All posts by Yasmine

About Yasmine

I like orange sunshine and blue slurpees.

just another day in paradise By the time I fini…

Conversations and Encounters

just another day in paradise

By the time I finished my last errand of the evening today, it was dark and raining. I came out of the grocery store squinting against the rain and fog and bright headlights that crawled across the parking lot. The man standing just outside the doors nodded and smiled at me. He was bundled up snugly against the cold: cap pulled low on his forehead, coat zipped up to his chin, thick gloves on hands that steadily rang the bell for whichever local charity he was representing, perhaps the Salvation Army. My gaze flicked away. I slowed down indecisively a couple feet away, pretended to ignore him, and tried to remember my parking spot. I realized that if I made a dash for it, I could be at my car in no more than three seconds. In spite of the rain pounding down on my head, I threw another cursory glance in the man’s direction. He looked back at me, watching me steadily as I hesitated. I thought of the sixty dollars worth of groceries in my shopping cart, the new shirt I had just bought myself and which I may wear tomorrow, the hot dinner waiting for me at home, and I was ashamed at myself for being so tempted to walk away, as I have so many times before. In exactly three seconds, I could be at my car. In exactly four minutes, I could be home…

“You sure picked a crazy evening for this,” I said, trying to maintain a hold on my shopping cart. “So much rain!”

He shrugged, grinning affably. “Can’t let a little bit of rain hold us back, you know.”

I tried to dig my wallet out of my bag, but I needed both hands, and my shopping cart was rolling away. “You gotta do what you gotta do,” I said absently, hooking my foot around the bottom of the cart.

He nodded, laughing. “You gotta do what you gotta do,” he agreed, and came over, holding onto my cart while I found my wallet and dropped the bills into the kettle.

You gotta do what you gotta do.

Sometimes, I wish I knew what I’m supposed to be doing. Or, even better, I wish that I were doing more, even if meant just standing outside in the rain and ringing a bell for some charity while holiday shoppers looked right through me. Sometimes, it’s so easy to distance oneself from the front lines of human need.

“I believe that serving the best ends of humanity means getting out in the middle of it just as it is, not staying home writing checks and thinking hopeful thoughts. The world does not need tourists who ride by in a bus clicking their tongues. The world as it is needs those who will love it enough to change it, with what they have, where they are. And you’re damned right that’s idealistic. No apology. When idealism goes in the trash as junk mail, we’re finished.

“In way one or another, I’m going back to kettle duty on the streets this year – literally or in some equivalent task… I will have to stand still for a while and see the world as it goes by. As I have gone by. It will give me a chance to listen for the far-off sound of a bell rung by a child in front of the Woolworth’s store in Waco, Texas, one winter’s eve. To imagine my father standing beside me. To see his face. To hear the bell of another kid clanging away in the rainy Seattle night. To see his face. And to turn and look at the window glass in the storefront behind me and see my own reflection. If you see me, put something in the kettle. Be generous. I’d hate to have to hit you with the tambourine.”

– Robert Fulghum

Uh-Oh: Some Observations from Both Sides of the Refrigerator Door

Meanwhile, the Zaytuna Conference is tomorrow. Just the kind of focus I need.

[Flipping through my course notes the other day, I…

Glorious mundanity

[Flipping through my course notes the other day, I came across a long, scribbled list of things to do, dated sometime in November. This, of course, is how I effectively occupy my time during psychology lectures. Some of these items I do already. Many of them I want to do more often. All of them are concrete do-able things, none of them difficult, or so I believe. Try them out yourself, too. Let me know how it goes. Here’s half of it.]

to-do list, part 1

– Smile at strangers. Watch their faces light up as they smile back.

– Buy a child a pack of crayons and a pad of construction paper. Spend an hour drawing or coloring with him/her.

– Color outside the lines. Autograph the drawing. Hang it proudly on the fridge.

– Show people they are loved. [Courtesy of Abez, who wrote a beautiful post about this once.]

– Sit outside and watch the butterflies flitting around. Sit still and don’t flinch at the bees.

– Go to a public park and spend some time on the swings.

– Strike up more conversations with total strangers.

– Walk around outside barefoot.

– Write real letters. Don’t forget to mail them, too.

– Laugh too loudly. When people look over at you, laugh louder.

– Feed the ducks.

– Don’t comb your hair for a day (or two, or three). Don’t care.

– Sing songs from your childhood, loudly and off-key.

– Buy a meal for a stranger.

– Write a letter to God. [Courtesy of Javed, whose letter I borrowed here.]

– Talk less. Talk more. Whichever is applicable.

– Lie down on the grass and stare at the sky.

– Take the back-roads. Get lost. It’s okay.

– Blow air-kisses.

– Pay for the car behind yours at the tollbooth.

– Speak in a voice different from your normal one, all day. [Courtesy of Chai, whose actual advice was, “Walk around everywhere speaking with a voice that is unbefitting your body type.” Absolutely hilarious.]

– Tell yourself you are beautiful. Believe it.

– Invest in flip-flops. Toe socks optional.

– Call up a long-lost friend.

– Give someone the gift of your time and undivided attention.

– Crinkle your eyes when you smile. Make it look genuine, not as if you’re squinting.

– Buy more fuzzy socks.

– Pick flowers for special people.

– Open the door for someone.

– Go on road trips. Drive safely.

– Volunteer. For something. Anything.

[If you have any to add, share ’em in the comment box.]

Not what i was planning on posting about – but, hi, i’m back

Conversations and Encounters, Salaam Namaste

Yesterday, we went to this wedding shindig thing about 90 minutes away. Although I’d been to fourteen weddings in the course of the eighteen months I lived in Pakistan, this was the first Pakistani wedding in the U.S. that I can remember attending. ‘Twas fun, even though we didn’t know most of the people. Actually, my sister and I did a great job of just walking up to people and introducing ourselves. We met lots of new cool people in the process. And whenever I got bored, I amused myself by playing peek-a-boo with all the little kids, or grabbing my sister’s arm and exclaiming, “Aww, look at that cute baby!” Lots of cute babies in attendance. My kinda event. But good Lord! – Pakistani women really need to get out of this immensely unattractive habit of staring, and soon. That I do not find amusing at all.

In hindsight, the most entertaining part of the evening was when I unsuspectingly got waylaid by a group of single-minded aunties. See, here’s how it happened: I walked down to the end of the room to hug a family friend and ask how she was doing. After she had moved on, I was about to take another step when I found my arm firmly grasped by some old lady at the table I was standing next to. Without slackening the grip on my arm, she jerked her chin towards the empty seat next to her, almost physically hauling me into it. Shocked and surprised, I was about to open my mouth to speak, but she beat me to it. As I jerked my arm out of her grip, she directed rapid-fire Urdu questions my way: “Where are you from? Some Muslim country? Do you speak Urdu?”

Oh, great, I thought. And as she and the three other women across from us stared at me expectantly, what came out of my mouth was, “Nahin, maala sirf ligga ligga Urdu raazi,” which, of course means, “No, I only know a little bit of Urdu” – in a mixture of both Urdu AND Pukhtu. Oh yeah, I’m amazingly slick, what can I say.

Thankfully, my sister wandered by just then and was put on the spot as well. The old lady stared at us, looking puzzled. “Where are you from?” she repeated. “Are you from a Muslim country?”

I almost laughed. “I’m from Pakistan,” I said, this time in real Urdu.

“Pakistan?” She peered closely at me. So did the three ladies across from us. “You don’t look Pakistani,” they said doubtfully.

“Really?” I said. “Where did you think I was from?”

“Maybe India?”

“No, I’m Pakistani.”

The old lady looked me up and down. “You’re from Karachi, aren’t you?”

“No,” I said, “I’m from _______.”

“___… What?”

“_______,” I repeated loudly, with as much patience as I had left. “It’s the name of a village in district Attock.”

“Ohh, Attock!” said the ladies across from us. “We’re from Behboodi [a nearby village]! What’s your father’s name?”

We told them. “Ohh!” they said again, now smiling widely all of a sudden. Everyone knows our father. I’m so glad we have some connections, otherwise I can see how this conversation could have degenerated into misunderstandings and lip-curled vicious remarks as soon as our backs were turned. Or maybe I’m just generalizing. Unfortunately, I do know far too many people like that, though.

“So if you’re from _______, why don’t you at least know how to speak Hindku?” demanded one of the women. The sudden shift from agreeableness to disdain and condescension was too much for me. “I do speak Hindku,” I said with obvious annoyance, gladly reverting to fluent Hindku. “Perhaps if you had started off this conversation with Hindku, we wouldn’t have been having so much trouble.”

The old lady next to me, being a fluent Urdu speaker and a non-villager, was feeling left out of the loop of things by this time. She grabbed my arm again to direct attention her way, moving her hand in a circular gesture to signify my headwrap and scarf. “Why do you wear those so tightly?” she asked. “Doesn’t that cause you any takleef [trouble/annoyance/inconvenience]?”

I resisted an impulse to roll my eyes. “No, it doesn’t cause me any takleef,” I said impatiently, stuttering through my limited Urdu once more. I was trying to explain the concept of hijab to her, and my reasons for wearing it, but my limited Urdu was getting in the way. Not only that, I was distracted by the ladies across the table loudly asking each other, as if we weren’t even there – “Are they single? Or married?”

My sister retorted loudly, “No, we’re not married. We’re in college.”

A few seconds later, we finally managed to escape.

Yes, that was an interesting exchange. As we walked away, my sister laughed, “They probably think we’re so stuck-up – we were trying to speak Urdu with the village women, and talking about how we go to college.”

“Good!” I said irritably. “Serves them right for putting me on the spot like that.”

Usually, I’m known as the queen of sarcastic rejoinders and cold comebacks that result in flustered, embarrassed silence, but it’s awfully difficult to tell someone off if you don’t even speak the same language.

Later in the evening, a girl asked me, “Where are you from?”

“Oh, I came up from the Bay Area,” I replied, my standard response all day, since the majority of the wedding guests were from local towns.

“No, no,” she said, “I mean, what country?”

“Pakistan.”

‘Really?” she said in surprise. “I thought maybe you were Kashmiri. Or Palestinian.”

Hi, my name is Yasmine, and I think I’m starting to have an identity crisis already.

Oh, and the evening only served to confirm that I still need to learn now to gracefully accept compliments. I’ll get it right one of these years, don’t worry.

I’ll put that on my to-do list. Right up there with speaking Urdu without making a fool of myself.

official statement I have final exams this week…

Suckool

official statement

I have final exams this week, and am therefore taking a break from weblogging. Not necessarily other blogs, but definitely mine at least. Knowing me, I’ll probably still be lurking around blogs anyway; just don’t take it personally if I refrain from commenting. Anyway, at the moment I desperately need the focus and freedom of studying intensely for prolonged periods of time without the added distraction of composing weblog entries in my head, which is something I’ve been engaged in doing far too often for my own good this quarter. [And, damn, that was one heckuva run-on sentence!] Du’as are much appreciated, as always. Much love, peace, and good health to you all. Stay out of trouble, kiddos.

someone please pass the remote control

Resident Rockstar

someone please pass the remote control

Went to see my ear specialist this morning. Now I feel like my world has been invaded by that great entity called Sound. Hearing, the good ol’ third sense – ’bout time I went and got it balanced out. Problem is, now all I really want is some sort of technological device for volume-adjustment. I mean, really – the soft sound of my feet as I walk across a carpeted floor, the now-enhanced jarring crash of my lunch dishes as I stack them on the counter next to the sink, the low dripping coming from the bathroom faucet that leaks, the beeping and hammering that signify on-going contruction at the neighbors’ house next-door. Do I really need all those little, semi-annoying noises in my life? Or maybe they’re all good things. I need a day or two to get used to this. And a volume button, too. Pass the remote already, yo.

fake post III – what i did yesterday, blah blah bl…

Rockstar and Crescent

fake post III – what i did yesterday, blah blah blah (the standard is really decreasing, or what?)

I’ve finally figured out that I am certifiably insane. (No kidding?) Yesterday, I used one of my breaks from class to stop by a little market and buy some fruits and vegetables for home. I love the place. Run by a Mexican family, it’s practically a little hole in the wall, but the produce is amazingly cheaper than the price I’d have to pay at a grocery chain. I still need to get used to referring to cilantro, though. I grew up calling it “green coriander” – as opposed to ground coriander, you see. Grocery stores, however, call it “cilantro.” Okay. And for those people who are yet having difficulty grasping the concept of persimmons, there was a nice helpful sign stating, “Eat it just like an apple!” So there you have it.

As for me being insane – I gathered together my baskets of fruits and vegetables, and made my way to the register. As I passed by the ice cream cart, I suddenly had this inexplicable craving for ice cream, so I bought myself one of those yummy ice cream bars. Got in my car, and there I was, driving along back to campus. And, in case you’ve missed it, I absolutely hate the cold. So I’m all bundled up in my sweater, a scarf wrapped twice around my neck, the heat’s turned on to the max, my teeth are chattering like crazy, and I’m just chomping on this cold, frozen ice cream bar. Hilarious. I just had to laugh at myself. It was one of those moments when you want to pick up the phone and call a friend and say, “Guess what I’m doing right now?” so that they can tell you what a psychopath you are. But, between the steering wheel and the ice cream bar, my hands were otherwise occupied, so… So yeah, it’s okay.

At around 5pm, we drove from campus to Sacramento for an MSA banquet at Sac State. Took us only a half-hour, which isn’t bad considering the numerous times we got lost. But hey, we made so many U-turns that they cancelled each other out, and so theoretically it shouldn’t count at all. Great philosophy, no? Gorgeous campus, by the way. Re-cap of the evening: Ate amazing food, laughed with beautiful people, bought a Longing for the Divine wall-calendar (highly recommended), watched/listened to two people take shahadah, took lots of group photographs because I was coerced into doing so and also because it doesn’t take much persuasion for me to flash the cheesy grin.

Not-so-hot highlights: Hearing far too many people exclaim over how “tired and stressed” I supposedly looked. Someone accused me of potentially “ruining other people’s forthcoming smiles” if I kept up the exhausted face. As if I were purposely cultivating the expression. (Excuse me? How tired would you look if you had slept an average of 2 hours/night all week and had just finished seven papers?) Also: The event, though impressively well-organized, was just too long. Imam Zaid Shaker, the keynote speaker, was scheduled for the end, and spoke at length about “bringing the Muslim community together,” or something to that effect. I feel that a speaker of his caliber could have done well with a better topic. Not his fault though, because he went along with what they gave him, and they should have given him a better topic. I don’t know what. Don’t ask me right now.

By 9pm, halfway through Imam Zaid’s speech, we decided to leave. My 90-minute drive home wasn’t looking too appealing at the moment, especially considering how tired I was. Gave my friend Jason a ride over to his place, and on the way we talked about the shahadahs we had witnessed that evening. He brought up the hadith regarding the fact that a convert is considered, by his conversion to Islam, pure and free of any previous sin – all his previous sins are wiped out entirely (Saheeh Muslim #121). “Remember, when I took my shahadah last year, what you said to me when the imam told me that hadith?” he asked.
“No, what did I say?” I replied curiously.
He laughed, “You said, ‘I’m jealous!’”
Hey, I’m still jealous. I wish I could have clean slate like that.

Funny, I had forgotten that envious remark of mine though. What I remember instead is having an MSA girl approach me the morning after Jason’s shahadah to ask boldly, “So, don’t take this the wrong way, but we were just wondering… About your friend – did he become Muslim for you?” I remember my jaw dropping at her audacity, then recovering enough to raise my eyebrow and reply coldly, “I would hope he had far better reasons than that,” then turning and walking away.

I don’t understand girls, especially not the exaggerated soap opera drama-queen endeavors and unnecessary/misplaced nosiness that seems to go with being a girl. I’m just not cut out for it. I shoulda been a boy, I’m telling you.

fake post II: conversational highlights Yesterd…

Conversations and Encounters

fake post II: conversational highlights

Yesterday evening, my cousin shook his head and said, “You know how some mothers abandon their newborn babies in cardboard boxes in front of church-doors or hospitals? I really think that’s what we should do with you, too.”

“Yeah, but I’m sort of beyond the newborn phase already,” I retorted.

He rolled his eyes. “You’re 22 going on 4. It’s the same thing.”

Later in the evening, after a conversation about something or other, he leaned across the table and said menacingly, “You repeat one word of this to anyone, and I will personally donate you to the Salvation Army.”

Who needs enemies anyway, when you’ve got such loving family members?

Also, on a random note – (couldn’t resist posting this one) –

L: Are all Pakistanis as cool as you?

L: =)

Yasmine: Oh, of course not

Yasmine: I’m the exception to the rule

L: Sadness

L: haha

Yasmine: =)

Yasmine: Why am I cool all of a sudden?

L: Because I haven’t met that many cool Indians and Pakistanis

L: I thought I was being open-minded

L: But they suck arse as roommates

L: FRIGGIN EGG

L: They’re horrible to live with

L: oh lordy

L: I believe in karma

L: I musta done something

L: To get these fools

[…]

L: I see you more as Canadian than Pakistani

L: Because so far all the Canadians I’ve met are nice

[There, all you Canadians can feel vindicated now.]

i’m telling you, it’s not us, it’s them The amu…

Uncategorized

i’m telling you, it’s not us, it’s them

The amusing things I find when I’m supposed to be writing a half-dozen papers:

Babelfish Adds Canadian and American to Translation List

Kinda reminds me of Chai’s Dec. 1st post, and the resulting comments. [By the way, what’s up with the jacked-up permanent-links on all these new Blogger templates?]

Okay, yes, I’m done procrastinating, thank you for asking. For now, that is.

[I just felt the need for some sarcasm, that’s all…

Hit the Road

[I just felt the need for some sarcasm, that’s all]

driving-related annoyances

– Driving with your foot propped up on the dashboard, or your leg out the window – Why do you feel the need to do this? I don’t understand.

– People with handicapped stickers/placards on sports cars so tiny I bet even I could barely fit in ‘em – So where exactly do you fit your cane or wheelchair, if you don’t mind my asking?

– “Forget world peace; visualize using your turn signal.” I’m sure you’ve already heard this, and I think it’s great that you’re utilizing your turn signals. But, really, I can’t stop laughing at you for using the right turn signal to merge into the left lane. I’m sorry, but that’s just plain dumb.

– People who own fast cars and don’t drive them to their full potential – You constantly annoy me. Yes, I know I drive fast, but if I pass your Corvette or Ferrari on the freeway, I think there’s something wrong with this picture.

– Driving barefoot – You’re just weird, I say. Especially when you drive with your bare foot out the window. Tell me why this is necessary again?

– Stalking me on the freeway – This is not the best method for trying to hook up with me. Really. Not that I’m particularly interested in getting hooked up anyway. But whether you follow me for 15 miles or 30, you need to get a life. And stop waving your cell phone at me. Why the hell would I even seriously consider giving you my number? And even if I did (and I wouldn’t), what am I supposed to do – scribble it down on a post-it pad and throw it out the window? Oh, please.

– Turn your headlights on, you crackhead, instead of driving in the glow left by other drivers’ lights. Conserving your own headlights won’t do jack for you – if I smash into your car in the middle of the night because I didn’t see it, it’ll be your own fault. Stop crying already.

– At the other end of the spectrum – If you drive one of those huge monster pickup trucks, turn off your high-beams, you jerk. If you’re a mile behind me on the freeway and your high-beams are still shooting through my back window and killing my eyes whenever I glance in my rearview mirror, I’m not going to be amused. After all, I don’t see any reason why I should be wearing sunglasses after dark; do you?

– I don’t think you should be madly flossing away while you’re driving. If I look in my rearview mirror and see both of your hands stuck inside your mouth instead of on the steering wheel where they belong, yes, I am going to freak out.

– If you’re one of those cute little old ladies driving at about 50 mph in front of me in the fast lane on the freeway, stop wagging your finger and throwing disapproving glances at me from your rearview mirror. I am going to smile in amusement at your lack of intimidation, and at your obstinate refusal to get out of my way, but it won’t stop me from tailgating you or finding other ways to get around your car.

– For all the guys who work at the gas stations where I periodically stop to fill up my car: Stop asking me if I’m Indian or Pakistani, Italian or Palestinian. Next time, I’m just going to tell you I’m from Zanzibar, and let you stay confused. (This goes for all you bank clerks and 7-Eleven people, too. But that’s another story.)

The blue sky is blue, like blue bubblegum

(3)BeautifulThings

Someone once accused me of overusing the word “beautiful.” I didn’t ask for further clarification, so I’m not quite sure what exactly she meant by “overusing,” unless she thought that I throw around the word “beautiful” so much that some of its meaning chips off. But I don’t know how that’s possible, and so I disagree with her, and I pity those who can’t find beauty even if it’s staring them in the face.

There is no such thing as too much beautiful. The beauty is everywhere. I just acknowledge it and appreciate it. Ain’t nothing wrong with that, I say.

Maybe my friend was jaded. Or perhaps she was just being realistic. Either is valid and understandable. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t always know enough about the state of the world to have a suitably articulate and intellectual discussion about it, and I’ll also be the first to admit that that’s a sad thing indeed. I don’t know as much as I should about international policies and political economy, about foreign relations and humanitarian issues, and yet even I know enough to be quite aware that the world is a jacked-up place, that not everyone has access to beauty as I do. And I constantly wonder what I could do to fix that, I really do. It’s just that the link between thinking and acting is, for me, all too often a tenuous one.

But I don’t think there’s anything whatsoever wrong with being easily amused though, or reveling in the beautiful moments that come my way, moments that I don’t choose, but which choose me instead. I cling to the beautiful, and that’s what keeps me happy and sane. If anything about my mentality and mindset could ever be characterized as “sane,” that is.

So these are my beautiful moments:

Beautiful is the four-year-old boy with blonde hair and gray eyes, who watched me secretly for several minutes at the public library before walking up to me, aiming the full measure of his gap-toothed grin my way, and whispering loudly, “Assalaamu alaikum!”

Beautiful is the sound of silence, on the days I listen hard enough.

Beautiful is my pajama-clad father, wandering around the house with his endless cups of coffee, singing the Beatles and Pashto songs while my mother smiles indulgently.

Beautiful means miracle-bubble bottles and 94-pack of crayons as birthday presents, bead bracelets and construction-paper hats, and all the other little things that remind me of kindergarten.

Beautiful is the peace found in the University arboretum, on a bench behind the School of Law.

Beautiful means nonchalantly ordering french fries at the most expensive Italian restaurant in town, and amusedly watching the waiter widen his eyes in uncontained horror.

Beautiful means road trips with friends, empty freeways late at night, mix CDs that cradle a memory within each track.

Beautiful is my sister’s wide smile and my brother’s rib-crushing bear-hugs, and the way laughter comes so easily to all of us.

Beautiful means the stars in the sky, the deer on our street, my father’s firm belief that a walk in the gardens is a perfect cure for a horrid day.

Beautiful is my friend, Jason, overawed and visibly shaken after witnessing a shahadah, because it brought back memories of his own conversion a year ago.

Beautiful means driving over a bridge and turning my head to look down and marvel at the bay.

Beautiful means the fuzzy blue socks I wear around the house, even though my family laughs at me for always being cold.

Beautiful are the hills and mountains which serve as a personal reminder that I’m almost home.

Beautiful is my learned ability to constantly redefine the word “home,” to appreciate the merits of change, to laugh at my faults yet silently attempt to change them.

Beautiful is the expression on my tutees’ faces when they’ve grasped a difficult calculus concept.

Beautiful means stretching out on a window-seat up on the third floor of the University library, the huge branches of the courtyard tree serving as my towering neighbor on the other side of the glass, so that I feel as if I’m enclosed within my very own tree-house.

Beautiful means being conscious of God’s presence with a clarity that increases daily.

Beautiful is a rain-drenched, flower-filled wheelbarrow; a toddler’s chubby arms around my neck; the sound of leaves blowing across the road.

Beautiful means time well-spent with friends, means laughing too loud and so hard that my stomach aches and my eyes water and I almost fall out of my chair.

You still reading? I could go on ‘til my fingers fell off from all this typing, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Tell me what you find beautiful.

[+]

[Old comments on this post.]