Buying a horse

Recently I was at an Afghan wedding, actually my sixth that year, but who's counting? Certainly not me, the single girl who is ceaselessly subjected to everyone else's happiness while bitterly contemplating the paradox that is Afghan culture…

Anyway, there I was, all decked out, surrounded by people I loved and who loved me, and feeling (shockingly) comfortable and happy when all of a sudden, I hear someone calling for me.

No, correction, I hear someone commanding my presence.

As I tried to filter out the multitude of sounds and peer through the throng of people, I see who is calling me and why.

My heart sank into that dark pit in my stomach where it usually goes when it's trying to hide from shame.

I quickly look for a place to hide.

Behind the lady with the huge sequined tent of a dress? Behind the gentlemen passionately discussing Afghan politics circa 1889?

Ugh… no, I'm spotted.

The sound of my name being called over the din that passes for civilized conversation grows louder and more insistent. People turn around. Some helpful guests, eager to help in further publicly humiliating me, point in my direction. Which is just perfect because, now, not only does everyone know I'm being yelled at but they also know I'm desperately trying to hide.

I grit my teeth, smile apologetically, cast my eyes down and make my way to the Commanding Voice.

"Ah, here she is, this is my _. Doesn't she look lovely? Did you know she works as a _, and she finished college too, owns her own car and her own house…"

And, I think to myself, most importantly, has the ability to procure a green card due to the wondrous accomplishment of being a US citizen.

"Such a bright girl and unmarried!"

Yes, I'm quite the bargain. Also, I have all my teeth, my limbs are more or less in working order and I've got at least 20 years of life in me, if I can make it through then next few minutes.

I wonder if I'll be asked for a physical demonstration, maybe they'd like to take a look at my teeth?

"Oh she's quite lovely. How old is she?"

In other words, have her ovaries shriveled up and died?

"Not yet thirty? Well, I'm surprised she's not married yet…"

In other words, what is wrong with her?

I think letting them look at my teeth would be less humiliating.

I go into auto-pilot. Smile sweetly, turn head, nod slightly, turn head, and avert eyes demurely … repeat.

I hear nothing further. I am focused. I am determined. I am willing the floor to open up at my feet and swallow me whole…

The Commanding Voice snaps me out of my concentration before I can succeed in vanishing.

Foiled again.

"Why couldn't you be more _?!" Fill in the blank with your fondest female attribute of choice.

"That could have been your future (mother-in-law/sister-in-law/wife-of-uncle-in-law/random-in-law-relative)!"

I smile, this time genuinely, and say, "Yeah, exactly."

"Why do I even bother introducing you to people? This is impossible!"

I couldn't agree more. Less than five minutes to measure my worth in a series of embarrassing questions and not-so-subtle innuendos. Really, why bother?

I look down at my manicured hands, my gown, and the matching shoes that I found after hours of searching. What's it all for if not for this humiliating five minutes of scrutiny and judgment?

Someone comes up behind me. I turn around, my Uncle.

"You look so beautiful. You bring light to my old eyes…"

My Uncle beams at me and the steely coldness that had crept around my heart dissolves into nothingness.

Oh yeah, this is what it is all for, not random strangers, not possible future-anything-to-be's, but my Uncle, my family. :-)

Posted October 2006

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGHHHHH!!!!

I did it! I did it! I did it!

Um... no not IT it!

Dirty minds.

I jumped out of an airplane. On purpose. Okay, not so much jumped as whimpered and trembled uncontrollably while essentially being pushed out by my Tandem partner... but I did fall. Like from 4,000 feet.

I screamed the entire way. Okay, not so much out loud as falling 200 mph kinda makes it hard to get any sound OUT of your mouth. But I was screaming on the inside. A very high pitched wail that would have made a Banshee proud. As with space, at 200 mph, no one can hear you scream...

I really, 100%, with every terrified fiber of my being, thought I was going to die. And realized for the first time that I am truely afraid of death, not in a metaphysical sense or what might happen afterwards, but in the not being of everything that makes me - me, in a form that is me.. b/c a Deana-puddle does not a Deana make.

And last night my family watched the video of me hurtling to my death... and they were laughing! Uh... thanks family... love you too.

Granted, the falling 200 mph did make me look like a human bassett hound, skin all flapping about - gravity is not pretty - but still, seeing a loved one hurtle through the sky is not what I consider amusing, but then, slapstick is totally lost on me.

Would I do it again? Repeat the thrill of falling 4,000 feet at 200 mph over the beautiful Pacific Ocean overlooking the lush forests and cliff side mountains of Northern Oahu?

Um... how shall I put this... HELLTHEFUCKNO!

I was scared. Not in the watching horror movies in the dark alone kind of way, no, I thought I was going to die, that something would go wrong and well, that's not something I'm eager to repeat.

At the same time though, it puts everything else into perspective. Like now it's hard for me to work up any fear of other things, except maybe, spiders. But social interactions have proven difficult since my trip through the bright blue yonder in that the natural fears of social norms and repercussions, which barely kept me from expressing myself in the past, have completely flown out the window.

Sorry bro, I'll try to keep a lid on it, but am making no guarantees, it's hard to be socially PC when you realize life is way too short and way too precious to engage in anything that isn't real, genuine and sincere, whether it's by action, thought or speech. And there's nothing more real than falling...

Posted May 2006

Um... I'm old enough to be your Aunt?

So I was riding BART the today... er.... yesterday. And I was minding my own business, listening to my iPod, generally getting glassy eyed and not much caring about anything... when I saw this cute guy looking at me... so I did what any well brought up Afghan girl would do - I became a complete BITCH.

No, seriously. It's part of our genetic make-up or something. We don't mean to do it but all of a sudden the most important thing in the world becomes the piece of lint on our sleeve or something equally stupid that enables us to pretend to be oblivious of someone looking at us though we know full well that they know - that we know - that they know - that we know....

Yeah, dumb and yet fiendishly complicated at the same time. And judging by the many single girlfriends, it's not just me... considering this apparent inbred social stupidity, how we Afghans haven't managed to become extinct is beyond me... but I do foresee that inevitable day for us hyphenated Afghans, mark my words. The lot of us are doomed to non-existence in one, maybe two generations. That or being even more hyphenated. Not a bad idea... But that's another blog.

Anyway, I looked like someone who hadn't gotten any sleep for the past three nights b/c she'd been playing video games and who'd woken up late and just barely had time for sunscreen and couldn't care less b/c well... damn it's BART and the last time someone vaguely attractive walked into my office was... uh... yeah...

So naturally I had to make sure that he was in fact looking at me - without an expression of disgust... and also to see if he was as cute as he was at first glance... when - Yup - He was looking at me and he was definitely a hottie.

Just the sort of guy I'd moon over back in High School.

And of course, that's exactly how old he looked.
Um... Awkward. And ewww!

So... now it's just weird, b/c I know he's looking at me and he is cute and he knows I know that he knows... BUT he's probably just a little older than my cousin Sabrina... and wow - if I have the same taste in thuggish Raider's cap wearing homeboys as a High School senior who I've watched grow up... then I'm just going to kill myself now...

And... Oh. Dear.God... He's coming over to talk to me. Moving train. Locked doors. A bored and captive audience. Perfect.

Who me panic? Never. I normally sweat buckets and look like I'm going to be sick.

He smiles. I continue being fascinated by lint. Please get the hint, I'm really just a nerd and this isn't something I've ever studied or prepared for so I actually don't know what to do and I'm saving us both awkwardness... Look, if it's not a standardized test or something involving a pencil, paper or at the very least a computer...

And... of course. He speaks. "Hi, how are you, are you getting off at the last stop too?..."

And all I could think is... "Wow, I'm old enough to have babysat you."

I smile at him, ask him how old he is. 20. Going to the Academy of Art College in San Francisco. Nice. So earnest. So cute. So young... I'm going to hell. I just know it. Damn you, Demi Moore!

I ask him how old he thinks I am. He said he thought I was 19 or 20. Thanks. This whole looking like crap thing is actually a good thing? Should try it more often. I tell him I'm 30. (Yeah, I fudged a wee bit, but like the difference b/w 28 and 30 is worth quibbling about...)

Watching his face fall was horrifyingly painful, yet necessary and inevitable.

"Oh wow. But you got on at the Lake Merrit stop. I thought you were a student at Merrit College."

"No, I graduated almost a decade ago. And I work near that stop."

"Oh...."

"Yeah..."

"But you smiled at me...and I thought..."

Oh, God. I'm totally sensing his spirit being deflated by my... advanced age. I HAD smiled. But simply b/c I 'd decided I was being silly and imagining things and he was just a nice kid. STUPID. There's a reason that lint was created; to give dumb socially unsavvy people a chance to avoid AWKWARDNESS. Now I feel horrible just for going against the grain and attempting to be nice.

Ugh.

Later, I told my mom what happened and how I panicked and felt sick. She said I was a wierdo and she doesn't see why I get all worked up about a totally inappropriate, non-Afghan, non-Doctor-Lawyer-Engineer, non-Formally College educated, non-European-made car driving - guy - MAYBE potentially being interested in me and asking me for my phone number...

HUH?!?! What?! Were the past 28 years just some horrible nightmare?! Were the past three decades just some evil conspiracy to make me think that the entire Afghan culture and my mom had contributed creating social awkwardness and general unease?! Since when have guys not been icky? I'm sure it's somewhere in the 'Good Afghan Girl Survival Guide'... Wha?!?

Now I feel dorky, nerdy, old and guilty.

So, before I go to bed all anxiety ridden... I'd like to say this to the Afghan community, Afghan parenting methods and the whole 'good Afghan girl Ideal/Fantasy/Hallucination' - Up yours.

Next guy that even glances in my general direction is getting my number. Whether he wants it or not goddamnit.

stupidgodforsakensociallybackwardselfinihilatingdoomedtodorkinessculture...

Posted April 2006

Flying has made me realize I need to hit the Gym...

Not for hokey health reasons or b/c poor blood circulation on long flights can cause blood clots and ultimately death... nor is it about looks b/c quite frankly, when I've awoken at the crack of dawn or sat in gridlock for an hour or met with an [insert adjective here] client AND I'm supposed to be on a flying can of sardines, I can just muster enough concern not to look like that girl from 'The Ring' - just barely...

No, it has to do with embarassment. And pain. And fear...

Whenever I fly, I usually get an aisle seat so I can get my luggage out as quickly as possible from the overhead bins while the rest of the cattle are waiting for the corral doors to open. On a recent trip to [fill in godforsaken city name here] I was trying to be my usual efficient self and was attempting to pry my luggage out of the overhead bin... when... All of a sudden, my luggage seemed so much heavier than my arms could manage. To my utter horror, I watched as the hulking blue canvas Samsonite teetered over the edge of the bin, my arms were like wet spaggetti, I was helpless to stop the slow but inevitable fall of the luggage, nor, given the cramped sorroundings, could I save myself from being crushed by the Megalithic suitcase... My heart raced, my biceps strained, sweat beaded my brow but my efforts were in vain... so I did the only thing possible to stop the fall of the suitcase, I used my head. Literally. Or more like, the suitcase found the bridge of my nose a proper resting place in its crashing downward descent.

As pain shot thru my skull, I struggled vainly to push the offending luggage off my face but to no avail. I had to throw myself on the mercy of strangers to keep me from being smothered or crushed by aforementioned homicidal luggage. This big Viking looking guy reached across single-handedly and lifted the suitcase off my face as I scurried to get out of its downward trajectory. I thanked him politely and with about as much pride as I could muster given the big red welt developing on my nose and the looks of pity mixed with sniggers of amusement, I dragged the offending luggage behind me as I exited the plane.

So yeah, to keep my luggage from trying to kill me, I need to hit the gym. Either that or leave the anvil at home...

From April 2006 post

Insomnia, the early days.

This is from a post on Myspace on Feb. 2006. I no longer use Myspace hence the need to move my deeply moving philosophical treatises to some other forum... ta-da!

Insomnia - The early days

It is now 4:05 am (EST)and as usual, I am not asleep. I know quite well I will be very tired in the morning and throughout the day tomorrow/today but that simply adds to my frustration.

I have very few memories of my childhood in Afghanistan, but one of the most vivid is of a particular day in kindergarten. I was perhaps barely four years old at the time and was expected to, along with my classmates, to take a nap in the afternoon.

I distinctly remember the sleeping mats strewn around the floor as the curtains were drawn against the sunlight. My classmates were in various states of sleep, some deeply slumbering, others still valiantly fighting to stay awake but failing as they stretched and yawned and finally, mumbling to themselves, slept.

I watched my classmates closest to me as their chests rose and fell, fascinated by the very act of sleeping, if sleeping could be considered an action. Everyone breathed differently, everyone slept differently, limbs stretched out or tucked neatly into their bodies, some breathing softly in a steady rhythm, others in spurts, some quickly, and some so slowly I thought they may be dead.

Fascinated, I tried to match my breathing with the child closest to me and ended up hyperventilating. (I still do this sometimes, it is quite unnatural to try and match your breathing to another persons and it is incredibly difficult to sustain.)

At any rate, I hyperventilated and started coughing because, quite frankly, I thought I was dying. The teacher, an Afghan lady whose daughter was also in the kindergarten, came over to see what the noise was about.

She saw me wide awake, recovering from my little experiment, my classmates blissfully asleep around me in the semi-darkness. In a manner typical of Afghan child rearing skills, the teacher leaned over me and before I knew it, slapped my face, leaving my ears ringing and the side of my head stinging. I cried out in surprise and was yanked up while a fierce angry voice hissed that I should go to sleep or else.

I closed my eyes and suppressed the sobs burning up the back of my throat.

I did not sleep.