Goodmorning, bebe.
You’ve got to remember the forts we had in Lynchburg. Jennie and I sat at the mouth of our stacked-triangle, collecting spores from mushrooms and rusty rings. We built the lean-to for you and Colette second, across the two-pronged bridge, the cut bank perfectly cupping a space beneath thin, warped saplings that curled down for a roof.
It was the same day as the turtle shell.
Flattening the foliage, we cleared the fort floor. Except by the shell. Because it was right-side-up, we were almost convinced at first that it must be living. But Jennie and I poked and prodded it without response so my initial interest turned to disgust.
It was dead.
It must be dead. And if we were to flip the slick shell over, out would crumble leafs of wet, rotting turtle-meat. And possibly small turtle bones right there under the bent trees. And what if it got on my shoes? Or my hands? But we wanted to know so badly, curiosity exploited our absolute longing to know what was really happening beneath. And we couldn’t. In the end we couldn’t because what was possible was just too scary so we left the shell in your fort, left it conspicuously seated on a layer of leaves surrounded by swept ground and we returned to our own hold.
And of course you flipped it. And you know what else? I bet you didn’t think twice. I bet you ducked your head beneath the saplings and reached out and grabbed the damn thing. Most likely there were broken leaves in your blonde curls and loose bark Velcroed to your socks and you just walked in and flipped it.
I woke up this morning realizing that maybe you have always been the brave one.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this door lately. I’m not sure why, but remembering home and the holidays reminds of this door at the bottom of the basement stairs in Mr. and Mrs. Warson’s house. I think it might be white, or maybe it’s wood, but it has a window, like an outside-door. Maybe so you can see if someone is racing down the stairs toward you. And I can feel what it’s like to shut that one door. I hope I’m remembering it right.
Because it wasn’t always like that.
I think it must have been about eighth grade when there was a New Years Eve party in that basement. Ashley and I were going, and once we were welcomed in and directed down the stairs she and I stood looking at one another, listening to the revelry behind the door, each trying to steel the other into opening it.
You see, it didn’t have a window then.
And in the end there was just too much fun going on behind that whiteness and we left. We convinced ourselves we didn’t REALLY want to go anyway, it wouldn’t be THAT much fun, no one we ACTUALLY wanted to see was there, the other plans we had were WAY better obviously and ran back up the stairs and out of the house.
Years later I think I painted that white door. But that’s a different story.
Am I remembering this right?
It’s like now I have all these shirts with button-up necks, you know? Like turtlenecks that have buttons down the nape. Except that for the life of me I can never remember to unbutton them before I try and pull them back over my head at the end of the day. I feel like I’m seven again. And what the hell am I going to do with all these turtlenecks anyway?
For a very long time I justified my behaviors in one way. It was easy to explain. I did things the hard way when necessary, or even just when I could BECAUSE I could. I was trying to prove something, prove this, so that you wouldn’t have to. I’ve told Kris time and time again, I was just trying to pave the way for her, trying to make things easier for when she came along behind. But I get it. I mean why would you want to walk on asphalt. Behind me is road and the tar sticks to your feet so that your flip-flops all turn black and you want grass and green and the untamed and that makes so much more sense.
I love and miss you every small, stupid breathing moment, Lin.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Halwa
“AJ” greets me now.
HelloSarhowareyou.
Coming into the dining room, he sees the scattering of paper. I’m arranging my surveys; print, pile, staple. He asks me if it’s for school. “Bahath-ee”, I respond, my research. Laying his hand on the nearest pile, my 15-year-old brother says, “Beautiful.”
Classes are over now. We had our Arabic final a week ago and now focus 100% of our time on our independent study projects. The composition of my survey complete, I waited and waited for “Tony” to buy “huber” for the printer since we were long out.
After a week he did. And I used it all up in a single night.
(since I had been waiting forEVER I had a back-order of things I needed to print off. don’t look at me like I’m some ink-glutton…)
In case you are interested, below is a condensed version of my questionnaire translated from Arabic to English for your reading pleasure:
TRANSCRIBED SURVEY (#2)
[TITLE PAGE]
TITLE: Survey: What is the meaning of the word “beautiful” in Oman in your opinion?
[INTRODUCTORY PAGE]
DESCRIPTION: In the University of Denver in America, I study Political Science and Psychology. Now I am studying abroad in the School for International Training: World Learning in Muscat. Here I am studying beauty in Oman and I am researching about what women think the word “beauty” means. There is little information on beauty in Oman now, thus I am exploring this topic and I want your opinion about beauty. If you have 20 minutes free and you would like to help then you can complete this survey for me. Thank you for your help!
DISCLAIMER:
Note:
You must be a female over 18 years of age
It’s necessary to understand that your answers will be used in my research but your identity will remain confidential
My final research paper will be seen by my academic director and project advisor, will be presented before an audience, and will be public for any who would like to read it
If you don’t want to answer a question then avoid this question.
If you want to stop the survey because of any reason then stop.
If you have questions, ask me.
INFO:
Today’s date:
Age:
Birthplace:
Address:
Occupation:
Are you married?
What languages do you speak?
How many hours of television did you watch in the past week?
How many fashion magazines did you read in the past month?
How many days did you go to the salon in the past month?
[PAGE 1]
NOTE: Answer with an (x) for the choice that is relative in your opinion
HEADER: Trait - Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Thin body:
Jewelry:
Red hair:
Big eyes:
Uni-brow:
Short (height):
Hairless body and face:
Light makeup:
Dark skin:
Henna:
Black eyes:
…
NOTE: In your opinion, who is beautiful?
For example: your friends, or women in your family, or famous women…
Q/A: Who:
Why:
[PAGE 5]
PIC 1 Q/A: This woman is: Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Why:
PIC 2 Q/A: This woman is: Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Why:
[PAGE 6]
PART 1: Do you think that BLONDE HAIR is beautiful in your opinion?:
Why?:
Do you have this characteristic?:
How do you feel about having this characteristic or not?:
PART 2: Do you think that FEMALE CIRCUMCISION is beautiful in your opinion?:
Why?:
Do you have this characteristic?:
How do you feel about having this characteristic or not?:
There are a total of TWENTY-EIGHT traits on [Page 1] in the actual survey, wherein the participant is asked to judge the relative “beauty” of each.
There are a total of FOUR pages similar to [Page 5] in the actual survey, all with photographs of women on the spectrum somewhere between what would be considered “highly Western” to “highly Arab”.
There are a total of THREE pages similar to [Page 6] in the actual survey, each with two traits that the participant is asked to expand upon.
Last week I baked a pear pie. Carrefour had the glass dishes and I took over the kitchen, squeezing lemons and sprinkling cinnamon with thin scales of pear skins on my palms. And it was delicious; “Meadow” spoons out little craters from its center, tucking them into a small plastic bowl that she holds against her chest. Next time I’ll do apple.
She squeezed the dark olive paste onto her fingers, smearing it across her forehead and round cheeks. Preparation began at 5pm but we didn’t arrive at the wedding till after 9. “‘Hunter’, she speak English too much. She doesn’t speak Arabic like you.”
Every other word is still a struggle, but I am honored and so humbled. It’s like a weight has been lifted. I don’t know how to explain it but I’m at peace.
HelloSarhowareyou.
Coming into the dining room, he sees the scattering of paper. I’m arranging my surveys; print, pile, staple. He asks me if it’s for school. “Bahath-ee”, I respond, my research. Laying his hand on the nearest pile, my 15-year-old brother says, “Beautiful.”
Classes are over now. We had our Arabic final a week ago and now focus 100% of our time on our independent study projects. The composition of my survey complete, I waited and waited for “Tony” to buy “huber” for the printer since we were long out.
After a week he did. And I used it all up in a single night.
(since I had been waiting forEVER I had a back-order of things I needed to print off. don’t look at me like I’m some ink-glutton…)
In case you are interested, below is a condensed version of my questionnaire translated from Arabic to English for your reading pleasure:
TRANSCRIBED SURVEY (#2)
[TITLE PAGE]
TITLE: Survey: What is the meaning of the word “beautiful” in Oman in your opinion?
[INTRODUCTORY PAGE]
DESCRIPTION: In the University of Denver in America, I study Political Science and Psychology. Now I am studying abroad in the School for International Training: World Learning in Muscat. Here I am studying beauty in Oman and I am researching about what women think the word “beauty” means. There is little information on beauty in Oman now, thus I am exploring this topic and I want your opinion about beauty. If you have 20 minutes free and you would like to help then you can complete this survey for me. Thank you for your help!
DISCLAIMER:
Note:
You must be a female over 18 years of age
It’s necessary to understand that your answers will be used in my research but your identity will remain confidential
My final research paper will be seen by my academic director and project advisor, will be presented before an audience, and will be public for any who would like to read it
If you don’t want to answer a question then avoid this question.
If you want to stop the survey because of any reason then stop.
If you have questions, ask me.
INFO:
Today’s date:
Age:
Birthplace:
Address:
Occupation:
Are you married?
What languages do you speak?
How many hours of television did you watch in the past week?
How many fashion magazines did you read in the past month?
How many days did you go to the salon in the past month?
[PAGE 1]
NOTE: Answer with an (x) for the choice that is relative in your opinion
HEADER: Trait - Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Thin body:
Jewelry:
Red hair:
Big eyes:
Uni-brow:
Short (height):
Hairless body and face:
Light makeup:
Dark skin:
Henna:
Black eyes:
…
NOTE: In your opinion, who is beautiful?
For example: your friends, or women in your family, or famous women…
Q/A: Who:
Why:
[PAGE 5]
PIC 1 Q/A: This woman is: Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Why:
PIC 2 Q/A: This woman is: Ugly - Not beautiful - Average - Beautiful - Very beautiful
Why:
[PAGE 6]
PART 1: Do you think that BLONDE HAIR is beautiful in your opinion?:
Why?:
Do you have this characteristic?:
How do you feel about having this characteristic or not?:
PART 2: Do you think that FEMALE CIRCUMCISION is beautiful in your opinion?:
Why?:
Do you have this characteristic?:
How do you feel about having this characteristic or not?:
There are a total of TWENTY-EIGHT traits on [Page 1] in the actual survey, wherein the participant is asked to judge the relative “beauty” of each.
There are a total of FOUR pages similar to [Page 5] in the actual survey, all with photographs of women on the spectrum somewhere between what would be considered “highly Western” to “highly Arab”.
There are a total of THREE pages similar to [Page 6] in the actual survey, each with two traits that the participant is asked to expand upon.
Last week I baked a pear pie. Carrefour had the glass dishes and I took over the kitchen, squeezing lemons and sprinkling cinnamon with thin scales of pear skins on my palms. And it was delicious; “Meadow” spoons out little craters from its center, tucking them into a small plastic bowl that she holds against her chest. Next time I’ll do apple.
She squeezed the dark olive paste onto her fingers, smearing it across her forehead and round cheeks. Preparation began at 5pm but we didn’t arrive at the wedding till after 9. “‘Hunter’, she speak English too much. She doesn’t speak Arabic like you.”
Every other word is still a struggle, but I am honored and so humbled. It’s like a weight has been lifted. I don’t know how to explain it but I’m at peace.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Sporadic
Does it count if you are in a different country? Does it count if you feel too full? Small girls chewing on broken balloons; crawling on the steps with Styrofoam on their lips. Mike Stover was the only person who could pull off lace-up Crocs.
I want to touch my mother’s face. Run my thumb along the cheekbone; trace the skin above her eye.
We visited Jebel Shams early in the week. Jebel Akhdar later on. It was beautiful, although there was little to support its title of “The Green Mountain”.
The muscle behind my shoulder has started having spasms. I try to sleep on my left side, one knee cupping the other. But I can’t.
The children in my Nizwa home stay were bountiful. And destructive. When I arrived, a small blue bike had recently been operated upon, both of its wheels removed and lying in exhibition next to the frame. By the time I left, all sides of the estate were littered with skeletal spokes, tires twisted like rubber bands, bolts here, rims there.
Piranhas.
I know that my words are becoming more and more dizzying. I am sorry. I think that if there was a single story to tell, one with a “Once upon a time”, one that could be concluded, I would tell it. Instead it’s just swatches; fraying squares.
I want to touch my mother’s face. Run my thumb along the cheekbone; trace the skin above her eye.
We visited Jebel Shams early in the week. Jebel Akhdar later on. It was beautiful, although there was little to support its title of “The Green Mountain”.
The muscle behind my shoulder has started having spasms. I try to sleep on my left side, one knee cupping the other. But I can’t.
The children in my Nizwa home stay were bountiful. And destructive. When I arrived, a small blue bike had recently been operated upon, both of its wheels removed and lying in exhibition next to the frame. By the time I left, all sides of the estate were littered with skeletal spokes, tires twisted like rubber bands, bolts here, rims there.
Piranhas.
I know that my words are becoming more and more dizzying. I am sorry. I think that if there was a single story to tell, one with a “Once upon a time”, one that could be concluded, I would tell it. Instead it’s just swatches; fraying squares.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Codified
I think the problem is that I can’t keep things separated. I get mixed up. I am messy.
Some things are permanently mistranslated. Whenever I tell my family that the plane has landed again in Muscat, both "Tony" and "Carmela" tell me something to the effect of, “You are welcome.”
I think, “I damn well better be or where the heck else am I gunna sleep?” I know that they mean welcome home, but all the same it sounds like a response to “thanks”.
Or like when the most gutsy of my three bus drivers (the jury is still out on which one exactly) texts me “I need have picnic with you any day like,” picnic means vacation. As in How you like this picnic? Or you take picnic in Salalah?
And adapted means something like “getting along with”. “How adapted your studies... Adapted Dubai?”
“Ly-esh achoo achoo?”
“Bes-beb kut-ta”
“Heh?”
“Bes-beb kut-ta”
“You a cat?”
“No, nevermind…”
What if I can never come home.
What if I’ve misplaced myself too far now, walked too many steps down and over. I’m not trying to sound melodramatic. What the hell are you supposed to think when the “foreign” stops feeling foreign, at least in shock-value.
Lately I have just had too much to say to speak. I roll my thoughts instead of folding them, this way they fit in my suitcase. And I just keep stuffing. And my mouth can’t articulate kul ef-kar.
Ow aye-ya ef-kar for that matter.
I’ve started to think about wood. About that green so dark it’s almost black. I’ve started to think about warm blankets and leather and being held and quiet.
Some things are permanently mistranslated. Whenever I tell my family that the plane has landed again in Muscat, both "Tony" and "Carmela" tell me something to the effect of, “You are welcome.”
I think, “I damn well better be or where the heck else am I gunna sleep?” I know that they mean welcome home, but all the same it sounds like a response to “thanks”.
Or like when the most gutsy of my three bus drivers (the jury is still out on which one exactly) texts me “I need have picnic with you any day like,” picnic means vacation. As in How you like this picnic? Or you take picnic in Salalah?
And adapted means something like “getting along with”. “How adapted your studies... Adapted Dubai?”
“Ly-esh achoo achoo?”
“Bes-beb kut-ta”
“Heh?”
“Bes-beb kut-ta”
“You a cat?”
“No, nevermind…”
What if I can never come home.
What if I’ve misplaced myself too far now, walked too many steps down and over. I’m not trying to sound melodramatic. What the hell are you supposed to think when the “foreign” stops feeling foreign, at least in shock-value.
Lately I have just had too much to say to speak. I roll my thoughts instead of folding them, this way they fit in my suitcase. And I just keep stuffing. And my mouth can’t articulate kul ef-kar.
Ow aye-ya ef-kar for that matter.
I’ve started to think about wood. About that green so dark it’s almost black. I’ve started to think about warm blankets and leather and being held and quiet.
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