Category Archives: Hit the Road

The sun was just yellow energy

(3)BeautifulThings, Hit the Road

Some people like taking a break and “getting away” when the stress hits and life feels like too much to handle. I, on the other hand, can’t really complain about my life, so I randomly decide to “get away” whenever I want to, without regard for whether the days are good or bad. It’s fun, spontaneous, and thoroughly enjoyable.

Yesterday, for example, I decided I needed a slight change from my regular commute. I exited the freeway soon after the Benicia Bridge, stopped at the overlook to take a photograph of the “Mothball Fleet” out in the harbor, and then continued on my favorite winding road alongside the freeway. I rolled down the windows, pushed the button to slide open the sunroof, and turned up the volume on my Switchfoot CD, easily matching the speed of the cars on the freeway to my right.

It’s a beautiful drive, that one. I stopped a couple more times to take photos. Our father taught us well, raising us to love cameras and photography. My sister and I rarely go anywhere without a camera, while our brother is a drama student/film major who knows everything there is to know about movies and art.

I had to smile involuntarily at one juxtaposition: bicyclists furiously peddling down a rise, followed rather too closely by motorcyclists hunched over their handlebars. There were mountains directly to my left, and marshland across the freeway to my right

A quick stop for gas, and I was on the road again.

Forty-five minutes later, I stopped by at the public park. Discman and Gavin DeGraw CD in hand, I walked over to the playground and clambered onto a swing. The little girl on the swing next to me looked about five years old, and smiled freely when I grinned over at her. Awesome, I thought, There’s one less person I need to teach the cheesy grin to.

I had been planning on swinging as high as I could go, and then amusing myself by kicking off my shoes and seeing how far away they would land. But I forgot that part, unfortunately. I was so busy concentrating on my CD and how much I was enjoying myself, that it took a couple of minutes for me to realize that the little girl next to me had initiated a subtle swing war. As I glanced over, she grinned mischievously and began pumping her legs to swing even higher. I couldn’t help but laugh.

I stayed at the swings for an hour, watching elementary school students playing soccer, a young mother doing yoga, scores of children running through the playground, a toddler rolling down a hill, adults rollerblading along the concrete walkways, and teenagers perfecting their moves at the skate park.

As she gathered together her children, the young mother turned back momentarily to wave at me and called out something. I didn’t hear what she said, since my headphones covered my ears, but I saw her mouth distinctly formulate the words, “Have fun!” I waved back, watching her walk away, and wondered how old she thought I was, with my headwrap and flares, dangly earrings and flip-flops, swinging away as if I were eight.

My friend, D, today referred the swing sessions as her “therapy time.” I’d like to think I’m a lot more well-adjusted than D is, but I need what I call my “quiet time,” too. So here’s to random scenic drives and swing contests with little kids. Try them sometime.

i’m waiting on the sunshine, the sunshine/i’m waiting for answers/i’m waiting to figure it out/i trip on my chances/i slip through my doubt

Hit the Road, Suckool

There is an edge of panic that one usually feels when familiar surroundings have changed, when safe boundary lines have shifted and blurred. It is akin to the feeling I used to have growing up when, waking up during the middle of the night in yet another new home, I’d attempt to blindly navigate my way around my bedroom, only to find unbroken walls where I anticipated doorways and wide windows where I expected walls.

On southbound Interstate-680, the beginning of the Benicia Bridge marks the fifteen miles remaining until I reach home. I think of it as the last leg of my 60-mile journey back to the East Bay every night from school. On rare occasions, I traverse the narrow southbound lanes during the daylight hours, but most of the time I drive at night, past the smoky glow of the oil refineries, over the sparkling lights dotting the edges of Suisan Bay and the Carquinez Strait, glancing down to the left at the famous “Mothball Fleet” just north of the bridge where the U.S. Navy stores almost a hundred various de-commissioned war ships and support craft at long-term anchor.

There is a nearly-one-mile-long stretch of freeway just before the bridge that used to curve towards the right. For over three years, day or night, I navigated it the same way: my left elbow casually propped against the bottom of the inside window frame, the fingers of my right hand loosely wrapped around the steering wheel, leaning back into my seat as I easily sped into the curve with my cruise control set at 80 mph.

For the past several months, the I-680 areas just preceding and following the bridge have become construction zones. Driving home one night, I found everything had changed. That mile-long portion of the freeway that once curved gently to the right now instead curves sharply to the left before veering into a right-hand curve, and these days I need both hands to navigate it. I am no longer secure in the knowledge that I know this freeway like the back of my hand.

Every night, approaching the curve, I automatically prop my left elbow against the window frame, loosely loop my right fingers around the top of the steering wheel, and prepare to gently turn the steering wheel to the right. And every night, just as unfailingly, I belatedly shift my right hand down and slap my left hand against the steering wheel as well, slamming on the brakes as I enter the sharp left curve, sometimes gripping the wheel so tightly my knuckles hurt.

It’s almost like a sense of betrayal, this faltering of my once-unwavering confidence in speeding through that particular curve, in knowing exactly where I was going without second-guessing myself.

Somewhere in here, in words I don’t know how to put together as well as I would like, is a perfect analogy for my indecisiveness and lack of direction, and the constantly, swiftly shifted plans that epitomize my life at the moment.

When I was eight, my goal in life was to become a professional frisbee player and marry MacGuyver when I grew up. At ten, I wanted to be a poet. When I was twelve, I wanted to write an autobiography and become an illustrator of children’s books. [I had such artistic talent. I still do, I think. I haven’t drawn or painted for years, and some days I regret having let those talents go to waste.] At sixteen, I had an epiphany: pediatric audiology! When I was nineteen, I was a pre-med university student studying neurobiology and dreaming of life as a pediatrician. I’ve spent the last four years mentally switching my major a dozen times, though only once on paper. My academic vacillations have been well-documented on this weblog, I think.

I’m just going with the flow these days, and the flow isn’t taking me anywhere, as far as I can tell. “Life’s damn complicated,” I said to Yas last week. He responded with what has to be the perfect summation of my dilemma at the moment:

“True, but what’s more complicated is having a million choices, each open for you to follow, some seem easier than the others, some ways more inviting, others seem difficult but so rewarding, some seem like the easy way out. Then you can make whatever choice you want. What do you do? If you do one thing, you might miss another opportunity.”

The biggest topic of conversation amongst my friends, classmates, and acquaintances these days has to do with who is graduating in June, who is staying on for another year, who has applied to graduate school, who is moving back to his/her hometown this summer, who already has a job lined up after graduation, who has taken the GREs and MCATs, who is going to medical school or law school or business school. Basically, all conversations center around people who seem to have at least a vague idea of what they’re doing, which is more than I can say for myself.

It’s not that I don’t even know what I want to study. More like, it’s just that I want to study too many things, which is why decision-making is so problematic.

A friend asked me recently, “So where are you going for grad school once you’re done here?”

“I have no idea,” I said shortly.

He rephrased the question: “So where do you want to go?”

I rolled my eyes, having heard the same question far too many times already.

“It’s not about where I want to go,” I snapped, “it’s about what I want to study. That’s what I need to figure out first.”

He held up his hands in apology. “Okay, okay. So what do you want to study?”

I let out an impatient, long-suffering sigh, then relented. “Fine. I want to study a lot of things. Like child development and sociology and pediatric audiology and social and ethnic relations and comparative literature and cultural anthropology and identity formation and…”

I ran out of breath, stumbled to a halt, and raised an eyebrow in challenge, as if to say, “Whaddaya make of that, huh? You see my problems? Leave me alone already.”

He just stared. “Wow, masha’Allah,” he marveled. “You’re so ambitious.”

That, of all things, is not what I had expected to hear.

I’m not ambitious, really. I used to be, and I seem to have lost it somewhere along the way. If I were ambitious, I would have specific goals, wouldn’t I?

Me, I’m just b.s.’ing my way through life, one day at a time.

some conversation/no contemplation/hit the road …

Glorious mundanity, Hit the Road, Suckool

some conversation/no contemplation/hit the road

“My poor baby,” laughed Somayya last night, “you need sleep.”

This was after we had walked halfway across campus from the library at almost midnight and climbed four flights of stairs at the parking garage only to find the entire level empty, with nary a car in sight. I stared in alarm. “Oh shit shit shit,” said the voice in my head. Or maybe I did say it out loud, I don’t remember. Don’t be surprised if I did.

“Umm, Yazzo…?” said Somayya quizzically.

“I could swear I parked my car here,” I said, struggling not to panic.

She was on her cell phone with D at the time. “Hold on, I’ll call you back,” she said abruptly. “We gotta find Yazzo’s car.” I was tempted to laugh at that, regardless of my increasing alarm. She hung up and turned to me. “You sure it’s not over at the Life Sciences Addition?”

“No! I parked it right here this morning, dammit. I could swear…” I trailed off, looked around the empty level once more, and said sheepishly, “Uhh, you know what, maybe that was yesterday morning…”

So then we had to walk, no, trek, all the way over to the parking lot at the other end of campus. That was such fun. All bitterness and sarcasm aside, though, the stars were absolutely gorgeous. And I think I’ve finally figured out how to find the Big Dipper.

The days are all trickling together into one never-ending blur. Now that I’ve gotten two midterms out of the way this week, I have a paper due today, and another midterm exam; tomorrow I have a presentation to make, and another paper due. I need to renew next year’s application for one of my internships, and at least do something to contribute towards my second internship, and revise my cover letter and resume and send them out for this job I’ve found that seems absolutely perfect for me, if only I can overcome my laziness. It’s the week from hell, can you tell? Actually, scratch that—I cannot even begin to contemplate what hell on earth must be like, much less imagine the sheer horror of hell in the Afterlife. I’m blessed far more than I deserve. It’s just that I’m currently so overwhelmed and exhausted that I found myself telling numerous people to “have a beautiful weekend!” yesterday, which was only Wednesday, for goodness sake.

I think I keep doing this simply because so far my focus all week has been on driving out to Berkeley on Friday to spend some quality time with the birthday girl. Two days back at school, and I already need to get away. This past weekend’s three days of the MSA-West Conference at Cal spoiled me—I’m tired, as usual, of my college town and the bland flatness of the general Sacramento area; I need the hills, curves, and diversity of Berkeley the town. It’s my birthplace, though I’ve never lived there. That should explain it all.

I also need some crazy stories. The funniest thing to happen this week was when an acquaintance asked my friend F, “Is Yasmine half-Black?” I suppose her negative response wasn’t enough for him, which is why he asked Somayya last night, “You sure Yasmine isn’t 1/8th or 1/16th Black?” I find that highly amusing. I don’t even look Black—skin tone, features, or otherwise. My skin tone is lightish like my father’s—not pale but slightly tanned, several shades lighter than my mother’s—but I would think I appear quite obviously Pakistani. Yet I find myself consistently mistaken for Italian, Palestinian, or Kashmiri. I’m not quite sure where Black fits in though. Still, going along with Phathima‘s advice, I’ve decided to view this as versatility rather than symptoms of an identity crisis on my part.

Random: Favorite new album these days is Maroon 5‘s Songs About Jane. Great road trip music. I’m speaking from personal experience, of course, and I’m not even talking about my commute to/from school.

In other news, I’m suffering from lack of free time these days yet still seem to have the past three weeks worth of weblog entries floating around in my head—disjointed thoughts, half-formulated sentences, scrupulously-recalled snippets from conversations in passing, strings of words carefully placed next to one another and readjusted daily as I’m walking, driving, lying in bed half-asleep. Whether it is a blessing or a curse, I don’t know, that once I deliberately fashion such phrases and sentences I consider it wasteful to not use them, and so they remain, stubbornly refusing to leave, taking up valuable and much-needed space in my brain, until I write or type them out, constantly rearranging them into a precise order.

This is why, starting next week, you may find weblog updates with startling regularity. Until then, be patient, bear with me, have beautiful days, be at peace.

Stay tuned.

i heart traffic school – day two Patsy: So tell…

Conversations and Encounters, Hit the Road

i heart traffic school – day two

Patsy: So tell us, Damon, how many tickets have you received?

Damon: Total?

Patsy: Yes.

Damon: Oh, I’d say about…25 to 30. *shrugs nonchalantly*

Everyone: *collective gasp* OHHHHHH…!

Patsy: *shrieks* 25 to 30??!!

Damon: *defensively* Whaaat? In all my years of driving? That’s not bad at all.

Everyone: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Patsy: *pained expression*

Damon was sitting next to me, and kept his sketchbook close at hand during the entire three hours, taking periodic breaks from participating to instead draw remarkably well-executed portraits of the people in the class. I wondered why he kept turning his head to look at me, until I surreptitiously glanced over to find that he was drawing my face, too.

Everyone kept asking, “Aren’t your feet cold?” I like wearing flip-flops in January, okay. I’m weird like that. Leave me alone.

Yesterday, we all received huge chunks of points for answering various questions correctly. Today, Patsy brought in gifts for those with the highest number of points. First place got an Uno candy bar. Second place got M&Ms. Third place got Three Musketeers.

Patsy: And, guess what, as an apology, you get a candy bar, too!

Me: *surprised* Wow, good stuff.

Patsy: Do you know why I’d be apologizing to you?

Me: For not giving me enough points?

Patsy: Yeah, yeah, nice try.

Me: I have no idea then.

Patsy: Well, it’s because I still can’t say your name right.

Me: *laughing* Come on, Patsy, it’s not that hard!

My candy bar is the Hershey’s Whatchamacallit.

(And all together now: yaasmeen. Got it? Thank you.)

The unexpected part came at the end, when we all walked out of the building, parting ways at our respective cars.

“So you live right here in _____, huh?” asked Damon (a.k.a. the guy with the sketchbook) conversationally.

“Yeah,” I said.

“How ’bout you let me give you a call sometime?”

Whaaat the hell? I did not go to traffic school for this.

And even though I turned him down (quite nicely and politely, I might add), it doesn’t make me feel better to have only just remembered that he’s walking around with my face drawn in his sketchbook.

Grand, just grand.

i heart traffic school – day one Patsy: What’s yo…

Conversations and Encounters, Hit the Road

i heart traffic school – day one

Patsy: What’s your name, hon?
Me: Yasmine.
Patsy: *winces at pronunciation* So what can I call you?
Me: *suppressing laughter* Yasmine.
Patsy: You really are mean, aren’t you?

Patsy: Alright, someone give me the two-letter abbreviation for “senior.”
Jason B.: Old.

Patsy: So, tell us, why are you here in traffic school tonight?
Me: For speeding on the freeway and tailgating a Hummer.
Everyone: OH MY GOD. A Hummer?? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Patsy: How close?
Me: Uhh, very close. He got out of my way.
Patsy: Mean one, aren’t you?

Question #27: If you are driving in the far left lane on the freeway and other drivers want to pass you, you should:
a. Pay no attention if you are going 55 mph.
b. Flash your brake lights to make them slow down.
c. Move to the right when safe.

Everyone: Make Yasmine answer this question!

The correct answer is, of course, “c.” No kidding, I already knew that. After all, that’s what the stupid Hummer guy finally did. Too bad I still got a speeding ticket.

Patsy: So what do you do?
Me: I’m a fourth-year college student.
Patsy: Studying?
Me: Human Development.
Patsy: And what part of humans are you trying to develop?
Me: Umm, I’m still working on figuring that one out.

Did I mention she made us popcorn? And tomorrow we have a pizza party!

[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.)

680 to the 80 to the 113

Hit the Road

February 2001: During my freshman year of college, driving home late one night, I got pulled over on a dark, empty stretch of freeway for going 85 miles per hour. “In a rush to get somewhere?” asked the highway patrolman, face set in implacable lines. I was so rattled and nervous that I blurted out, “I was just in a hurry to get home.” He raised his eyebrows skeptically, and I was moved to clarify, defensively, “It’s been a long day, and I’m just looking forward to getting home as soon as possible.”

He asked me where I was coming from. I gave him the name of my university, and watched his face light up. “They have one of the top medical schools in the country!” he exclaimed. I cautiously nodded in agreement. That was back when the thought of attending medical school still held magical appeal for me, and I wondered whether the influential name of my university could get me out of a speeding ticket, too. But, much too soon, his face closed up, reverted to its uncompromising highway patrolman look, and he gruffly ordered me to sign my name on the dotted line. “Try to slow down,” he warned. “You were going 85 mph in a 65 mph zone.”

September 2001: I was driving through the college town where I go to school when a police car turned onto the street right behind me. I was traveling at 35 mph, the posted speed limit, so I had nothing to worry about. Then the freak of nature started tailgating me, so I nervously sped up, and the tailgating continued. By the time he switched on his flashing lights, I wasn’t nervous anymore; I was just pissed off. I glared as we both pulled over and he sauntered over to my car. “Do you make a habit of tailgating people for eight blocks before you decide to pull them over for speeding?” I snapped. He smirked through my open window and replied innocently, “I wasn’t tailgating you.” He ticketed me for going 45 mph in a 35 mph zone. As we drove away, I remember my friend, D, objecting from the backseat, “It’s because of the way you were dressed, I know it! It was because of your hijab!” “Shut up, D,” I said irritably. But, really, I should have contested that one; I just couldn’t be bothered to do so at the time.

This morning: Forty miles from home, I raced through a curve and sufficiently intimidated the Hummer in front of me into switching lanes. That’s right, sucka! I gloated silently. If you can’t handle the fast lane, get outta my way! I thought that was pretty slick: I made a Hummer move out of my lane! Therefore, I’m so cool. My arrogance was extremely short-lived, however, because five seconds later a highway patrol car came out of nowhere, red and blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. Damn, here we go again, I thought.

This guy turned out to be the nicest, most sympathetic highway patrolman yet. Not that that really helped me, though. “Can’t you just let me off with a warning?” I pleaded. He smiled benignly, but shook his head quite firmly. “You were following that Hummer pretty aggressively,” he said. “I’m really giving you a break here, by not issuing you a separate citation for that, too.” I decided to just give up at that point. So now I have a yellow citation marking me for going “75+ mph” in a 65 mph zone. Actually, I’d had my cruise control set at 80 mph ever since I hit the freeway, but, really, who’s counting? And, you know, I’m starting to think my debate skills are worthless. Sure, they help me excel academically, but what good are they if I can’t even effectively argue my way out of a speeding ticket? That’s just plain messed up.

So, yeah, I guess I spoke much too soon the other day.

“Yasminay!” cried my father with delight as I walked in through the door tonight. “How was your day?”

“Oh, it was wonderful,” I replied breezily, “except for the part where I got a speeding ticket.”

He took the news so much better than I had expected. He didn’t so much as bat an eyelash, and I didn’t receive the frosty lecture I had been anticipating. Praise the Lord. Two years ago, I got stern warnings and unsympathetic ultimatums about what would happen if I ever got another speeding ticket during my college career. Either my dad has mellowed out since then, or all those du’as I tensely recited on the way home tonight did the trick. I like to think it’s the latter. Then again, I didn’t mention the Hummer. But I love my daddy-o, I really do. I’m still constantly surprised the parents haven’t decided to give me away to the Salvation Army. Really, I would have, long ago.

I find it interesting that I have yet to receive a speeding ticket in the Bay Area. Perhaps it’s because we’re all aggressive drivers here, relentlessly in a hurry and on the go. And I can’t help it if I’m a speeeed freeeeak – I’ve got places to go, things to do, people to see, too. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Traffic school coming up, I guess. I’m semi-excited about that, actually. My last traffic school instructor was so hilarious, my stomach ached from laughing. And that’s really the best kind of laughter in the world, you know. I gotta hunt up her number again, even though I remember her last words to me, two years ago, were, “I better not have to see you in here again!”

Anyway, moral of today’s story: Hummers are evil, evil machines. Yes, they are, and you know it.

The road goes ever on and on/down from the door where it began

Hit the Road

Once in a while, I feel like doing something random. As the family’s resident Rebel Child Extraordinaire, I do have an image to uphold, ya know. So today, because I had somehow managed to leave home earlier than usual, I decided to kill time by exiting the freeway about fifteen miles into my drive. I stopped at a drive-thru and ordered french fries and a drink (it was only 8 a.m., and I doubt fries constitute regular breakfast fare for many people—including myself—yet the girl at the drive-thru didn’t so much as blink when she passed me my order), then impulsively turned onto the road running parallel to the freeway, instead of hitting the freeway itself.

One of the things I love most about the Bay Area is our hills and mountains. And although most peoples’ jaws literally drop in shock when they learn that I commute 120 miles a day, I love the drive simply because of the scenery. Three years worth of commuting to and from college haven’t even come close to killing my appreciation for the Bay Area’s winding roads and rolling hills, and there have been many days when I’ve wished I could just get off the freeway and drive along the roads parallel to the freeway instead.

So I did that today. The two lanes that comprise what is known as Lopes Road are narrow, and although they flow in the general direction of north and south, just as Interstate-680 does, they are situated in the hills themselves, high above the freeway, twisting and turning far more than the freeway does. I steered my car along the meandering road, one hand on the steering wheel, the other anchoring my drink (I had ordered a medium, and was surprised to get one that looked like a large; it refused to fit in my cup-holder. At this rate, I’m scared to envision what an extra-large must look like). After a few minutes, I removed my sunglasses and tossed them onto the passenger seat, because, as Waleed once wisely commented, “the world is dazzling enough.” And indeed it is. The skies were clear blue, and sunshine danced across the hills and spilled in through my car’s open moonroof. A couple times, I turned off the main road to check out the lanes curving further into the hills, laughing inwardly at my deliberate refusal to acknowledge the “Private Property; No Trespassing” and “Beware of Dog” signs.

I didn’t see more than three cars on the road the entire time, two whizzing by in the opposite direction and one speeding down the road far ahead of me. I stopped the car once to take a photograph of my favorite curve of hillside (yes, I have a favorite. shut up), leaving the car door open and the car idling as I got out and aimed my camera. I stood ankle-deep amongst the golden California poppies at the side of the road, squinting, turning the camera this way and that, zooming in and out, while an apt Switchfoot song blasted from my speakers (It’s a long way from the moon up to the sun/It’s a longer ahead of me, the road that I’ve begun/Stop to think of all the time I’ve lost/Start to think of all the bridges that I’ve burned, that must be crossed…). I paused once more at the top of a rise to take a photo of the marshland, dotted with red and yellow and green, at the other side of the freeway. Lord knows how they turned out. I should probably invest in a digital camera.

Although I amusedly, self-deprecatingly, refer to my commute as my “thinking time,” it is just that. It’s my chance to get away from the world for a bit, to daily analyze my goals and priorities. When it comes to life, I have tendencies to just “go with the flow,” and that’s not necessarily a good thing, simply because going with the flow sometimes results in merely standing still. Lately, I feel as if I’ve been stuck in what I call a “limbo stage,” those intermediate states of uncertainty that everyone finds exasperating, frustrating. But it’s all good, because all my limbo stages in the past have always resulted in some form of personal growth. And that’s all I ultimately need.

I have 200 pages of reading to finish by tonight, a paper due Wednesday, final exams on Thursday. I should be researching grad schools, filling out applications, preparing for the GRE…and fiddling around with my fall quarter schedule, because I’m a genius and I’ve somehow managed to register for classes conducted at the same time as both my internships.

But it’s good to get away once in a while. So here’s to limbo stages and random drives, California poppies and Bay Area mountains, sunshine and french fries.

[Yes, I’m in love with mountains. Here’s some photographs from the East Bay, where I live—no, I didn’t take them, though. Beautiful, see? Alhamdulillah.]

Another ditch in the road, you keep moving /Another stop sign, you keep moving on…

Casa420 and Familia, Hit the Road, Loss and laments and letting go

I lean back into my seat in the university library’s 24-hour room, wince at the unrelenting hardness of my wooden chair, and ruefully wonder what possessed me to study here. I think longingly of the small, private, third-floor room where I usually study: broad tables with polished black surfaces, muted voices, chairs with cushioned seats. But the main library itself is closed for the night, and this is my last resort in studying for midterms I’ve given no thought to ’til now. The 24-hour room is long and narrow, harshly lit and crowded, filled with a cacophony of voices. Seats are scarce, stress levels are at their peak, and my innate need for personal space is regarded as inconsequential.

The lovey-dovey couple across from me can’t keep their damn hands off each other. I raise an eyebrow. They glance over, then look away, momentarily abashed. Less than two minutes later, they’re at it again. The girl next to me shifts in her seat, stretches, and tries to surreptitiously move my pile of books over with her elbow. I raise an eyebrow and shove them back into place as obviously as I can. She shrugs without looking at me. I sneer at her turned back and try to concentrate on the notes in front of me, but all the people at the next table reek of cigarette smoke, and this, now, I just can’t handle. I stand up, gather my stuff together, throw one last, collective glare at all offending parties, and wander out to my car.

Nothing beats driving home at nearly one a.m. on dark, empty freeways. Setting my cruise control, gulping down copious amounts of strawberry-raspberry juice, pressing the button to slide open the moon roof. Listening to the wind whistle through the inside of my car, marveling at the stars visible through my windshield. Comforted by Arabic nasheeds, words I don’t understand but which I’ve been playing over and over for the last week — because.

Because, these days, I feel guilty for switching on the radio. Because there are just some things that Matchbox Twenty and Third Eye Blind can’t help with, and my mother’s pain is one of those. Because I can speak of silly things and laugh at the mundane, yet tears have never come easily to me and neither has the ability to comfort those who cry, and so there eventually come moments when I find myself at a loss for words. Because just yesterday morning, rushing out the front door, not knowing where she was within the house, I called back easily, “Fi aman’Allah, Ummy; I love you!” but something made me turn back, and there she was, sitting there all along, weeping silently. “Oh, no,” I said, very quietly, in that initial moment of shock, then put down my books and bag and sank down beside her, holding her tightly, awkwardly smoothing back her hair, trying to murmur soothing things that probably made no sense, but what the hell anyway. And these days, when I come home and ask, “So how did your day go, Ummy?” she doesn’t smile and relate for me all the routine household news, but instead answers softly, resignedly, “It went.” And I lack the words to ease her pain and bewilderment, because I can’t even come close to understanding the magnitude of what she must feel.

And so, because of all these things, I drive home on dark roads, late at night, listening to Arabic nasheeds to calm my own heart instead. There’s just the star-studded sky, the hills I love — and me, contemplating the people I take for granted and the things I never expect.