Because the world doesn’t know that spirit anymore

Casa420 and Familia, Loss and laments and letting go

Less than two weeks ago, we drove up to Sacramento to visit our relatives when we heard the news of our bhabi‘s sister’s death.

Towards the afternoon, I took the opportunity to escape the endless crying and sad, drawn faces by ushering my niece, three-year-old Zaynam, and her one-year-old sister – my cousin and bhabi‘s daughters – out the back door. We sat cross-legged on the lawn as Zaynam drew small gifts out of the goody bag we had brought her, while her sister sat silently in her usual huge-eyed, doll-like stillness. The common consensus in our family regarding Zaynam is that “she’s cute and she knows it,” but we can’t seem to resist granting her endless attention regardless. So I spent a lot of time exclaiming over the contents of the goody bag: a dinosaur, matchbox car, plastic palm tree, sparkly noisemaker, a bubble bottle, and various other odd and ends. I’m a big kid, too, you know.

Zaynam must have noticed my special affinity for the bubble bottle, because she thrust it at me with an order to twist the cap off for her. While I removed the cap and then fumbled with the aluminum covering, she cocked her head to the side and exclaimed, “Oh!”

I looked over questioningly. “Someone must have gotten hurt,” she explained. I squinted and turned my head, thinking she had perhaps heard a police car or ambulance siren nearby. It took me an extra second to realize that she was actually commenting on the loud weeping that had resumed from inside the house as soon as new guests walked in to pay their condolences to the family.

“My ummy cries a lot. Someone must have died,” she continued matter-of-factly, her eyes on the bubble bottle in my hands, and while I sat there in shock at the casual ease at which she made her comments, she added, “Give it to me!” and snatched the bottle out of my hands. We spent the rest of the afternoon blowing bubbles at each other, pushing the matchbox car along the concrete patio, and trying to learn how to play croquet. I stayed outdoors as much as I could that day.

But then just when we thought we could breathe freely, wipe the tears, remove the sadness from the back of our minds and guiltily try to move on with our lives, it hit again. Death is sly like that, you know. Only a week later, we were back in Sacramento, shocked beyond words, descending on the same household of relatives. It took massive effort for me to look my bhabi – Zaynam’s mother – in the face, to see the blank despair in her eyes. What could I say – “I’m sorry…again”? Instead, we asked each other helplessly, “How does she handle it?”

“Dado!” Zaynam shouted to my mother. My mother turned her head with a small smile, and Zaynam, clever child that she is, waited until everyone was silent and she had gotten the attention of the entire room to announce: “My nano died.”

Sometimes one can’t help but be amazed at the extent of childish innocence and understanding. And sometimes the human spirit is so resilient and able to withstand any number of blows, that one can’t but help being awed beyond words.

[I’ve had the pieces of this post composed in my head for days. It took my breath away then, last night, to come across a short story passage that epitomized something of what I was trying to say:

Her skeletal body was exhausted by its slow descent through limitless suffering, and her eyes stared up from the pit. But her spirit came up through her eyes in full force. Her spirit was soft and it was powerful, and it could hold her suffering, and it would stay with her until she fell into darkness.

– A Bestial Noise, Mary Gaitskill]

May we be blessed with all the strength, courage, and patience we could ever need, insha’Allah. Ameen.

good things – L buying me a Carribean Passion f…

(3)BeautifulThings, All-Star Crackstar Squad

good things

– L buying me a Carribean Passion fruit smoothie from Jamba Juice

– Sarah McLachlan’s Afterglow album

– The expression on Seher’s face when she walked into her “surprise birthday party,” held about a month-and-a-half before her real birthday

– Wandering down Telegraph Avenue in Berkeley, watching Seher pick out her bajillionth pair of dangly earrings. “Stop being a hater!” she kept snapping at her brother’s disparaging comments.

– The sidewalk vendor who told us, “Keep laughing!” Shivering in the Berkeley cold, I responded, “Seriously, it keeps you warm, you know.”

– Another sidewalk vendor who unexpectedly greeted us with “Assalamu alaikum.”

– Gifts from Somayya: (red!) pants, multi-colored knitted scarf, (red!) bag, dangly earrings

– Somayya’s huge, unselfish heart, and her untiring capacity for giving

– Celebratory dinner in honor of N’s new job, and my “greedy bastard” frozen mocha photograph

– Halaqa and cupcakes at the Border’s café

– L’s sexay new shoes

– Shopping with selective people (you know who you are)

– Discovering the StoryPeople. Brian Andreas is a rockstar and a beautiful genius, and if I could afford to buy a print for each and every single one of you, I most definitely would

– Discovering that shopping is a lot more fun when I don’t have any money, because I can then wander around downtown unencumbered by shopping bags and without giving in to my impetuous decisions to invest in yet more pants and flip-flops, my two weaknesses.

– Spending an hour at the public library for the first time in months; being wide-eyed over the fact that I have access to all these books, like, oh my God

– L playing Irfan Makki’s When the Leaves Begin to Fall on repeat while we were stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the way up to Sacramento

– Wearing my red shoes today

Time here all but means nothing/just shadows that move across the wall

Hit the Road, Loss and laments and letting go

I knew it was a red car.

Three boys and a girl were killed, and another girl critically injured, in that freeway accident last Monday. Local articles have referred to it as “grisly,” “high-impact,” “ugly,” and “tragic.”

It has been difficult to escape the aftermath of the accident over the course of the past week. You can see the red smudges and black skid marks all along the freeway wall, if you know where to look and what to look for. They’re difficult to miss, especially for me, since I drove by just a couple hours after the accident, when the cars were still there, during the beginning of a week that turned out to be overwhelmingly stressful and disheartening anyway. Not to mention the fact that I now can’t sleep at night without my overactive imagination conjuring up visions of me being involved in car accidents galore.

It has now become a habit for me to turn my head to look every time I drive by on my way home. The day after the crash, bouquets of flowers began appearing all along the chain-link fence and retaining wall that separate the city street from the freeway. Over the past several days, I’ve noticed dozens of people stopping by, huddling in groups, standing silently before the makeshift memorial. One evening there was a group of adults and small children. The next day, a crowd of teenagers. The day after, a blonde woman holding a toddler at her hip.

It wasn’t until Friday morning that I checked online editions of local newspapers and read about the details of the crash. On an impulse, I grabbed a pair of scissors I found while rummaging through my backpack on my way out the door and quickly gathered together a rough bouquet of roses from the garden.

I called my brother while driving through town.
“Guess what, my hair’s red now!” he crowed.
“Slick!” I answered absently. “Hey, is Main Street the one that turns into Contra Costa Boulevard?”

A minivan was pulling away from the sidewalk just as I parked my car right under the “No Parking At Any Time” sign, along the street running parallel to southbound Interstate-680, just on the other side of the retaining wall. (There was no other place to park.) I felt relieved to not have to deal with groups of people who had known the victims, to have to offer condolences to strangers when I couldn’t even begin to fathom their grief. Freeway traffic whizzed by in front of me, on the other side of the fence, while four lanes of city traffic slowed down behind my back to catch a glimpse of the memorial. Standing on the sidewalk, I carefully threaded my roses into the chain-link fence, then stepped back to view the entire memorial. Amid all the posters, candles, balloons, endless flowers, signs, and photographs, two scrawled statements stood out to me:

Remember when we were little, you taught me how to throw a football.

and

I know you’re break-dancing up there in the sky.

The four people who died last week ranged in age from 15 to 20. I thought of their short lives, and of my three speeding tickets and the over one-hundred-thousand miles I’ve put on two cars.

Sometime life is so ironic, you don’t even know whether to laugh or cry.

Still the cold is closing in on us

Glorious mundanity, Hit the Road, Loss and laments and letting go, Suckool

After four years, the sixty-mile drive to school has become second-nature. I scoff at people who complain about supposedly long drives, dismissively citing my own daily commute to school as “nothing.” It has come to the point where I don’t even have to concentrate on driving; I get from Point A to Point B – and back again – in a perfectly safe fashion, but without having to actively think about it.

Lately, though, the drive, along with everything else school-related, has been getting to me. Much of it has to do with the fact that the first summer session is coming to an end soon, finals are any day now, and second session starts next week. I admit there have been many good things about this session: sleeping in, eating real meals, hanging out with beautiful friends (and family) who inspire me. But, ultimately, it comes back to academics: I’m tired of not pushing myself as hard as I should have, of trying to prove myself – to myself – and not meeting the goals and standards I set for myself, of being at that academic “eff it all” stage that Somayya and I have joked about since freshman year, but which isn’t really funny if you think about it. My GPA, for example, doesn’t find it amusing at all. I feel like I’m wasting my time and my parents’ money, and if there were ever a good enough reason for me to take a break, that’s it right there.

I’m registered for second summer session classes, but just thinking of that makes me feel suffocated, as if it’s difficult to breathe. I don’t want to have to deal with another six weeks of feeling overwhelmed and burdened. Even with four years of year-round school, I’ve never before had such an adverse reaction to taking a class. I’m too young to be feeling burned-out, dammit.

Driving home tonight, lost in my own thoughts, I decided to join the real world long enough to realize that I wasn’t even as close to home as I thought I was. You’ve still got forty miles to go, buddy boy! jeered the little voice in my head.

And I thought: Dammit, I don’t want to do this anymore. Not for a while, at least. God, get me home already. Ten miles later, my exit at the interchange was closed due to construction, and I had to go through the drama of taking detours. I don’t like drama, in case you didn’t know. Finally, just a few miles from home, slowing down due to flashing signs and lights that warned of an accident, I glanced to my right and gasped in horror. In the far right lane, right up against the freeway divider wall, were the remnants of two cars that had collided. And I mean remnants in the most devastating way possible. All I could make out were crumpled bits of red metal, chunks of steel that I could have picked up with my hands and dropped in a trashcan. I have never before seen cars reduced to such minute rubble. If anyone in those cars survived that crash, it’s a miracle of God. I drove the rest of the way home in tears, muttering incoherent prayers under my breath.

It was not a good drive.

I’m getting tired of driving, and I never thought I’d say that.

I want a full tank of gas to last longer than two-and-a-half days. I want to go running early in the mornings and take naps on the sofa during the day and perform my prayers punctually and spend quality time with my mother. I want to remember why I used to consider myself just as much an artist as I do a writer. I want to browse through Main Street and reply to people’s emails and learn slick tricks in Photoshop and feel cool Bay Area breezes instead of waves of blazing Sacramento Valley heat. I want to do all the things I mentioned in that one list, without remembering that there actually is a list.

When my friends come to me with their problems (which seems to happen often, Lord only knows why), I generally listen patiently and give careful advice. But sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly intolerant, I snap, “If you refuse to do anything about it, you have no right to whine about it.”

Looks like it’s about time I took my own advice.

Too cool for school

Casa420 and Familia, Conversations and Encounters, Suckool

So I’m sitting at my dad’s computer, plugging entries into Quickbook in an effort to reconcile my checkbook. Bored out of my mind, I decide that downloading sample biology midterms must be far more thrilling. Along comes my cousin, Ahbid, equally bored out of his mind after having spent the entire evening helping out with the yardwork, at my dad’s command, of course.

“Whatchu doin’?” he asks, flopping onto the daddy-o’s bed.

“Downloading biology exams. Exciting, ain’t it?”

He groans. “Why are you taking a biology class? What’s wrong with you? I took one of those in high school. We had to dissect a frog, so I picked the nerdiest kid in the class. I pointed at him, and was like, ‘Hey, you, you’re my partner.’ So he did all the work, and every time the teacher came around to our table, I just kinda poked at the frog, to look like I was busy. She was like, ‘Wow, Ahbid, good job, you’re showing wonderful improvement!'”

Ahbid just graduated from high school in June. At his graduation ceremony, it took us seemingly forever to find him amongst the sea of graduating faces in the stands. After all, his graduation was held at the freakin’ baseball stadium. Imagine that. But his cocky walk down to receive his diploma was distinctively him, as were the smug grins he flashed at all our cameras afterwards. After his two-hour session of endless, although stomach-crampingly hilarious, stories the other night, I’m starting to wonder how this boy even managed to graduate in the first place. I wish I had tape-recorded the entire conversation, because he’s a damn funny storyteller and this post isn’t going to do him justice.

A few of the highlights:

– On biology:
“So we had this student teacher for biology. This was sophomore year. He was a college student. His last name was Stauffer, so we were supposed to call him Mr. Stauffer, but someone decided to call him ‘Stopper,’ and it stuck. [I raise an eyebrow.] Uh uh, not me. I didn’t come up with the ‘Stopper’ thing. I just harassed him about the whole backpack issue.

“I used to get kicked out of classes all the time, so one day I came in and it was his first day. I figured I was ’bout to get kicked out soon anyway, so why even bother taking off my backpack. So I sat at my desk with my backpack on, and he goes, ‘Take off your backpack.’ I was like, ‘No.’ He was like, ‘Take off your backpack. I was like, ‘Why does it bother you so much, huh?’ He was like, ‘Take it OFF. NOW.’ ‘No.’ ‘Get out. GO.’ He had this one vein from the top of his forehead to his eyebrow, and whenever I pissed him off, his face would get all red and the vein would start pounding. It looked like a worm.

“He used to come in right from class, so he’d always have his own backpack on, too. So I was like, ‘You take off your backpack, Stopper.’ He be like, ‘No. I don’t want to.’ Sometimes, when I really wanted to piss him off, I’d be like, ‘Okay, Stopper, I’m putting my backpack back on now!’ The other kids in the class started doing it, too, leaving their backpacks on.

“Oh, and the shoes. My shoelaces would get untied, so I’d sit there moving my feet around, banging my shoes against the floor, making all this noise, and it’d drive Stopper crazy. He’d be like, ‘Mr. Khan, tie your shoelaces.’ I’d be like, ‘No.’ ‘GET OUT!'” He started watching me all the damn time. It got to the point where if I so much as sneezed, he thought I was ’bout to make a smartass comment, so he’d be like, ‘GET OUT!’ and kick me out of class.

“I was doing hella bad in that class. I failed all the tests, cuz I never knew the answers, so I’d sit there and color in the bubbles to form diamond patterns. Or I’d make a cartoon out of the bubbles. Stopper hated it. When I walked in to take the final exam, he was like, ‘Why don’t you just turn around and go back home, Mister.’ I was like, ‘No, I’m here to take the final, man.’ He was all pissed: ‘This is a waste of a perfectly good scantron! I catch you making any diamonds, and you’re out of here!’ I aced the final and got a C in the class.”

– On French:
“The student teacher for my French class, she was really young, like 26 or something, but from her face she looked like the mom from the Brady Bunch. The first day, she sat down and was like, ‘Hi, so I’m from New Jersey, and…’ I was like, ‘Get on with it. We don’t need to hear your whole life story. Aren’t you supposed to be teaching us, or something?’ She gave me a big ol’ dirty look.

“Okay, so we had this thing called ‘pay moi,’ which means, ‘pay me.’ Basically, the teacher would take away five points from a student if we were misbehaving or something. So, on the second day, the student teacher went around to check off the homework. I mean, who the hell assigns homework on the first day of school?! So I didn’t do it. And she was like, ‘One pay moi.’ I was like, ‘WHAT? You don’t get a pay moi for homework!’ She goes, ‘There’s a second pay moi.’ I was like, ‘What the HELL?’ She goes, ‘Third pay moi.’ ‘Sh*t.‘ ‘Fourth pay moi.’ ‘Oh my God….’ ‘Fifth pay moi.’ ‘Argggghhhhhhh….’ ‘Sixth…’ It just went on like that. The next day, she called me in at lunchtime and started crying about it, cuz she felt bad or something, I guess. I was like, ‘First of all, I’m at like negative forty points in this class, for no reason, and it’s only the third day. Second, you make me come in on my lunch break. And now, you’re crying. What’s wrong with you? I’m leaving.”

– On English:
“My English teacher was short and round. I used to call her ‘Oompa Loompa.’ Once, I kept asking her how long she was gonna keep teaching at the school for. She wouldn’t answer the question. She was just like, ‘Oh, I don’t know…’ Finally, she got all nervous and goes, ‘Wait, you’re not planning on having children, are you, Ahbid?'”

– On his infamous reputation, part I:
“We weren’t allowed to wear hats and hoods at school. It was a security measure, cuz they wanted to make sure no strangers were wandering around campus. Even if they didn’t know all our names, they knew us all by face, so as long as they could see our faces, it was cool. One day, I was walking around with my jacket hood on, and this guy came up to me and was like, ‘Okay, Ahbid, I need you to remove your hood. It’s against school policy.’ I was like, ‘Man, it’s raining, I’m not ’bout to take off my hood. And who are you anyway, and how do you know my name?’ He ended up walking me straight to the office because I wouldn’t take off the hood.

“I asked the lady at the office, ‘Who was that, and how does he know my name?’ She was like, ‘Oh, that’s Mr. _____.’ I was like, ‘Yeah, but how does he know me?’ She just looks at me and goes, ‘Students like you are the main focal point of teacher meetings.’ I was like, ‘WHAT? You mean, you have teacher meetings and buy fifty dollars worth of food because you need to be entertained, and then you talk about me, instead of talking about school supplies or the size of the hallway or how ugly the school is? You guys talk about ME? What’s wrong with you people?'”

– On his infamous reputation, part II:
“We had to check in with our counselors towards the end of senior year, so I went in to see mine. At the end of the meeting, she looked at me all serious and goes, ‘Ahbid, ninety-nine percent of the teachers here are glad to hear you’re leaving. I just thought I’d let you know.’ I was like, ‘WHAT? They SAID that?’ She was like, “Yes. Just like that.’ ‘BACKSTABBERS!’ So at graduation, every teacher that looked over at me, I gave ’em a dirty look back, like, ‘I know it, you’re one of those ninety-nine percent, aren’t you?'”

– On unsuccessful guilt trips:
“You and Yaser lalaji though…” he says, referring to Somayya‘s older brother, “You two never helped me with anything! Some cousins you are. Ruthless, both of you.” Obviously he has forgotten the many times he instant-messaged me, using me for my math tutoring skills, asking, “Hey, do you know how to find the surface area of a rectangle?” And the time I sat there at Somayya’s kitchen table, laying out the entire plot summary of To Kill a Mockingbird for him. And the time I was supposed to tutor him back when I was in sixth grade, but instead we all sat around watching cartoons and he and my brother gulped down pancakes as their after-school snack of choice. Yeah.

What else to say about a cousin with whom one used to have AIM conversations like the following:
A: I’m just playin’ around, don’t cry
A: just kidding
Yasmine: uh, the yaz doesn’t cry
A: the yaz?
A: well the bob doesn’t either
A: or the ahaabieb
A: or the abied
A: or the albert
A: we all don’t cry
A: hahahahahahahahaha

I love this kid. What a smartass.

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.

Summer daze

Glorious mundanity, Suckool

Lately, I’ve been feeling really bitter.

In the past four years, I haven’t had a summer vacation at all. My university is on a quarter system, and we have two optional six-week sessions every summer. Every single summer for the past four years, I’ve taken two summer classes per summer session. That means I’ve been in school year-round for the past four years, except for 2-3 weeks of winter break and a few days here and there for spring break and at the end of summer, right before fall classes start.

This spring, I had had enough of it. All through spring quarter, I told everyone that I was only going to enroll in the second summer session this year. I was going to take the first half of summer off from school and spend time with my family. I was going to do all the things I never get to do anymore, like, get a full night’s sleep, check out stacks of books from the library, rekindle my long-abandoned artistic abilities, relax.

Instead, the night before first summer session began, I decided to register for biology. And so, during the past two weeks, I’ve been angry with myself for making my parents shell out another thousand dollars just so I can take one measly class and for once again cheating myself out of a summer vacation even though I’ve been burning myself out for four years and could most definitely use a break.

But then, during this past three-day weekend, I slept in everyday. I shared cake and laughter with the girls at my weekly halaqa. I spent hours talking to and making plans to meet up with a high school friend I haven’t seen for over a year, and a college friend from San Diego. I curled up on the futon and re-read Jorge Luise Borge’s Labyrinths: Selected Stories & Other Writings. I took lots of naps, and ate real meals. I prayed. I got out my sister‘s oil pastels and did some artwork for the first time since high school.

I had a beautiful three days, and I’ve realized I can still enjoy summer, school or not.

So, in the spirit of my previous “to-do list, part 1”, and with much inspiration from Jen Gray’s recent “Summertime” post, here are things I would like to do this summer:

This summer –

– I will watch cartoons.

– I will take detours

– I will play hopscotch

– I will help someone learn

– I will buy something I really want, and give it away to someone I know will appreciate it just as much

– I will blow bubbles

– I will prepare an entire meal, and invite friends over

– I will make funny faces at people

– I will order double-scoops of ice cream on a waffle cone, and try new flavors

– I will listen to the sound of silence

– I will drive with all the car windows rolled down

– I will add a quarter to a stranger’s parking meter

– I will stop by my local farmer’s market

– I will give myself pep talks. I will tell myself I can do it. And then do it.

– I will give thanks

– I will eat watermelon

– I will take walks more often

– I will pay all my library fines

– I will volunteer to pull weeds in the garden

– I will listen to my mother, instead of just hearing her

– I will pray more often, and with concentration

– I will clean my room and get rid of all the boxes

– I will take more walks in the garden with my father

– I will bake snickerdoodles

– I will stack all my post-it-scribbled book recommendations in a pile, pick one at random every few days, and read

– I will sit on the wooden bench in the shade at the base of the fig tree on our lawn

– I will teach people to smile more widely

– I will stop automatically assuming I will fail

– I will cook dinner for my family

– I will take time off from school without feeling guilty about it

– I will eat fruit straight off the trees

– I will stop getting parking tickets

– I will do the work I love, whatever that happens to be

– I will take naps anytime I want to, without feeling guilty

– I will visit local bookstores, and browse to my heart’s content

– I will do artwork

– I will apply for scholarships

– I will spend more quality time with my brother

– I will continue with my newfound sewing streak

– I will take more “road trips” to Berkeley

– I will read Urdu novels

– I will learn to be more generous and open-hearted

– I will say “I don’t know” when I just don’t know

– I will remember that I don’t have to do everything I set out to do

And you?

Tryin’ out my new toys

Resident Rockstar

I have moderately severe hearing loss.

What that means is, if you were standing right in front of me and I weren’t wearing my hearing aids, I wouldn’t be able to hear a word you were saying.

I’ve worn hearing aids since I was eight years old. When I was younger, I got a new pair every couple of years. I’ve had my last pair since I was fifteen, which is eight years, in case you’re not sure how old I am.

If any of this is a surprise to you, it’s okay. As I’ve mentioned before, I have friends who didn’t find out about my hearing loss until a year or two after they first met me. I have friends who still don’t know. I have other friends who knew, and then forgot. It’s not a big deal.

For the friends who do know, the reactions vary. Actually, so far, most people are more of the “oh, okay” type, deftly continuing the conversation without any unduly embarrassing reactions. I like this type of indifferent response, to be honest. Then there’s people like my high school friend K, who was so charmingly intrigued by the concept of hearing aids that she couldn’t stop exclaiming, “That’s so cool!” and asking endless questions. That was actually the best response yet. She’s a pre-med mechanical engineering major, and every time we get together, she has a new idea for hearing aid inventions: Waterproof hearing aids! Hearing aids with built-in radio stations! Personally, I’d like my hearing aids to take notes for me while I nap in class. I’m talking pen and paper here, peoples.

A few weeks ago, I glanced over at my friend S‘s open textbook while he was studying for his final exams. Spotting something about auditory processes, I naturally stopped to read. When I got to the part where the passage mentioned lip-reading, I exclaimed, “Hey, people with hearing loss do that!”

“What?”

“Lip-reading,” I explained. “If you have hearing loss, like I do, it’s kinda like you need to see what you’re hearing. So lip-reading is important, as you watch people while they’re talking.”

“Wait, I didn’t even know you have hearing loss.” S was kind of dazed, I think. Me, I’m the nonchalant, flippant kind: “Dude, why else do you think I have such issues with you and your damn mumbling?”

He laughed, but still looked astonished, so I felt the need to elaborate a bit: “Yeah, I’ve worn hearing aids since I was eight.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

I laughed. “Why are you sorry? I’m not.” He shrugged sheepishly.

I’m just as normal as you are. Oh, wait, just kidding. I’m not sure just how normal you are. And this weblog contains ample proof that I’m not normal. So scratch that.

Levity aside though, hearing loss is really not that big of a deal. I’m a complex girl with a complex set of identities, but I’ve never even thought of identifying as hearing-impaired. I don’t know sign language, although my lip-reading skills rock das Haus. [You know all those silent scenes in films or television shows where the characters are conversing with one another but you as the audience have no idea what they’re saying because the sound is muted? I could tell you.] I’m lucky enough to so easily be a part of the hearing world that most people I interact with can’t even tell I wear hearing aids. Hearing loss impacts my life on a daily basis, but it doesn’t define who I am. And that’s okay.

I’ve always worn behind-the-ear (BTE) hearing aids. My last pair looked sort of like this, although not as up-to-date. A few years ago, I told my audiologist I wanted to switch to in-the-ear (ITE) hearing aids. While he was sympathetic to my request, he replied that my hearing loss was far too severe to be compatible with ITE hearing aids. My response was basically, Oh, hell no; fergitchu. So I visited a few more audiologists in rapid succession, and, guess what, they all told me the same thing. So I came home and sulked. And because I’m a silly girl with a notoriously stubborn bent, I decided I didn’t want new hearing aids unless I could get in-the-ear ones, and if I couldn’t get in-the-ear ones, then I didn’t want new ones at all. This reminds me of the eight-year-old Yasmine who resentfully refused to wear her hearing aids in an effort to prove she could hear perfectly fine without them. You see the logic?

A couple of months ago, after a visit to my ear specialist for my annual hearing exam, I went in to see my audiologist for a routine check-up. “So how old are your hearing aids again?” he asked, inspecting them.

I shrugged. “I’ve had them for about…oh, eight years, I think.”

“They’re ancient!” he said, horrified. “They belong in a museum!” I laughed.

Two days later, one of my hearing aids died. As in, completely. As in, this was not a battery issue. I took it as a sign to stop being so damn stubborn. I went back to my audiologist and laid out my case for wanting ITE hearing aids: I’ve never had a pair. I need a change. I realize they may not be compatible with severe hearing loss, but my next pair of hearing aids is going to last me for another 6-8 years and I don’t want to wonder, “What if I had tried the ITE ones when I had the chance?” ITE means more comfort: Sunglasses would be easier to slip on, headwraps wouldn’t scrape my ears as much.

The case worked. The ITE hearing aids were ordered, received, miraculously adjusted to fit my needs, and in beautiful working order. They look like this, and I’ve been wearing them since Wednesday.

It should be noted that while the new hearing aids are hella exciting, it doesn’t mean life is amazingly different. I’m hearing the same things, with the same clarity, so there’s nothing new there. Shopping for cell phones is forever going to be the same pain in the ass. I’m still going to have to go to sleep wearing at least one hearing aid if I want to hear my alarm in the morning. Although, most of the time, I don’t want to hear my alarm in the morning, which means I just rely on my mother to shake me awake.

But the new hearing aids are digital! Hi-tech! They have directional microphones! And multiple, personalized settings! I can tune out background noise! They’re small! And did I mention they’re in-the-ear? As in, for the first time in fifteen years, I can walk around hearing everything perfectly clearly without having something behind my ear. I never even realized I had so much free space behind my ears. Slick! LIKE OH MY GOD, BECKY, YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW.

I feel like Bionic Woman. Except I’m way cooler, because I’m Yasmine, and let’s face it, that means I’m just extraordinarily cool by default. Why, just the other day, Z said, “Yasmine, you’re so cool. I wish I had gotten to know you earlier, because maybe you could have taught me how to be cool, too.” Honest. Pinky swear.

There are many, many more exciting things about the new hearing aids (see above) than there are drawbacks, but unfortunately the drawbacks are major ones. I’m still not completely sure that these hearing aids are perfectly compatible with my cell phone-toting, headwrap-wearing lifestyle. And because I like my cell phone and headwraps, as well as efficiency, convenience, and, yes, optimal hearing when I’m making use of cell phones and headwraps, the jury has (sadly) pretty much come to a consensus that these machines ain’t here to stay. Next up, I’ve got my eye on these. Did you know you can pick your own colors? Slick!

But I’ve got ’til Wednesday to enjoy these ones, and meanwhile, I’m in love. With the new hearing aids, I mean.

As L would say: Whoop, whoop.

polly wanna peptide? So, check this, peoples – …

Suckool

polly wanna peptide?

So, check this, peoples – I’ve passed my first biology exam since high school! I’m still confused about the proton-motive force and I kind of b.s.’ed my way through the definition of feedback inhibition, but don’t worry, my friends – I spelled substrate-level phosphorylation perfectly. Thank you, thank you. There is indeed hope for me yet, because perfect spelling has got to be worth something. Would you believe me if I told you that I even wasted a few minutes correcting the professor’s spelling/grammatical mistakes on the exam packet, since I’m obsessive-compulsive like that?

Note that I said I “passed” the exam, not that I aced it. Still, this is huge news, peoples, because I’m just not a science person, and this is the first bio class I’ve taken in three years. I’ve been paid to tutor calculus to freshman students for two years, actually enjoyed calculating acid/base titrations for chemistry classes, and had fun taking my b.s. skills to whole new heights in the physics series. But those freshman-year bio classes just turned me away from the idea of being pre-med. Still, when I tried using my “I’m not a science person” line on Somayya the other day, she retorted, “Yes, you are, Yazzo. You’re just lazy, that’s all.” It’s great having friends who tell it like it is.

Special thanks to Najm for reminding me to magnet my exam to the refrigerator door, and to Chai (med student extraordinaire) for acknowledging that bio makes one humble oneself (“I mean, you feel really accomplished, once you pass one of those suckers.” Heck yeah, you said it, woman).

I still hate analyzing amino acid structures though. And who even cares about covalent bonds anyway?