, I got asked out on a date to an Emo Phillips show. Serendipitous, me thought—as I had never seen a famous headliner in person before, much less someone who voiced characters in multiple cartoons I cared about. The turn-out was surprisingly intimate (my hometown is infamous for sleeping on artists that are a big deal to the rest of the universe). The evening made the open mic community an obvious place for me to turn to. However, it was a very different game than any of my fancy years of private acting lessons could have ever prepared me for. Literally showed me “the light.” Acknowledging the host, taking the mic off the stand, and holding back boos are a few mannerisms among the acquired etiquette skills that I have already taken with me to open mics across the nation! Much like America’s congress and music scene, white cis males seem to dominate this field. Here is my plead: Don’t look on this industry with pure secondhand embarrassment or it will cease to progress. What brings humans together through memetics can be very dangerous. We must be brave. Public speaking is listed as the average American’s number-one fear. A joke is where violent and benign find a balance. What the masses find taboo and crucial is terrifically skewed. My own bits sure aren’t to the extent that I want them to be. This will change with goals and practice. Rather than criticism followed by ostracism, I recommend action. Your wholesome humor could turn these circle jerks into something beautiful. Your strong moral compass could guide the misogynist to understand how they benefit from feminism. Your patience and willpower could prove that your behavior is exemplary! This is no joke, if you look down on this group due to the intellect or political correctness not being held to your standards what the HELL are you going to do to set the bar higher? Do you even LIFT? Get vulnerable. Heave a heart. Stop turning your nose up at a bad joke. Go be funnier instead. Sincerely, Belle Louisiane Saucier: The quiet French-Creole kid that wanted to be on SNL her whole life. P.S. His name was Ricky Briggs, and Acting Up in Acadiana is putting on a show in his memory at the Acadiana Center for the Arts March 28th-29th of 2018…He wasn’t very “PC,” but his confusion + will to communicate taught me so much about my own beliefs. In hindsight, I am so grateful for all the uncomfortable debates we had.
In my mind, matrimonio was synonymous with stability, dependability, and I wanted that for me.
So I looked to older men for comfort. I've always been impressed with the way that one can contort pain into the perception of good intentions. I thought I found a man to love, but I was only looking at my dad's reflection (I never learned the difference between mistreatment and affection). Still, I should have known better by then. A few months in, and it began to seem as if I was always on the edge of breaking; trying to hold on to something that was taking everything from me. I could not sleep or eat or be at ease, I felt as if I needed permission to exist. El amor era miedo, and that's how I was forced to live. ------------------- Regardless of the wound the blood was coming from, it all spiraled down the drain. I could not tell what drops were tears and what came from the showerhead. Que maldita suerte la mía, what putrid and pure irony: My screams are heard in safety now and not when I needed them to be. I always knew that I'd die young. Bruises and bloody crescent-moons branded in my skin; a physical understatement of the damage done within. A canvas of abuse that touched the floor. (Carne podrida, not worth loving anymore) / 14 years old with the eyes of a corpse." They would yell things like, ‘Go back where you came from, bloody Pakis, fuck off home!’ even though home is here. Dear World, I hope you are well and this email finds you in good health. I guess I will start with a story that my mother has told me. Though it may not be the most extreme, it resonates with me because it is my mom. She is from Pakistan, and takes pride in wearing her traditional clothing when she goes out—they make her feel comfortable. We live in a very white area and though it is in Greater London, it isn't very open-minded yet. We are all pretty used to having abusive words shouted at us. I don't know if the term 'Paki' is known in the states but here it is the equivalent of the 'n' word for black people. It is the most hurtful term that is used by others for brown people in general—no matter where they are from. We get it a lot. One day my mother and little sister were going 5 minutes down the road to get some groceries, she was wearing her traditional clothing. She turned the corner towards the supermarket and could see a group of white teenagers and young adults, shouting and swearing all over the place. Mum and my sister quickly walked past them, but they weren't lucky enough to pass undetected on their way back. The group started with the typical level of racism and abuse until a little kid came up to my mother, closer than touching distance, and started shouting profanities at her, making rude gestures, mocking her culture in front of her. A twelve year old boy. He was being encouraged by all the elders behind him who were just laughing recklessly. My poor mother doesn't speak English very well so she ignored them as best she could and quickly came home with my sister. The encounter was so distressing for both my sister and mother; it was such a young boy swearing at them and making fun of them. Someone they didn't know or had ever offended in any way. She was just wearing her traditional clothing and that made her a target. My sister was young at the time and she still remembers everything. When we first moved here, it was my job to pick my younger siblings up from school and bring them home. We usually used the public bus, which could be a very terrifying experience if you got on at the wrong time; we knew at certain times we'd have a high chance of running into the racist kids who picked us out as targets. We were running late one day so we rushed to the bus, completely forgetting about the kids and, sure enough, they were there. We tried to keep very quiet but we had been spotted; we heard whispering and the next thing we know, we were being pelted with fried chicken and fries as they threw them at the 'Pakis'. That was one of the worse experiences because my sibling was so young and in tears. There was nothing I could do to stop them, there was a gang of them and I was alone with a little kid. I guess instances like that were common. Being called a 'Paki' and having things ruined. It was always the white kids who told us to go home. Once at school, I had a keychain that was a teddy bear wearing a jumper with the English flag printed on it, it was a gift from another friend. I was walking to my class when a white kid bumped into me and yanked me back from my bag. I looked back and I saw that this kid had ripped the bear off the chain and said "Why the fuck do you have a flag? You don't belong here you fucking Paki. Go home." Over the years, I kind of learned to ignore all this nonsense. As I got older things got a little better, until I got my first job. My first job was out of town. It was in retail (disgusting, never ever do it), I used to take a train to work and the area that I worked in was extremely “white”—it was considered one of the traditional, upper class towns. You'd barely see anyone that was of a different skin color. But it wasn't uncommon. Anyway, I don't know if you know the stereotype, but old English people tend to be very, very passive aggressive. The old racists won't say anything too in-your-face but they make passing remarks… Once I was serving an old lady—she was generally very rude, but I tried my best to help her with her enquiries. When she came out of the dressing room she said "Ugh, I suppose I shouldn't really say it to YOU, but ever since this company has started sourcing their stuff from your country, the quality has gone down so much." I was so confused. I didn't understand if that was even racist, I still don't. I just didn't see the point of it? What did that have to do with me? The customers there were always so apprehensive about being helped by 'brown' people. Sometimes they think they're being nice but it is actually very awkward to talk to them. This other lady I was trying to help once was one of the trickiest people. She was an older English lady who needed help finding new things to wear. I was by the changing rooms with her and everything was going well. She seemed happy, until she suddenly broke down in tears and I didn't understand why. I have to tell you--I am so terribly awkward with people that cry. I am one of those people that will just awkwardly pat your back because I do not know what to say. Which is essentially how that situation played out, I kept asking if she was okay even though she was crying her eyes out, and stupid questions like that. She eventually said it was her first Christmas without her late husband, and though I didn't know what to say, I did my best to try to soothe her. When she calmed down she began asking me about myself, and asked where I was from. Upon hearing my answer she said, "I feel very sorry for you people, you are forced to wear those headscarves, aren't you?" "Um.. we are not forced to wear it madam." I responded "No, no, I know, in those terrible countries, they tell the girls what to do and what not to do. You're very lucky to be in this country," she insisted. It was tricky because this lady is telling ME, I am lucky to be in this country without knowing what I have to go through. She has made so many assumptions about Muslim girls and what they go through, and has decided that a Muslim girl can't possibly choose to wear a hijab, it has to be oppression. But that was besides the point. I couldn't say anything to her because I was torn between being professional and putting her in her place. She continued on about how she felt that what those countries do is terrible, how England is so open minded, how she's lucky to show off her body how she wants to etc., etc. I eventually convinced myself she was just having a mental breakdown. My experiences in that place were probably passive aggressive racism. I had white people telling to "fucking get on" with helping them. To people looking down on me, calling me a liar when I wouldn't entertain their nonsense. I knew it was racism because I could see how they treated my white co-workers. It was never the same. They were automatically treated so much more nicely than I was. My co-workers at least, were nice to me most of the time, but they could be very ignorant. They'd come up to me and tell me things that those "nasty Muslims did." When I'd tell them I was Muslim and their faces would fall and the awkward niceties would be forced. They'd tell me that I wasn't like the rest of "them." I was different because they knew me. I was funny. The sad part is, at the time, I was so much younger and trying to be nice and "funny" was the only way I could survive. I needed money and I also needed to work in a place that didn't drive me crazy. Frivolous conversation and stupid jokes was the only way for me to avoid falling trap to their infuriating ignorance. Sometimes, the type of man who is fascinated by brownness and different features would walk in and be slimy they'd always approach me, their hands would linger by my arms—sometimes closer—they'd make crude jokes and be very presumptive. On my first day at a different job in central London, I had to greet customers and be cheery and all that rubbish. I was approached by a middle-aged white man. At first he was just asking about the products but it didn't take long for him to drive the conversation another direction. He began asking where I was from, what I did... I answered vaguely to be polite, hoping he'd take a hint. He didn't hesitate to tell me how rich he was and what an amazing job he had as a barrister, as if somehow that knowledge would make me want to talk to him more. He said I looked like a brown Disney Princess, and I began to get uncomfortable and desperately tried to direct him away from me in vain, he would not move. He wanted to know more about the "Pakistani Princess," he wanted to add me on facebook, and he wanted to take me out for a coffee. He wouldn't leave me alone. It was my first day and I had no idea how to handle this, I just wanted him to leave me alone, so I begrudgingly gave him my email address thinking I'd be able to block him. He didn't stop emailing me for several months. I didn't realize it at the time, but that job didn't hire me for my potential as a good employee, I was there as an object for them to show off. It was a very high end luxury department store and I was surprised that I even got the job—it seemed too good and the money was so much for a struggling student like me. But I quickly learned that I was there to satisfy needs for men that had a fetish for women with my ethnic background. I was there so they could look even if they couldn't touch. It was sickening. Some of my coworkers had stalkers, and I mean that in the realest sense of the word, unfortunately. It was terrifying and I'd pray that I would never be a victim of that. I wish I could tell you the name of the company, that I could out them for how terrible they are, but they make us sign agreements not to mention their names without informing them because they attract a lot of celebrity attention. Please do not think I'm trying to be bigheaded by mentioning that, I am absolutely ordinary. But that job made me realize how disgusting men can be as long as the basic requirements were met... But I have to say, some women absolutely loved it. They got to dress up beautifully and show off what they had, as they're entitled to. They were showered with compliments and had generous clients that would make them more commission, so I guess its all about perspective. What was my hellhole was a paradise for others. University was probably the most eye opening experience for me. I know this should be about the experiences of minority women but I don't know where I'd fit in, honestly. The university I went to had a brilliant mix of cultures, there were so many people from all over the world. It was the first time in my life that there were more minorities than white people in one place and the experience brought me closer to my own culture as well since there were so many of "my" people attending that university. Now, even though I was in a cultural mix—I still felt left out. Because now I was a Muslim Brown Girl that had grown up in a white area. The more modern kids wouldn't accept me because I wouldn't do what they did, drinking and partying, as you know, is heavily frowned upon. I was definitely something that wasn't tolerated in my family so I never took part in it. But a lot of my friends had decided that was their lifestyle, so I began to drift. Whenever I was at a party or a club, I wasn't satisfied because I didn't belong there. But on the flip side I was now surrounded by a lot of traditional people too. But they were so, so traditional. Very strict and "by the book." They wore headscarves—something I didn't choose to do despite being fairly religious. I did try to pray as many times as I could. We had our own prayer room at the University. I'd go there, do my thing, and leave. But sometimes, it wasn't well received when a Muslim girl went in there without a headscarf and the robes, etc. I was too halal for the modern people and too haram for the religious people. Don't get me wrong, It was fun at some points and I tried to find a balance where I could spend time with people without sacrificing my beliefs, faith, and culture, but it has taken me years to achieve the middle ground and I still struggle with it. That brings me to my final personal story that happened after graduation. My name is very foreign, and in most Middle Eastern and Brown cultures its actually a boy's name. So when I apply for jobs—I only get a call back because they see my resume and assume I'm a man. When they find out I'm a woman the conversation becomes very awkward. When it's white people, they can't accept my name because its too foreign and the jobs I apply for seem to be for traditional white people with names everyone can pronounce. No joke, one of my friends works for a recruitment company and she informed me that corporations have a specific profile for their workers. For women, they have to be white, blonde, and into sports like hockey and lacrosse. So someone like me will inevitably struggle to find a job higher than the menial. I heard a discussion a while ago about whether it was harder to be a woman or to be black, but what if you are a brown woman and Muslim? I don't mean to demean anyone else's experiences at all—I think it is a struggle for every minority. After everything that has happened in Europe, it is a tense time for us all. I hope and pray that everything improves. Those are the few experiences I can think of, for now anyway. It was nice to reflect and think about my experiences at different stages. Kindest regards, Anonymous **Art submission by Jack Budd
“Being a Muslim makes dealing with the discrimination and prejudice much easier because I know that I have a community to rely on and prayer to guide me, and with my heritage, discrimination is nothing new.”
Dear World, I hear you weeping every night when I myself cannot sleep. I feel compelled to solve the injustice that afflicts you and I feel guilty for letting myself fall asleep. I cannot promise that the pain will get better but I can promise that I will try everyday to make it better. My name is Blair Imani, I'm 22 years old and I spent most of my life in Southern California. I was raised in a historic Black church called Second Baptist but I converted to Islam in my last year of college. I was really shaken when I learned the history behind the King James Bible—the version of the bible I read growing up. When I learned how it's messages were crafted to keep people from rebelling I was very disturbed. That, plus the image of an Anglo Saxon Jesus that has been used as a tool of white supremacy turned me off to Christianity. But I've always been very religious and I knew I needed some haven to exercise my faith in God, so I decided to read the Qur'an and start going to the masjid—I felt 100% at home. I want to say I've never felt closer to God and I've never felt more loved. However, when I wear hijab I do feel more vulnerable to bigots and islamophobes. That being said, I know that Allah protects me and keeps me safe from harm. Being a Muslim makes dealing with the discrimination and prejudice much easier because I know that I have a community to rely on and prayer to guide me, and with my heritage, discrimination is nothing new. The first time I experienced racism I was 8. I was at the Huntington Library and the tour guide was talking about how many acres comprise the property. We had recently moved to the neighborhood and I remembered my mom saying that our house sat on property that was almost one acre. I very eagerly shared this remembered statement with the docent and she patted me on the head and dismissed me very overtly. "Sure. And I'm the emperor of Japan" I knew she was being rude but I didn't know why. Later that night my mother explained to me what it meant to be the only black student in my grade and the only black family in my school district. It meant that white folks, and white docents at the Huntington Library would not believe me when I said that I lived in their neighborhood or even when I revealed facts about our property. That was a tough lesson to learn, but it made me stronger and I found my passion. I learned to speak about the injustices I experienced and it gave me the motivation to help others find their voices as well. Dealing with so much anti-blackness growing up, and being the only black student in my grade until I was in middle school placed me into a role of leadership that I try to hold onto today. *Art by Renee Longon I was asked to a party under the pretense of making amends with people who I had spent a year thinking of as my friends, only to be cornered in a bathroom and called a drunk and a liar--among other things. This, all from people studying to be therapists. Dear World,
When I was in my first year of grad school, I left my husband for another man. I was trapped in a loveless marriage, and yes, I had an affair and got out. This caused my graduate cohort to publicly shame me in a facebook discussion about me (which I could see) that talked about me as though I wasn’t a person. I was completely ostracized after that point, and had to spend another year surrounded by people who openly hated me for what I had done. The school did nothing to stop the bullying, although it was interfering with my mental health and ability to do my work, and I brought it to their attention. At one point, I was asked to a party under the pretense of making amends with people who I had spent a year thinking of as my friends, only to be cornered in a bathroom and called a drunk and a liar--among other things. This, all from people studying to be therapists. I have never felt more isolated or judged in my life. With the exception of one person, I had no one I could trust. I had also lost the dream of my marriage, along with any financial or emotional stability I had spent years building, and was in mourning for the idea of my life. A few months earlier, a male member of our cohort had gone through a divorce with massive amounts of emotional support, and I know that because I was a woman who violated social norms, these people chose to make a pariah of me. Anonymous. *art by Sarah Piper Oh you’re a hippie Muslim, no worries about you getting radicalized! Dear World,
I've always viewed The United States as a multicultural place where people were very accepting and where women's rights were recognized (especially compared to Yemen where I lived 3 years before). I very quickly realized that that is only true to a certain extent. My personal struggle has been in the academic/professional realm mainly: As a graduate assistant I’ve always been interested to further push research and learn as much as possible in order to become a credible voice in the field. I’ve been interested in international and intercultural communications ever since I can remember and quite frankly I love what I do. I have two anecdotes that I’d like to share: I’m working on a couple of projects as a PhD student and as a Presidential Fellow at my institution, I get to collaborate on grant research with various professors in the department. I was assigned to work on this one project that was looking at ISIS propaganda - our goal is to code all comms. propaganda (Anasheed, magazines and videos) by the org in order to create a mass database. The problem with the project and my problem became clear by the second meeting: just because my name is Nagham and I am a Muslim woman I was assigned with translation and interpretation of the religious materials (some jihadi women recruitment). Why me? I had to speak to my adviser and tell him that I have NO religious or Arabic studies background for me to unpack such dense material especially when with such big stakes. I was finally just taken off the project. I’ve been praying on an off and I’ve decided to get back to my 5 prayers this year. I share an office with an Egyptian Muslim student and so we usually pray together. Anyway, I was getting ready to pray Asr one day when all of a sudden a female professor from next door opens my door and asks me to come by her office to checkout a video. I went to her office and as she’s showing me I just kept on putting my coat and hijab because I didn't want to waste time. Basically, by the time she turned around again, I was a full on hijabi. she looked a bit shocked but said nothing. I went to my office and prayed. The next day, she came by and asked to speak to me. I said sure. “hey, I noticed you put on the Hijab yesterday; are you trying to wear it now or what?” she asked. I was a bit surprised but could KIND OF understand the confusion so I said no i was about to pray. She proceeded to ask if I was going through anything and if I needed to talk. I could see that there was concern, but still, I joked around and told her no worries I wake up for Fajr prayer and then I do an hour of Yoga. “Oh you’re a hippie Muslim, no worries about you getting radicalized!” Yeah. I laughed awkwardly, and walked out. This story is my sister's. Not every woman goes through this, but there are many who do. Every story, every word is true. Dear World, I was eighteen years old when this happened. I have three sisters and two brothers. I am the oldest and my name is Namra. My dad worked in a bank as a guard, and my mom was a housewife. We had a happy, playful home. Our dad tried his hardest to make all of our wishes come true. I left school after year nine and began to teach my sisters and brothers. My dad wanted the boys to study so they could work alongside him. Then one day – one I never could have imagined – arrived in my life, a day that will burn the book of my life and leave it in ashes so I will never be the one to write it. I still remember. It was May 5th, 2000. A Baloch family from Faislabad came to see me for a marriage proposal. His name was Ali. He had studied through high school and had tanned skin. He was twenty-two years old. His mom sold vegetables in the green vegetable market and his dad passed away some time ago. He had three sisters: one who had passed away, one who was a widow with a daughter, and one who was in school. One day, their parents’ cousin came to see me and presented the proposal. Ali's mom watched me closely for a long time. I was so scared—I was shaking! I am a wheat colored, big eyed, normal girl. His mom liked me as soon as she saw me and invited my mother and me to visit her and her daughter. She left a picture of Ali for us. My parents were very excited, and my mom immediately visited their home and confirmed the wedding date. November 24th, 2000. The date passed very quickly and without a hassle. Everyone was very happy. When I took the first step into Ali's home, I felt as if the earth had vanished beneath my feet. There was a broken wooden door, the walls were made of mud and baked bricks, and three of the rooms had raw floors. The dishes were washed the same place where they showered, and the bathroom had no door, just a raggedy old curtain hanging in front of it. I looked around and could only think through my surprise, "Exactly what did my mother see in this place for her to get me married here?" But then my heart told me that relationships are made in the sky and there is no need to be upset. On my first day of married life, Ali told me that he was in love with someone else and that he will always love her. I cried so much when I was listening to him talk, but then I made my heart feel better by thinking that my love and respect will bring him to me. On my 10th day of marriage, he told me he kept pigeons and that I was to look after them more than my own life or else he will divorce me. I almost died hearing those words. One day his cousin told me, "Ali's talk is just like Ali." I asked what they meant by "Ali's talk," then the cousin told me that Ali has already divorced a woman and had a daughter with her. I felt so betrayed! He should have told me! What was the need for the secrecy? Why was I kept in the dark? When I asked him about it, he told me to shut up or I'd suffer the same fate if I asked more questions. He cursed at me a lot, and I suffered a lot of slaps from him. No one in his home ever stopped him. His mom was a strange, strict woman built like a man. When my family visited, she was sweet as honey but became bitter as soon as they left. I was very scared of them both, Ali and his mother. His sister who was a widow was very immoral and disrespectful. She was thirty-five and kept illegitimate relations with two or three men. I was terrified of sharing my pain with anyone. If I ever told Ali that his mother told me off for no reason, he'd prepare punishments for me. I was made to sit in the cold all night or stand in the scorching heat during the day. He made me apologize to his sister and mother every day. I couldn't tell these things to my family—my mom or sister—because I didn't want them to feel pain. Ali's other sister, the one who was a student, was fairly nice to me. She was in love with someone who lived in Saudi Arabia. Her whole family knew about it, even Ali. I only realized this when a call came from Saudi Arabia and Ali himself called his sister to talk to him; he wanted a Visa to go there. He got that in the end as well. We had a three-year-old daughter and a two-month-old son when Ali got his Visa. He was so cold-hearted, he didn't even glance back to see me when he left, let alone say goodbye. I fell asleep crying that night. When I woke up the next morning, I was cleaning under the mattress and found letters that all had different names of women on them. I was surprised, but realized Ali hadn't changed a bit. Instead of one, he had several girls sending him love letters, but I put them back where I found them. A month later, he called me just to tell me I needed to burn the letters underneath the mattress or there would be consequences. With shivering lips, I asked if he was okay, if his heart had settled, but he hung up on me. He called his mom every two or three days, but he only spoke to me when his mother wanted something. Every month he sent money from his salary, and it all went to his mother. I didn't necessarily mind but felt I deserved at least some. These were probably the better days. Within the next two years – had I written this on torn paper using my blood for ink – it wouldn't do justice to how terribly his mother and sister treated me. I thought when he finally came home, he'd be ready to be with me, accept me. His separation from his children would make him miss them and love them more, but I was wrong. When he returned, he would only stay home for twenty minutes at a time. He'd arrive in the evening and disappear again until midnight. I realized I had missed him and was happy when he came back, noticing how handsome he had become while he was away, but without looking at me or saying a word, he would just go to sleep, I'd try to be a good wife and ask him if he was hungry, but he would just shut me up, saying, "Let me sleep. I'm tired." I couldn't help but think, “Why does Ali do this to me? Is there something wrong with me for him to behave like this?” He was at least slightly better than before his trip. He wouldn't fight with me as much or raise his hands at me. His mom and sister weren't very happy about this. They preferred when he abused me and tried turning him against me. He ended up leaving again shortly after anyway. I was upset but somehow withstood for four years, having four beautiful girls and a son. They were all in school, and I was very happy with them. As a result of Ali's behavior changing, his mom started getting meaner. She'd always yell about how she didn't like me from the beginning and that my parents’ relatives forced them into this marriage, and she would never want anything to do with poor people like my family. It seems she had forgotten the state the house was in when I first moved in with them, which was unsurprising since its condition had greatly improved. The once broken house had now become a house great enough for a Baron. Instead of wearing second-hand suits, the clothes they wore now cost thousands. His sisters were also more unpleasant those days. They were both married, but every time they visited, they would make sure there was a fight within the house before they left, which would be my hell for days after their departures. Ali would always make me beg his mother for forgiveness, no matter what the situation was. One day, while my sister was visiting, the conflict within the house hadn't yet rested. Ali's mom prepared herself some food and told Ali that I had been sick and forced her to prepare all her food for herself. Ali video-called me and told me how mad he was at me. I was so shocked! Even this once, he couldn't ask for my side. I told him that and made him even angrier. He told me I had to slap my face so hard he could hear it over the call. I felt like I had no choice, so I obliged. At that point, my sister felt something was wrong and walked in, finding me holding my mother-in-law’s feet with my head bowed on the floor, begging for forgiveness. I guess the sight was new for her. She began to cry very hard, but I was used to it. The next day, I told her not to tell our mother as to not upset her. Our father had retired, our mother was getting old, our brothers and sisters were all married, but none of their conditions were very good. My brothers were factory workers and could hardly support their own children. My brother-in-law was just a rickshaw driver. I didn't want to upset or burden anyone. “I could continue to hold on,” I told myself, but fate had something else in store for me that tore my heart apart. Ali was speaking to the kids on the internet, asking about their test results. My oldest daughter was in eighth grade, the rest were in seventh, sixth, and first. My children always did very well in school. After they finished updating their father, he told everyone to leave the room and summoned me to come talk in private, which he had never done before. I was happy because I thought maybe he wanted to share our pride towards our children, but I was wrong. "Relax, I need to talk to you. Today you will receive a call on mom's phone, but answer it and whatever they say, answer yes, and smile while doing so. Don't even think about talking to them grumpily or aggressively. If you do that, I'm telling you now, I will divorce you and send you back to your parents," he spat. I was very upset at his tone, but more so I was shocked and confused. Who would have a need to call me? Why would "yes" be the only acceptable answer? I spent the whole day anxiously waiting. I couldn't dedicate a thought to anything except the anticipation of this call. Who was going to call me? The thought kept ringing in my ears over and over. At 7:30 in the evening, I finally got the call. His mom shouted at me and told me to answer the phone, and I had to use all of my strength and spirit to answer the phone and do as Ali wished. I answered the phone with quivering lips, "Asalaam-u-alikum, this is Namra talking." The voice on the other side of the line replied, "Walikum Salaam, I am Aisha from the UK. How are you?" she asked. I told her I was fine and asked if I knew her. She answered, "No, you don't know me, Namra, but I know you. I wanted to ask you a question." Her voice was soft and loving. It eased my worry for a moment, but then she asked me, "Namra, I have heard that you and Ali are divorced, is that true?" I was so startled, I glanced over at Ali's mother and from her expression it was clear she knew who was on the phone, what she was asking, and how I was supposed to respond, but my emotions did not let me say yes to her. Unknowingly, my lips slipped out, "No, that's not the case." My mother-in-law stared so angrily at me. I knew I had made a grave mistake, but I stayed on the phone a while longer chatting before Aisha hung up. A little while later, Ali called and told me I didn't do the right thing and that I would regret my actions. I was scared. I told him it was just a mistake and begged for forgiveness. I said I'd do whatever he wanted as long as he didn't divorce me, and he told me it wasn't true, he was just trying to marry Aisha for a green card. He told me if I didn't do as he said, he was going to kill himself. His threats scared me. I ended up doing as he said and telling Aisha we were divorced. She said she wanted to marry him for the sake of her four children and asked if I was okay with that. I felt like someone had poisoned me, but somehow I hadn't died yet. I was very upset, but what choice did I have? It was lie and suffer, or tell the truth and be abused. I told her it didn't make a difference to me, but to please keep my children in mind whatever her choice was. It was a peaceful resolution, but Ali's sisters were messy. They called Aisha from different numbers and swore at her saying I told them she was evil. Aisha never called me again. She told Ali not to leave the property under my name or my kids’ names, so Ali and his mother kicked me and my children out. When I went home to my mother, it felt like judgment day. I had my daughters and son looking at me for answers, and I didn't have any. I just wanted to cry and scream, but I knew Ali's family would never take pity on us. Ali's mother did come to visit once under the pretense of taking me home, but before she left, it ended with her swearing and cursing me. My son has recordings of Ali's family swearing at me. One day, when Allah sends me someone, I will have proof that it wasn't my fault. Now, in Ali's great house, his sister lives there with her husband and their one child. Ali and his mother never understood the fact that he has kicked out his own children to make room for his sister and her family. I don't know if Aisha's words were true or not, but I don't think she would have done this to my kids. Today, I still have hope for better days. Now I live with my sister whose husband is a Rickshaw driver. We live in a rent house, but we get by. Ali can spend so much money recklessly in a day, but we don't even have hope of earning half of what he makes in a day in one month. I tried taking this to court, but they only care about money and we don't have any. It feels like Eve's daughter is going to cry and those devils who have no fear of God will win, but I'm not without hope. I await good times. *Story submitted originally in Urdu by an anonymous source. It was translated by Attef Gul and edited by Leah LeBlanc
*Painting was submitted by Jack Budd. As a child I could have never imagined that I would be as much in love with my skin and ethnicity as I am today. Dear World,
As a child I hated my dark skin. I hated that the sun had chosen to kiss every part of my body and that for some reason I could not shave off the dark skin that was forever attached to me. Middle school was the time I despised my dark skin most. While showering I would scrub my skin the hardest in attempts to reduce my melanin. Children at school made it easy for me to remember that I was the Ugly Dark Skinned African. There was a time when I was leaving class headed to the bathroom, as I walked out of class into the hallway with my bathroom pass firmly held in my hands I felt something hit my head. When I bent down to pick it up I realized it was a piece of paper. While attempting to stand up I felt more hit my head along with monkey sounds bouncing off my eardrums. I didn't want to turn around because this felt too familiar. My dark skin and ethnicity were being compared to monkeys and all I could do was hang my head down. The sounds became louder and louder, I felt like the hallway walls were closing in on me. It was like the ceiling was about to fall, but the ground was quicksand and I couldn't escape. Those kids looked at me straight in my face, laughed, and threw one last piece of paper before turning the next corner. They left and I was still in the hallway unable to move because my feed had become blocks. Hot tears danced across my face and the bathroom pass became a crushed paper between my hands. I cried in the bathroom that day just like I did the day before, I liked crying because it blurred my vision and I didn't have to see myself. As a child I hated my dark skin. I was compared to apes and gorillas. Everyday the joke was that I was an African Booty Scratcher, with my dark skin always being the punch line. As a child I wrote down every mean thing anyone said to me and read it out loud believing it was true. As a child the media never showed anyone that looked like me and I thought it was because all dark skinned and African people weren't pretty enough. As a child I could have never imagined that I would be as much in love with my skin and my ethnicity as I am today. |