Last Year's Resolutions

I've seen lots of posts about resolutions today, about making them about breaking them. I decided to look back at last year's resolutions. Here they are, as I wrote them:

My resolutions for 2010:

Love everyone, trust a few. Do wrong to none. (William Shakespeare)
Play music. Create art. Cook. Write.
Learn. Live. Love. Grow.

Beautiful resolutions. They made me smile a year ago and I'm smiling again now. I did well.

I loved, maybe too much. Loved people I perhaps should have kept at arms distance. But I loved honestly and hard and I don't regret that. The man I still thought I might marry a year ago is now married to someone else. The next man I thought might be the one showed me that he's not ready for the one and if he is, I'm not his "one." I love my son, even as he grows and is no longer my little boy. Even when I lack patience. And I tell him and show him, but I need to do better. Love him in a more attentive way. But I have loved this year and I know that more love put into the universe is a good thing. And I am still hopeful that I will find someone to love, to be my partner, to grow with. I hope it's soon, but I'm working on being patient.

I trusted too much this year. I am still trusting to a fault. But I have learned to protect myself more. To trust to a point, not infinitely.

I have done wrong to a couple of people, not with the intent to hurt them, but out of frustration, out of concern because of a lack of attention. I've made my apologies and I hope to do better this year.

I made more music this year than ever before and found musician friends with whom I can make even more music. Alhamdulillah for the melodies and lyrics that touched my heart and my soul in 2010. I will never forget having tea with Imad and his guitar on one side of me and Diyar and his guitar and voice on the other side of me, both nearly invisible under the cover of night, being surrounded by dust and surprising melodies and lyrics I could only feel and voices singing. And my heart ready to burst with joy. Alhamdulillah for those nights and for Pizza Corner and the guys in the band. Imad told me I'm the best thing that happened to them this year and in a moment of loneliness, that text message made me feel cared for. I celebrated my birthday with Sharhabil Ahmed, the Sudanese King of Jazz.

In my art, writing and cooking, in my other creative endeavors, there were moments of exceptional creativity and a few beautiful bits and pieces came out of those. But nothing finished, completed. And I need to stop wasting time on nonsense when there's so much beauty to be made. So many thoughts and feelings to be shared.

And growing, my last resolution. I am so different from who I was and how I was a year ago. This year I accepted Islam. I prayed and prayed and prayed. I fasted for Ramadan for the first time. I went to the Islamic Festival, visited Canada. Watched my friends go through all kinds of ups and downs and got a little better at being a friend. Set clearer boundaries for my son and he seems to be flourishing, though we still have a ways to go.

But love and music and prayer dominated my 2010. Alhamdulillah.

So this year's resolutions? Do better at some of last year's resolutions. Cook, paint, collage, write, practice guitar, practice singing. Do wrong to none. Pray more. Waste less time. Love my child and pay him more attention in good ways. Get healthier.

And it's bedtime. Welcome to 2011.

It's the 31st day of December

You and me

We don't flow

yet

Don't swirl together

Easily

No chocolate and vanilla

Ice cream cones here

Instead rocky

Rough

Like winter waters

Windblown waves

Rocky

Choppy

But in

Rare moments

I allow

I myself to hope

That the edges will wear smooth

Polished pebbles

And we will fit

Snugly in each others palms

I want you to know

I love hard

Across oceans

Over mountains and fields

I love hard

But break easily

So always be real

She doesn't know.

No Images

by William Waring Cuney

She does not know

her beauty,

she thinks her brown body

has no glory.

If she could dance

naked

under palm trees

and see her image in the river,

she would know.

But there are no palm trees

on the street,

and dish water gives back

no images.

She is my friend. And she's hurting. And I can't fix that. But what's bothering me tonight is that she has no idea how amazing she is, how I feel blessed to know her. Not only is her beauty simply stunning, but she's one of the most talented and loving people I've met. She is a poet, a dancer, an artist, a teacher and amazes me in each of these capacities. I hope she'll know one day...

Been too long

It's been so long since I've written. I've been busy teaching, mothering, singing. Writing seems to have fallen out of the equation, dropped from the routine.

My son turned 9 yesterday. He's still the same kid, but it's clear that he's growing older. He is exchanging e-mail with his classmates about who will be invited to his birthday party, whether certain girls like or hate certain boys. I don't know if I'm ready for this. But time passes and I have no choice but to be ready.

I've been singing every Friday with Sudanese Band. It's been fun. I'm getting more comfortable and people are starting to say things like, "I'm a big fan!" which is just amusing. I'm not a singer. Just a teacher who enjoys singing. I'm sure there's a difference. But I like that people actually look forward to hearing me sing, come to hear me. I find it strange, though, knowing how many amazing singers there are in the world. And though I think I sound good sometimes, I personally know many people who are much better singers than I am.

School has been frustrating. I just feel like I am on a different wavelength than so many of the people I work with. For Spirit Week, the senior section had a cupcake eating contest... in a country where people are starving. Then a water balloon fight... in a country which is half desert and poor people sometimes have to pay to get potable water from donkey carts. But we've got more than enough and we're not afraid to waste it openly.

My partner teacher and curriculum coordinator asserted in a recent planning meeting that some kids are just not as smart as other kids and we shouldn't expect that much from them. They couldn't seem to understand why the language of "not smart" was problematic. I know some children struggle with certain academic tasks, but I fully believe that every child has strengths and that intelligence is not a singular attribute. And there are some kids who are amazing thinkers who struggle to complete academic tasks. I mean, Einstein was a terrible student. There is no "smart or not smart." There are degrees of strengths and struggles in every area of the academic and non-academic curriculum. And I feel terrible for the children who have been labeled not-that-smart and who will not be pushed to achieve. (I loved my friend Julie's response to this: Some teachers are just not as smart as other teachers and we simply can't expect as much from them.)

Anyways... my boy wants to swim, so I should get a move on before it gets too late.

We're Missing the Point

These past two weeks at school have been frustrating to say the least. We seem to be missing the point - that we are there for the children, that it is our job to teach them and do what's in their best interest. And most importantly, like doctors, we should do no harm.

But people don't seem to get that. They don't seem to care what's happening to children while we write planner after planner. There were some moments that made me wonder if there is hope for my school, if after all the filling in of planners, we will be able to actually teach. Filling in planners is taking precedence over just about everything else - over the social and emotional well-being of children and families, over good teaching practice, over actual instruction.

And I feel like screaming.

Last week I listened to a teacher berate a child, telling him he does disgusting things and therefore will no longer be allowed to sit next to other children. But wait, it gets worse. The teacher then proceeded to allow the other children to call out all the "bad" things they had seen him do and heard him say.

The same child was later discussed in a meeting where the teacher warned other teachers that this child might "act innocent" but that he knows what he's doing. This after he'd been in her class for just two weeks.

Another teacher chimed in that if ever there were a person that proved that humans were descended from apes, this child was it. "I mean," she continued, "have you seen the size of his hands?!" Giggles, head shaking, but no one said anything. And if you're wondering, yes, the child is black, Southern Sudanese. The tallest and darkest skinned child in the grade. Six years old and already dehumanized, vilified and written off as the "lowest" child in his class.

This amongst discussions of how to increase international-mindedness at our school. Let's cut to the chase about this one - until we deal with the racist undercurrent flowing through our conversations and classrooms, international-mindedness is not going to happen.

Other children are treated badly in other ways. One little girl has been branded a liar. The two non-English speakers in the class are seated with the liar and the child descended from apes. I mean, why not put the problem children together? Make it easier to "help" them?

And what do we discuss at our planning meetings? Do we talk about how to include children who are currently being excluded? Do we talk about how to teach in ways that are appropriate for the grade? (i.e. not having them seated on the rug for over an hour and then moving them to sit at tables for over an hour and wondering why they're not listening...) Do we talk about how to incorporate hands-on, inquiry based learning into an integrated thematic curriculum?

You guessed it. No. We don't. Instead, we write planners: language planners, math planners, reading planners, unit of inquiry planners.

I'm fed up. I can't help but speak my mind. Does it help? Do people consider the damage being done?

You guessed it. No. They don't. They see me as a problem, an instigator. Maybe it's me. Maybe there's a better way to approach the subjects. But I'm fuming. Pissed off.

And I don't know how to say that nicely.

Water

Seems my entire life revolves around water these days:

There's the enormous bottle of water I force myself to drink before the azzan signals the rising of the sun each morning...
And the same bottle refilled and drunk again each night before I allow myself to sleep...
The long days in between, trying to limit my exertion so as to avoid getting thirsty...
The moments - brushing my teeth, showering, performing wudu - when I must make sure I don't drink any water.

What a different Ramadan this has been. I am fasting for the first time. Nineteen days done and 11 more to go. And, alhamdulillah, it's not as bad as I thought it would be. Most years I have anxiety dreams about my classroom before the start of the school year. This year, my only anxiety dreams were about fasting, about going a full day in the Sudanese heat without water.

The funny thing is I don't get that hungry and I don't get that thirsty. The water I drink during the hours of darkness, the food I eat before sunrise sustains me through the day. The hardest part at the beginning was figuring out what to do with my lunch periods and breaks. I never noticed how much time I spend eating, making coffee and tea, sipping throughout the day. In the mid-afternoon, I do find myself getting a little hungry, but it passes. I've lost a noticeable amount of weight, though many people gain during Ramadan. I simply don't have the luxury of staying up all night eating. Work begins at 7:30 a.m..

I find myself thinking about where I will break my fast or what I will cook when I get home. I perform salat, prayer in the morning after I eat and drink, again at the end of the school day, again when I get home, after the azzan calls at maghreb, sunset time and once more before I sleep.

My son, who now proudly calls himself a Muslim, prays with me sometimes. He does salat with me and sometimes says du'a, asking Allah to help him do a 12 second handstand and take care of his family. Every once in a while he says, "I can't believe I'm really a Muslim. My faith is Islam." He is studying about values and religions in his class now. His group will make a poster about Islam.

Ramadan is a blessing. Each day my alarm goes off at 4:00 a.m.. I get up and make myself a strong, sweet, milky cup of coffee. I grab leftovers from the fridge and my bottle of water and walk out to the balcony in the darkness of the early morning. I start up my computer and begin thinking about what quote I will post with the daily countdown of days remaining. And then I begin what is usually a relaxed time of eating, drinking coffee, having water and smoking a couple of cigarettes.

On days when I wake up late, I look like a bullemic on a food binge. I sip my coffee with one hand, smoke with the other. I put the coffee cup down when I reach the grounds and begin stuffing food into my mouth, smoking between bites. Then the water - gulping down water until I can no longer breathe, gasping for air, watching the computer's clock and counting down minutes until the azzan will call. I'm in a panic. I am afraid that I won't make it through the day if I don't ingest enough caffeine, water, protein and nicotine. And having fasted successfully for this many days, I don't want to mess up.

When the muezzin calls, the suhur, the pre-dawn meal is done. I slowly get up, stomach stuffed to capacity, water sloshing around inside me, and go to perform wudu, washing before prayer. I pull on yesterday's skirt and wrap a scarf around me to cover my head and arms. I pray my two rakat. I turn on my bedside lamp and take my Qur'an into my lap, picking up where I left off the morning before. I have read over 1,000 pages since Ramadan began. I read until it is time to wake my son to get ready for school. He smiles at me when I wake him and asks for his back to be scratched or massaged before he stretches and begins to get ready. He often asks me if I drank my water and ate enough.

And that is when the fast begins. I make sure I don't accidentally drink water while brushing my teeth and showering. I make sure I have my scarf so I can pray in school. My son makes sure to pack his lunch and we are off...

School days are full of people fasting and people who are not fasting apologizing for eating and drinking. No apologies necessary, I tell them. I choose to fast. You choose to eat and drink. My fast is not broken by your lunches.

When we return home, after a full day of school, it is time to decide where I will break my fast and with whom. But when the azzan calls for maghreb I am never very hungry, and usually not that thirsty. When I break fast with other people who are fasting, it is a blessing. I feel I am part of a larger community, that I am not alone in the restraint I must exhibit. We pray side by side after eating our dates and drinking juice. In Tuti, with my family, we eat from one tray. At friends' houses and at my house, we have our plates and forks. At restaurants the meal varies. But all of Khartoum listens together for the azzan and breaks our fast together.

I love hosting people in my house, though cooking without being able to taste as I cook is a challenge. We've had the most un-Sudanese iftars imaginable: sushi rolls, cheeseburgers, brownies. Before Ramadan ends, inshallah, I will prepare a Sudanese meal: aseeda and mulah, gurassa and t'aamia.

Tomorrow I will go to the house of the one aunty with whom I have not yet broken fast. The next day, I will break fast with the support staff from my school. We teachers will serve them their iftar. And after that, who knows?

But no matter when I wake up, how much I read or where I break fast, each day is a blessing. Each day I am reminded of my strength and willpower. I am reminded of what hunger and thirst feel like. Each day and night I say my prayers and say dhikr, alhamdulillah 99 times. I ask Allah to help me be content with what is good for me and to help me be content with letting go of what is not. I ask Him to help me to be ready for love and to help me find a person to be my life partner. Each night I pray that I sleep and wake easily. I pray for dreams to guide me.

And next Ramadan, inshallah, I will be ready to fast and to break fast with friends and family.

Alhamdulillah.

Men!

Since I've been back, I've been much more aware of the way men look at me here. In Sudan, many people look at me. Maybe they notice that I'm not wearing hijab. Perhaps my arms are showing along with my hair (but never shoulders!) Perhaps I forgot to line my eyes with black pencil.

But here it is different. Men feel like they have the right to invade my personal space, be it with their eyes or their hands or their words and noises. And I'll admit that there was a time in my life when I found these men's words exciting, they made me feel attractive. But that was back when I needed them to convince me. I no longer have that need. I am in love with my curves, enamored with my own face. Allah made me this way and I need no man to confirm that He made me beautiful, at least in the eyes of those who matter.

Wednesday I was uptown, checking out a Talent Showcase in the park. I left in time to pray at a mosque on 116th St. Lots of Senegalese there. I strolled home down St. Nicholas, picking up a banana from a bodega. My headscarf was on, arms and legs and head covered. I felt his eyes on me before he asked, "Can I have some?" Why? Why did he feel the need to speak to me? Why did he think his invasion would be welcome?

Thursday I headed to Melissa's Going Away Party. Great music, dancing. One man, drunk asked, "Why you not dancing with me? What's good?" His words were slightly slurred and his eyes said everything he was thinking. I kept my distance. Another man, drunk, his wife standing two feet away, tried to whisper his slurred words into my ear. I laughed, telling him to watch himself. He feigned ignorance. I went home.

I went to Friday prayers at the mosque on E. 96th St. I strolled home through the park wearing a black skirt to my ankles and a long-sleeved white shirt. I had my prayer beads in my hand, just purchased from outside the mosque, and was quietly saying my alhamdulillah's. I looked up to see the driver of a van looking back at me while moving. When he saw me look up, he yelled, "Ooooowwwwwwww!" and then drove on. I shook my head, looked back down at my beads. Why can't I just walk? Under my breath, I told him to focus on the road, then continued my peaceful walk.

On Saturday, I met a man at the end-of-year staff party at my old school. He was busy flirting and grinding with the former (female) school security officer and I didn't know him so I didn't bother talking to him, preferring catching up with old friends to making new ones. He introduced himself to me late in the evening. I shook his hand. He asked me to, "Show me how you dance to that." I laughed at him. He persisted. I looked at my friend, asked her to help me out. I didn't want to be rude, but I was tired of his attempt at flirtation. When he poked me in the side, under my rib cage, I no longer cared about being rude. What made him think it was ok to touch me? To tell me to dance for him? I was so disgusted.

I looked around at the other men at the party, thinking one of them might tell this guy to leave me alone, but they were each as bad as he was. Their eyes. Their comments, "But those jeans really were looking good..." Ugh. I took my scarf out of my bag, put it over my head and threw the end over my shoulder. Covered then, all but my hands and face. I wanted to protect myself from their eyes, my ears from their words.

But in truth, there is no protection, only the satisfaction that I have done my best to shield myself. I want to speak up, tell them what asses they are, how disrespectful. If I were their mother or sister, would they accept men talking to me, looking at me in those ways?

Instead, I walked away. I kept my scarf on, in hijab for the first time, for the next three hours, walking home, sitting with a friend outside talking, entering my building. It felt good, comfortable.

I felt good, peaceful.

I want to get married, want to be beautiful and sexy for a man who loves me. Want to care for and be cared for by someone. I don't need or want anyone else's attention, don't want their words or their touches. Don't want to be subjected to their insinuations and flirtations. I have no time and no patience for nonsense.

Inshallah, soon...