My dad is sitting across from me eating Eggos. He doesn’t eat them gracefully. They are stuffed into his mouth, loudly chewed, sugars clinging onto fat as they enter his bloodstream. I imagine my dad’s body is made of all the unhealthy things: corn syrup, GMO’s, candy bars. He’s had cancer already, but it’s no fault of ambiguous FDA regulations or the orange soda he sips casually as he watches Fox & Friends. “It’s inevitable,” he says.
Let me capture
Your likeness forever.
Look at me and
Hide your sad.
Don’t look so ugly and angry.
You will regret this.
Her veil: blush, pearl-spotted.
Lashes: heavy (fake), coming undone.
The pale gap above her eye. Rani, half-past-nineteen.
It is a Tuesday, raining. I wait with her in a much-loved family minivan.
The heat slips down my neck and her baby sister’s
I completely suck at self-care. And not in a cutesy, humblebrag way or in a self-deprecating way. We just do not get along. It’s to the point where I hear someone exhort the importance of self-care along with suggestions of meditations or face masks, and I roll my eyes to the back of my skull so hard they may pop out from their sockets. My mom is probably forwarding a Tiny Buddha email to me right now, and I’m already moving it to my trash folder without reading it.
“Arab women are a lot like coffee. strong. refreshing. Roasted until nearly burnt and then marketed as bitter. Expected to keep you going when you can’t do it yourself. Mis-used. Under appreciated.” (Yasmeen AlFaraj, University of California, Berkeley @_alfa_ya)
A (brief) introduction to the daily microaggressions faced by black people on campus
Last night I dreamt we were married, our children sprinkled through the yard
like tulips. I know you don’t believe in people creating other people, but my mother
was so hard on me; I want to make a child to wrap in cashmere, kiss
I was in the middle of teaching one afternoon when a man died right outside my classroom door.
(Big-time Spoiler Alert -- if you don’t want to know the plot, don’t read this!)