Have you met Domesti Kate?

A side effect of living in the South is, of course, that all us Southern girls know how to cook. With my luck, not only am I Southern, but I'm Pakistani-American Southern...American, which is a fantastical idea to wrap your thoughts around: Pakistani girls should know how to cook too. I know there are others like me, and I can only wonder if they defy stereotypes as well. You see, it's not just cooking. It's cleaning, gardening, laundry-ing, ironing, darning, mending, baking, child-rearing, husband-pleasing: all of it. And, because I'm a sweet docile woman, who "knows her place," I'm supposed to be okay with all of this.

But there's an exception. Enter The Working Woman. The South and Pakistani standards make allowances for The Working Woman, but there's more to it. She not only has one task, but two. And if she fails in one area, then she certainly shouldn't be a mother or The Working Woman.

I have a lot of respect for domestic woman. Maybe my problem is that this is not who I am, nor who I will ever be. I have great traits about myself, but I can realize and own up to being deficient in some areas that others thrive in. I want to believe that when I'm in the situation where I am a wife, and potentially, very soon, a mother, that the cards will fall neatly in a stack before me. I really do. I just think it's more responsible of me, now, to admit my faults, and come to accept them, before anyone or anything can accept me for who I am not.

This being said, I love challenges. Challenge me to cook you a delicious turkey dinner, and it's on. Dare me to weed a garden, and watch me. I like to prove others and myself wrong.

So.

I might yet become a Domesti Kate one day.

God help me.

:-)
Saira

back to the drawing board (for words)

I am going to make a list. If there's one thing I've picked up from reading this book recently (or the start of it), it's that: lists are perfectly acceptable, even helpful at times. This is one of those times. I will call this list...

Stuff Potentially, Maybe, Almost, But Ultimately I'm Going to Try to Write About 

1. a series of failures, the stuff of truth and pain and sorrow and eventual small spurts of joy

2. a collection of vignettes about random everyday happenings and occurrences

3. a book of photography and interviews with women in the community

4. a fictional story based on the identity imbalance of a Muslim American girl raised in the South

5. unconnected stream of conscious ramblings

6. I. Don't. Care. End. This. List. Already.

Epic FAIL, Saira. I'm also epically unmotivated and I lack serious creativity today, as opposed to unserious creativity that is rampant in my mind right now.

So let's end this with some Eisley. I'm still giddy I get to see them in June. Life, you look good, dude.

Toodles (but I need more doodles),

Saira 

woman. hood.

Yesterday's commentary on this blog was a huge resounding yuck. Some things are probably better left closed up in a wet cardboard box in an attic somewhere. Nonetheless, stuff has to find a way seeping out, and the best way I've decided is in writing. It's fortunate and unfortunate that it is on a public forum.

Back to the nowness of now. I relish in anything that celebrates women. I found out about an online conference for women broadcast online and available for viewing/listening convenience after the broadcast as long as I am registered. I signed up right away. Has it become common place to give high fives and hugs to people because they are women too? It never gets old, I think. In fact, there need to be men celebrations as well, but it seems men are collectively unsure about expressing their emotions, and this type of ceremony might be disastrous, or at least socially awkward for menfolk.

Remember that post I made about BIG, CRAZY, WILD ideas? I have one. I really do.

I want to in some small way contribute to the celebrating women phenomenon. I want to start a online community that discusses women's issues; I want to write a book for specifically for women; I want to photograph strong women and tell their stories; I want to shake the hand of every woman I meet and thank her for being who she is. I. Don't. Know. It is a bit of struggle sometimes just to settle on an idea and stick with it. So let that be my goal today.

I have to
1) study Praxis math
2) take a Praxis full length test, or at least one of each of the three in separate sittings
3) go for a run
4) deliver prints
5) make an online print order for clients
6) do laundry
7) buy Pasha some cat litter (poor cat)
8) perform prescribed prayers
9) book a flight to see brobro
10) work on the novel

Uh oh. This is more than an "idea." This is a sum of lots of little ideas that subscribe to my day. Off to the shower where all the deep thoughts start. Then I shall emerge fresh and empowered and supercharged for the day...all before 2:00 pm. woot!

hop to it,
Saira

dear jerks, I love your drive-thru syndrome

If I have learned anything since last year it's that there is a time to cry and there's a time to refuse to show any emotion for something that pales to deserve credit. Since I have gotten divorced I've witnessed what I am coining as drive-thru syndrome. People meet each other with the notion that they have ordered an individual of the opposite sex, made to order, and if this person fails to meet the standards they set in their mind, it's back to the restaurant, with the notions of trying a new place all together in the future. Although, maybe we should look at it this way: they get the woman burger and dissemble her based on her unique traits, and if the lettuce is iceburg instead of romaine, then by God it's bad news, not what was expected. People are lately it seems less and less accepting and more and more likely to drop and run as fast as they can in a more appeasing direction.

So when I meet rejection I stare it down, and I have to roll my eyes a little. Especially when someone tries to console me and reassure me that I am "an amazing girl." I know that already. It's as if people think their words are the frosting of confirmation I need to put one foot in front of the other. I have survived the grand slam of breakups, and I have a brain that works and a body that obeys my commands. I'm not dying, and I'm not dying for acceptance either. If I stare at my face in the mirror five years from now, and I'm not looking behind me for someone in the room with me, then I'm going to be just fine with myself.

I've run across this type of guy too often in my life and in the stories my friends tell me. They are concerned about whether or not they hurt your feelings, yet they proceed to lay on the unnecessary garbage about the "it's not you, it's me, but it's really you" sentiments.

I understand that everything I write may be incriminating, but if someone really wants to judge me for my honesty, then so be it. I'm here to be real, starkly real, and that's it.

haters stay clear. self, stay clever.

How much time do you spend on those who don't give a damn one way or another? Whether you work with them, or just have to talk to them from time to time, how does it make you feel when you are someone who truly cares about others and you are faced with someone who hates that sort of thing? Haters don't tip me in the restaurant. Haters spread animosity and ill feelings in an otherwise cheerful room. Haters gossip, judge others, and are epically rude. How to deal? In my Saira fashion I keep my wit sharp, and I slice off my words that are tactful and appropriate. I speak with more edge in my voice. I refuse to lower myself to their morals and their lack of decency. I have spent years of my life surrounded by negativity. I had to come up for air and grasp at any straw that held a supportive, uplifting vibe from it. People who are unhappy with others are really  unhappy with themselves, so I want to be compassionate and caring toward them instinctively, but I have done this too long. All it does it get me hurt. Haters don't respond to kindness unless it kills them. All I have is one Saira, one self, and she has to survive. So I am looking out for me; of course I am. And you should do the same. We can find ways to be nice and continue the hard fight, but we need to dispel toxic people and compel ourselves to put our voices out there so they are louder and more prominent. Just like I don't stand for terrorists who paint themselves as Muslims, I don't stand for fellow people who try to be good people but treat others poorly.

I will feel a pang of pain when I am left with a zero tip. I will cry quietly to myself when someone puts me in my place. But I will persevere. And one day soon when I have the strength I will counter the behavior with my words of steel.

 inner calm amidst adversity,
Saira

don't fail me now

Life is a blink, a flutter of the eyelashes across the cheek, the brush of lips against a glass of water. In these moments, these millions and billions of moments where the heart continuously beats, what did you do with your time? Like many, including me, you might have wasted away. The clock ticked and tocked and the time faded into the past but you stayed in your chair, in your bed, or in the cobwebs forming in the corner of your mind. I remember when I was twenty. I walked across campus watching the squirrels scamper up tall trees. I wore Pakistani dress on top and gym pants on the bottom with a side ponytail and fake designer sunglasses. I photographed blades of grass, dead baby birds, and cigarette butts on campus--nothing ceased to perplex or fascinate me. I was enthralled with every exhale of the Earth. People were mysterious even when they spoke blatantly. School was my passion and my existence. I lived for myself, but despite myself I was so innately connected to this life force around me that lives and breathes in every soul.

I haven't felt that delicately aware of the cosmos in years. I turned a page and saw fires and hurricanes and starving children in my mind's eye. These disasters and nightmares were me, they were my life, and the choices I was making. I lost my desire to be authentically true to me and to the One God I worship. I withered and fragmented, surrendering to the wants of people who would sooner board a train and leave in the face of the impending storm.

All I can do now is try to remember. What did I do once? Where did my feet fall? Is left worse than right? Questions do have answers, even for me. As much as I wonder and wonder about what is staring straight at me, and I know when it is time to push the plate, which is quite full, and give it to Someone, Something, Unspeakably, Unfathomably BIGGER than what I can ever, ever imagine.

It's time, God. Take the mess I've made and release a cage of doves. Beckon a double rainbow to illuminate the southern skies. Take my cliches and my narrow understanding of Mercy and Deep Love and let me fall in love with the world again, not the small part of this life, but the part that matters, the part that serves and seeks to feel your embrace.

I'm finished with fighting,
Saira

the lesson

I started asking friends what I should write about, and I got a good suggestion last night. I was told to write about the most important lesson I've learned in life so far. When he told me this my brain raced with the possibilities of what I could consider as potential. I've had a lot of tough lessons come in my life that came at inconvenient times, or at least when I didn't feel ready (but isn't that when those guys show up?). Amidst everything I've actually taken in and benefited from in at least some small way, the lesson of kindness has stayed with me.

Back in third grade my class was playing a trivia type of game, and one of the girls on my team didn't know the answer to her question. At recess I shared a few words with a friend about how disappointing her performance was. Unbeknownst to me my teacher was right around the corner, and she heard me. In a flash she was in my face, widening her eyes, scary effect I might add, and spit flew from the corners of her mouth. I had to walk to the big tree and back and think about what I had said. I was in trouble. I don't know why my mind goes back to that day, but the event has never left me. I still remember that girl's name, and some of her expressions that day. I don't remember what my teacher said, but her intentions were not wasted. I have not always been kind or understanding in the face of disagreements, misunderstandings, or other like situations, but in almost everything I do, especially with people I don't know, I try to be warm, welcoming, friendly, courteous, and accepting. Unfortunately the people closest to me get the brunt of it, as they see the raw real Saira when she feels like unleashing herself, and I'm sorry for that. But for the tables I serve, or for the students that come into my classes, I have a smile, a laugh, and a generous spirit to share. 

So it's funny, but reflecting on this lesson has helped me realize this art is no art yet in my book, and it has yet to be fully developed and honed to better usage.

Have you been kind today? Kind to yourself and kind to all life, inanimate and animate?
Saira