Men do not quarrel for light

Today's fighting is between the Pundit and the Mollah. It is not between the Hindus and the Muslims. No prophet has said, "I have come for the Hindus, I have come for the Muslims, I have come for the Christians.” They have said, “I have come for the humanity of everyone, like light." But the devotees of Krishna say, "Krishna is for Hindus." The followers of Muhammad, peace be upon him, say, “Muhammad, peace be upon him, is for the Muslims." The Christians say, "the Disciples of Christ are for the Christians." Krishna, Muhammad, peace be upon him, and Christ have become national property. This property is the root of all trouble. Men do not quarrel for light, but they quarrel over cattle.

-Kazi Nuzrul Islam, national poet of Bangladesh, 1922

Eid-ul-fitr as a twenty-something

Eid-ul-Fitr is on a Sunday this year and I’ll go to an outdoor prayer in Jackson Heights, Queens with my father and brother. As the years pass, I can’t help but notice that I grow further and further away from the excitement this day used to bring. The first Eid-ul-Fitr's that I remember were spent in Astoria, Queens, when my mother would wake me up at 6AM to shower and wear the fanciest outfits we had. Usually we had spent the last weekend before Eid fighting crowds of uncles and aunties in Jackson Heights.  My mother would sort through racks in Indian boutiques that reeked of dyes and stuffy pressed fabric to find matching dresses for me and my older sister (her apparent wish for twins would be granted several years later). Outside the stores, my fasting mother also braved the smell of Punjabi food and sweets until my father came to take us home. He barely accompanied us, but this was mostly because he lost patience with the dire state of parking in the area.

My little sister Naurene getting impatient during 
Jackson Heights Eid shopping, 2009

After we dressed in our “finest” on Eid morning, my mother would get to work cooking up all the special Bangladeshi food we (usually) only got to eat on this day- roasted yogurt chicken, tunafish kabobs, beef and potato curry. She always had shemai (thin vermicelli noodles cooked in sweet milk; sevayyan if you’re an Urdu speaker) ready for our breakfast.
Around 8AM, the men in the family would head to the congregational prayer. In Astoria this was held at a field by the park, and I, being young, was allowed to accompany the males. I didn’t even know how to pray at the time, nor had I fasted- but I still cashed in on Eid money due to the size of my extended family in Queens.

Eid Prayer in Astoria Park, 1992.  My father is on a prayer rug bought 
by my grandmother in Mecca, and it's currently the rug I use 
everyday...it's older than I am

Eid money works just like Chinese New Year’s money, but without the red envelopes. To receive your Eid money in Bangladeshi custom, you can go to anyone older than you and reach down and tap the top of their feet. You then bring the hand to your heart and end at your lips. I learned years later that this Bangladeshi salam was a combination of both South Asian and Arab culture. To touch the top of an elder’s feet is a South Asian custom meant to show reverence and respect to one’s elders. It’s also done as a farewell, for good luck, or as a greeting when seeing an elder after many years. Although the meaning is beautiful, in my adulthood I realized this custom isn’t accepted in Islam because we're only allowed to bow before God. The second part of the salam (to bring your hand to your chest, and then your lips) is Arab influenced and signifies giving someone your heart and your soul. As far as I know, this is acceptable to do as a Muslim. Regardless, I haven’t done the salam in years now that I’m far too old to be receiving Eid money anyway.

After the prayer, we would return home to eat the lunch my mother had cooked while were away. Traditionally, Muslim women in Bangladesh did not always go to the mosque, although nowadays I see many Bangladeshi women here in the mosques in New York. I myself didn’t start participating in congregational prayer until I was in college.
The Eid feasting didn’t stop at our home- we visited the homes of every relative and family friend in the area, where we were prepared to be force fed by aunts (some with better culinary skills than others). Eid visits continued late into the night, and this was the only time we were able to stay up on weeknights if we had school the next day.

My mother's Eid cooking (:

The point of me writing about my Eid experience as a child is two-fold…I wanted to document its liveliness, and the effort my parents put into the celebration as new immigrants in a non-Muslim country. They always mention how as Americans, we’ll never experience the true meaning of the day. They’re right to some extent, but I think they did a pretty good job keeping Eid “alive” for us here in the States.

The second reason I wanted to write about this is because as twenty-somethings, it rests on us now to continue the traditions. By traditions, I am not referring to my Bangladeshi origins or any one culture, as Muslims obviously come from every background and of course the U.S. itself. I realize how cheesy it all sounds as I am typing this, so bear with me. I mean to say that if I feel disconnected from the festivities of Eid, I only have myself to blame.

As I grew older, and eventually moved to Boston for college, I distanced myself from my family. When I returned to New York, I found it hard to relate to the aunts and uncles I had grown up with. At the same time, however, I was growing closer to the deen. I began to pray more, to study the religion and to attend more events for the Islamic community. As fulfilling is it is to feel closer to one’s religion, I lacked the camaraderie and love with my relatives that I had during my childhood celebrations. And that is an essential and important part of Islam itself- to honor and love our family, our elders, our friends and our community.

So this year, I had a wakeup call. I realized that if I can’t keep Eid “alive” for myself, how in the world would I do it for my (future) children? 
What I’m proposing for myself is pretty simple. Sunday morning, I will wake up for Fajr (the dawn prayer), shower, and wear one of the nicer outfits given to me by an aunt. I haven’t gone Eid shopping in a few years as I don’t wear South Asian clothes much. I’ll eat an odd number of dates, walk to the prayer one way and return from prayer with another (which is something our Prophet, peace be upon him, used to do). It’ll be tougher this year since my mother, younger sisters and several relatives are in Bangladesh for a wedding this summer. I won’t wake up to the smell of pulao and roast chicken in my own home, but my family and I will head to an aunt’s house in Astoria around noon- and I’ll probably visit with several friends during the day.
In a way, I’ll be coming full circle to the Long Island City Eids I miss so badly.

grandparents

In 2006 when I was in Dhaka, my grandmother pulled aside her beige sari and unhooked her blouse to show me the raised uneven line that ran down her chest. I was both saddened and repulsed by the ugly scar as I had seen the video sent to the States by the Uttara Heart Center the year before. I pictured the steel forceps pulling her dark skin taught, the instruments tangled in her body fat and the dull throbbing of her aged heart. At times like that, I wished I had chosen the medical profession so I could understand the condition that plagued her.

I never knew how old she was, or how old my grandfather was for that matter. That was the last time I saw the both of them. My grandfather died three years later on a blithe morning, in the backseat of a micro van next to my aunt. They were on their way to Dhaka from our village three hours out of town. My family did not tell me for a week as I was taking my finals during my senior year of college. When I finally learned of his death, I spoke to my grandmother on the phone, and she said- “Have you heard? Your brother sleeps.”

She followed him two years later, the week I turned 24. Sometimes I forget that they are no more and I think, if I travel just 8,000 miles I will see them as I left them.

George Harrison's Concert for Bangladesh on iTunes Homepage

"Organized for the relief of refugees from East Pakistan (now independent Bangladesh) after the 1970 Bhola cyclone and during the 1971 Bangladesh atrocities and Bangladesh Liberation War, the event was the first benefit concert of this magnitude in world history."

Enlarge the images to read the summary- proceeds from the album will benefit the George Harrison Fund for UNICEF.

You can read more about the fund here:

http://theconcertforbangladesh.com/aboutthefund/

and about the concert here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T​he_Concert_for_Bangladesh

In light of Mladic's extradition...

I am reminded of the millions exterminated in my birth country that will never have "justice." Human Rights Watch published an article last month on the Bangladeshi government finally bringing those that took part in the 1971 genocide to trial. You can read it here:

http://www.hrw.org/en/news/2011/05/19/bangladesh-unique-opportunity-justice-1971-atrocities

I stopped reading it when I saw this:

"In a concession to Pakistan, the law excludes the prosecution of Pakistani military officials and soldiers."

Granted, many of those responsible have died anyway- receiving full military burials with honors (and praise from the late Bhutto herself).

The story of Bangladesh
Is an ancient one again made fresh
By blind men who carry out commands
Which flow out of the laws upon which nations stand
Which say to sacrifice a people for a land
- Joan Baez

Allah hafiz

It's so hard to tell the garbled, morphine-drugged voice on the other line, 8,000 miles away, "how I am." My chest is heavy and I try my best to keep my voice constant, because it's so embarrassing crying in front of my parents for the grandmother I never ask to call. But I can't hold it together and my brother stares at my tears like he's watching me cry for the first time ever.

How I am is not relevant when you are the one dying, it's not relevant when I know nothing about your life except for the fact that you gave birth to my father and it's certainly not relevant when I say my prayers for you, but not to the best of my ability.

Astagfirullah.

"I, the heroine, speak"

"It is the most incredible, calculated thing since the days of the Nazis in Poland."

-Time

“Bengalis were often compared with monkeys and chickens. Said General Niazi, ‘It was a low lying land of low lying people.’ The Hindus among the Bengalis were as Jews to the Nazis: scum and vermin that [should] best be exterminated. As to the Moslem Bengalis, they were to live only on the sufferance of the soldiers: any infraction, any suspicion cast on them, any need for reprisal, could mean their death. And the soldiers were free to kill at will. The journalist Dan Coggin quoted one Punjabi captain as telling him, 'We can kill anyone for anything. We are accountable to no one.' This is the arrogance of Power."

"In East Pakistan (now Bangladesh) [General Agha Mohammed Yahya Khan and his top generals] also planned to murder its Bengali intellectual, cultural, and political elite. They also planned to indiscriminately murder hundreds of thousands of its Hindus and drive the rest into India. And they planned to destroy its economic base to insure that it would be subordinate to West Pakistan for at least a generation to come. This despicable and cutthroat plan was outright genocide."
-R.J. Rummel, professor emeritus of political science at the University of Hawaii.

The title of this post refers to a work by Bangladeshi writer Nilima Ibrahim. She compiled accounts of the thousands of women that were raped, tortured and impregnated during the war. The word "heroine" refers to the title given by Sheikh Mujib (Bangladesh's leader) to rape victims in order to remove the stigma of their situation.

One story I want to write about is shown in this video.

Pakistani army surrendering to Indian forces.

The Liberation army

Ted Kennedy visits

"Pak Army suddenly attacked E.P.R Base at Pilkhana, Rajarbag Police Line and killing citizens. Street battles are going on in every street of Dhaka-Chittagong. I appeal to the Nations of the World for help. Our freedom fighters are gallantly fighting with the enemies to free the motherland. I appeal and order you all in the name of Almighty Allah to fight to the last drop of blood to liberate the country. Ask police, E.P.R, Bengal regiment and Ansar to stand by you and to fight. No compromise. Victory is ours. Drive out the last enemy from the holy soil of the motherland. Convey this message to all Awami League leaders, workers and other patriots and lovers of freedom. May Allah bless you. Joy Bangla."

-Sheikh Mujibur Rahman

Mukti Bahini (The Freedom Fighters)

Today marks 39 years since Bangladesh declared its independence. I wanted to post a poem I wrote about my little sister (the younger twin) and her curiosity about the Bangladeshi Language Movement and Liberation War in general. This past February 21st was the 58th anniversary of the Language movement, and she watched a historical program with my mother on this date as she sat on the floor creating her Japanese cartoons. Her questions and innocence (along with the irony of the fact that Bangla will probably be lost during her generation) inspired this.

Queens, New York City. February 21st, 2010.

A nine year old girl sits
on an oriental rug in the living room,
empty printer paper and anime
sketches scattered about the floor
with littered pens, black and blue.

Her name is Naurene:
"woman of honor; light."
In the dim evening, her mother watches television
where film-grain images, four decades old
are broadcast in black and white.

They are images of men-
Men in loincloths, with bayonets
Men shamed, naked, proud
Men Hindu, Men Musulman
Men lifeless, tangled, in rotting masses
Men in marches, men with signs
in a tongue Naurene cannot read
Men barely of age, as valiant as Men
at their graves
and the graves of their severed children
All gone too soon.

"Who are they?" she asks in Bangla,
shading a white
hollow; a reflection of light
in the eye of her Manga character.

They are the meek; the Shaheed*
of dreams they never saw, and they died for you.
They died for you, Naurene,
and they did not know your name.

*Arabic for 'martyr' (literally, 'witness')

From Kristof's "Divorced Before Puberty" Times Op-Ed

Sent to me by Angie this week..a quote from a NY Times op-ed about Nujood Ali:

"Consider Bangladesh. After it split off from Pakistan, Bangladesh began to educate girls in a way that Pakistan has never done. The educated women staffed an emerging garment industry and civil society, and those educated women are one reason Bangladesh is today far more stable than Pakistan."

-Nicholas D. Kristof, "Divorced Before Puberty" March 3, 2010

He makes some pretty interesting points. Although, I should add that women in the Bangladeshi garment industry are often looked down upon by society (even today) because of the "independent" nature of their lives.

Queens License Plates Vol. 2

My dad would probably be jealous of this one.

heritage (2005)

I don't even know what I was trying to do with the enjambment here. This is from senior year of high school. Eventually I used imagery from this poem to write a story (The Sacrifice) so some of it might sound familiar.

A thousand ways into Bengal, but not one way out.
-Bangladeshi/British proverb

the aroma of banana leaves on
wet roads a lone rickshaw braves
the breeze prickling humidity against
my skin awaits the gray monsoon
beneath clouds that break into aquamarine
palm trees hear the muezzin’s call to prayer
mats of jute and straw and wind
sprays hummingbirds in the lily
pads course through on gondolas
carry jackfruit into the harbors feel
the simple strength of life in sky
breathes love into the river-air.

"What it is like to miss someone, very far away."

There's lots of different ways to start writing a poem. For me, the idea comes in a line or two. A couplet is good. When I was younger I used to keep a book where I physically wrote everything down, but right now I can't imagine being productive in my thought without a computer. I use Notepad, and not Word, because it's primitive, uncluttered, and doesn't Auto Correct capitalization or whatever grammar rules I want to ignore in poetry. I tend to use all lowercase more often than not.

I keep a file in which I save these "ideas," in the forms of lines or words. Over the past year, I've had about four "poem" ideas and one "story" idea saved in my file, one word each. It helps to keep tabs on them rather than lose the ideas altogether just because I don't have the time to write.

On the night of Monday, April 27th, as I scrambled to put the finishing touches on my senior culminating project, I realized that I needed a few more pieces to complete the chapbook I had created. I decided to pull from the file. For poems, I had noted the following: "brother, grandfather, heartbreak, the Bronx." For stories, I had written "Athens." I wouldn't have enough time to create quality writing that I would be proud of in one night for all of these ideas, but I knew that they were so important to me that they had to be included in my thesis.

So I got to work and wrote for 12 hours straight without any breaks (or caffeine) until 7AM. I wrote an ode to my brother, I wrote an ode to the Bronx, I wrote about unrequited love, and I wrote a (short) short story about The Faridpur Man in Athens. I revised a few of my older poems, too, such as Daffodils in Acrylic (edited poem here) and the water-bearers (edited poem here). I weeded out my worst work and fixed whatever was worth fixing. When it was Tuesday morning, I wasn't even that tired, because it was past the worst part (when you get queasy around 5AM). But I couldn't bring myself to write about my grandfather. And it was really for the most absurd of all reasons- I couldn't write about my grandfather on that Tuesday because he was still alive.

There is a sentence in Jhumpa Lahiri's short story, When Mr. Pirzada Came to Dine:
"Now I knew what it was like to miss someone, very far away."

There's really no other way to describe my relationship with my grandfather, and I'm grateful to Lahiri for that simple line. When someone you love is continents away, they exist to you as ghosts. You know they are there, at peace and alive, but it's like they're in liminal space. They're neither present nor unpresent. Communication is hard with the strong dialects they speak. So you hardly talk to them. You just know that that they love you (the best, as it often is with grandchildren that are the farthest away), and that you love them back because they raised and cared for your parents.

For this reason, I could not write about my feelings for my grandfather. As I mentioned before, most of my writing is struck by imbalance and pain. And that is something I didn't want to bring into the existence I had created for him. I wanted to keep my grandfather as that ghost, very far away, survivor of a stroke but still healthy and holding on to see us one last time. Writing about him now meant that I would have to think of him leaving me; that I would have to cry about him.

I handed in my thesis on Tuesday. The following evening as I slept, my grandfather died at 10AM in the morning, in Bangladesh. It's like he moved from one ghostlike existence in my life to the next. Perhaps there was some sort of connection between us, that had made me feel so strongly for him before he passed. Maybe over time I can write about more of the things that he told me- like how he acted in village plays, how Pakistani traders that came into Bengal fell in love with the women there and abandoned their families in Pakistan, how British men were very handsome, and my favorite, the tales of Rustam the Persian warrior prince. For now all I can say about him is that he was the only grandfather I knew, my anchor in the ancestral world that I am so fascinated by, the muse of all the imagery I could ever write about Bangladesh, one-fourth of my DNA, and someone who gave a beautiful adhaan for our village every day for as long as I've been alive, and tried with all of his heart to obey Allah.

Over 3,500 villagers, fakirs, and politicians came to pay their respects to him, a man who had been a poor farmer all of his life. When he died, he owned only his potato fields, tin house, plain white garments, and a watch my father had gifted him. He had refused everything else. His name was Aynjat Ali, and he named me. According to my mother, when I was born he said "Jasmin, eta tho behesther phul." ("Jasmin, this is heaven's flower.")
Before he died, about a year had passed since I had talked to him over the phone. The last thing he said to me was: "Togore sara mann laage naa." I didn't understand the Comilla dialect, so my mother translated: "I can't feel my heart without all of you."

The believers are only those who have believed in Allah and His Messenger and then, have never doubted and strive with their wealth and their lives for the Cause of Allah. Those! They are the truthful.
-49:15 Surah Al-Hujurat

"The Irish need not apply."

I encountered several Bangladeshi immigrants in Italy, and they were much better off and doing their own thing: waiting on tables, selling food at carts, and helping to run convenience stores. I didn't realize just how many immigrants (both legal and illegal) reside in Athens.

Street vendor demonstrating toys; March 14th, 2009

Denied employment from Greek store owners and the like on the basis of their nationality (and regardless of legal status), they sell whatever small goods they can get their hands on from suppliers. This usually ranges from bottled water and tissue boxes to cheap toys that barely bring in enough income to pay for housing. Their only desire: to raise enough money to return home.

Protest after the death in January - Getty Images (not my own)

I didn’t know how bad it was until I discovered that this past January, the accidental death of a Bangladeshi immigrant occurred in Athens when the police were trying to uproot the vendor. The man, who was in his mid-20’s, was pushed into a ravine and fell to his death. According to the Athens Independent Media Center, these immigrants are also subjected to harsh beatings, incarceration, and even deportation on the basis of accusations alone. A Bangladeshi man was imprisoned and deported for the theft of a cell phone which was later discovered to be his own; another was also incarcerated and is facing deportation for allegedly stealing a cell phone charger (Athens Independent).

A man sells tissue boxes to drivers; March 14th, 2009

One man I spoke to during my visit was actually deceived by the person that issued his visa, as he had guaranteed him employment. He now lives on a day to day income derived from selling his toys to tourists. Even though he is a legal immigrant, our conversation was cut short due to the police arriving on the scene as they don’t recognize street vendors. I'm a bit embarrassed to say that I was crying on the streets of the Plaka District for a man I didn't even know. I managed to tell him that he looked like my father.

His story is one that touched me personally. No one wanted to hire my father initially when he came to the States- which is why we spent a few months without a home in Brooklyn, why so many immigrants become entrepreneurs, and why my father went on to become a self-employed cab driver. Regardless, the treatment of immigrants here is still ages ahead of many countries in Europe.

Bangladeshi men living in a cardboard "house" await deportation- Getty Images (not my own)

I wish I had gotten that man's name but I didn't have the time as he disappeared so fast. In my prayers he is the "Faridpur Man in Athens." Faridpur is actually my mother's home district. All I could really give him were a couple of euros I forced him to accept for a toy he gifted me in the midst of my tears, but when I can write something that I deem good enough, I'll give him a poem.

Greek, Pakistani, and Bangladeshi flags in downtown Athens

Language Martyr's Day

I know I left Dhaka when I was four and have only gone back a handful of times but I still like to commemorate Bangladesh's holidays and events. I guess I take a lot of pride in it because:

1. I taught myself how to read and write Bangla using old Bangali newspapers and books when I was ten. Because of this, I can't recite the names of the letters; I just know what sounds they make. Also because of this- I am a pathetically slow reader in Bangali.
2. It amazes me that these men and women were willing to die for a language. About twenty years later they fought to retain their cultural identities, and eventually, for the right to even exist in the first place. But a language...I can't imagine.

You may notice that I spell Bengali "Bangali." Well first of all, Bangali refers to the people or something that pertains to Bangladeshi culture. If you're referring to the langauge, that's just "Bangla." "Bengali" is the British pronunciation and no Bangali will ever say that. If they try, it sounds like "Bengolee" and that is just weird. Unless you go to Calcutta because I'm pretty sure they say "Bengolee" all the time.

Today is "Ekushey February" (21 February):

• The Pakistani government declared Urdu as the national language (it would be taught and spoken in all schools, institutions, etc. and Bangla wouldn't be recognized).
• Dozens of unarmed civilians (students and activists) were killed on February 21, 1952 when Pakistani police fired upon them for gathering near Dhaka Medical College to protest the decision.
• After several years, Bangla was finally allowed to be "spoken" (that is, until everything else goes down in 1971), and the Shaheed Minar monument was built to remember the language martyrs.

"The monument stood until the Bangladesh Liberation War in 1971, when it was demolished completely during Operation Searchlight, during which the Pakistani Army estimates they inflicted 26,000 civilian deaths, while other organizations such as National Geographic estimate casualties numbering over 3 million. After Bangladesh gained independence, it was rebuilt." (from wiki)

Also, February 21st is International Mother Language Day as observed by UNESCO, and it "took effect on 17 November 1999 when it unanimously adopted a draft resolution submitted by Bangladesh and co-sponsored and supported by 28 other countries." (wiki)

Snce this is mostly a writing blog, here are the most famous lyrics ever written about 21 February:

Amar Bhaiyer Rokte Rangano Ekushey February
(My Brother's Blood is Stained on the Twenty-First of February)

Can I forget the twenty-first of February
stained by the blood of my brother?
The twenty-first of February, built by the tears
of a hundred mothers robbed of their sons,
Can I ever forget it?
Wake up all serpents,
wake up all summer thunder-storms,
let the whole world rise up
in anger and protest, against the massacre of innocent children
They tried to crush the demand of the people
by murdering the golden sons of the land
Can they get away with it
at this hour when the times are poised
for a radical change?
No, no, no, no
In the history reddened by blood
the final verdict has been given already
by the twenty-first of February

Wake up today, the twenty-first of February
do wake, please!
Our heroic boys and girls still languish in the prisons of the tyrant
The souls of my martyred brothers still cry
But today everywhere the somnolent strength
of the people have begun to stir
and we shall set February ablaze
by the flame of our fierce anger
How can I ever forget the twenty-first of February?

-Abdul Gaffar Chowdhury

Queens License Plates Vol. 1

When I went to pick up Paris from Shuvo's I saw one in QB worth mentioning. I really thought it may have been his car for a second until I remembered that he's Sylheti and would probably die before he put these on his car. It's his older neighbor's. I have a lot of Bangali pride too but like, I honestly can't say that I know what this means.

So what if our flag was "inspired" by Japan's flag

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bangladesh%E2%80%93Japan_relations

Pretty cool. Props to Japan for engineering our bridges yo.

Boston Intercollegiate Poetry Festival (April 2008)

"Emancipation from the bondage of the soil is no freedom for the tree."
-Rabindranath Tagore

When he was fourteen,
lying shirtless
underneath palm fronds
at the height of the Liberation,
did he imagine, cities
larger than Dhaka?
He said,
"One day, I will be saluted
by men of Britain, and the people of Africa
but for now my feet are bare."

Traveler, protector
born of incessant rains in the foundry
of Bengal to arms
that abandoned him
at Lexington and 51st
on an island that is dense,
sullen and lone
13.4 miles of steel boundaries
held fast in his heart

Below, the grit of subway tracks lives
in slivers of moonlight crackling
through the grates
I am indebted not
to a father but to the world
for he has given himself
in language and breath
and blood to the earth
so much that he and the soil
have become joined.

One day, I will be your protector,
a presence as light as a whisper
in the grooves of aged trees,
and carry you with the pride
your words have brought forth across
three continents

but for now my feet are bare.

Red (February 2007)

Seventeen, in brilliant blood silk
that clung unwillingly to her pale skin
in the damp heat of the East
when I wear rouge it is always 1983
rose water permeating the air of Dhaka streets
and mother, feet deep in scarlet dye
leaves wet footprints from a car
to an unfamiliar place and life
She is a simple, privileged woman
in love with her children and the man
that fate had chosen for her
she often reckons life is over past thirty
I remember her at the dressing table
stark pink on her olive cheeks
and the trained dabs of talc and Dior
the only pleasures in which she's obliged
When I dress up I am too much like her---
blue pearls against the flash of my veins
that belong to countries I don't remember
I was blessed with a good marriage
She told us, and it was true
in the same way that I am also unlucky
with a mother, I will never truly know

For my Mother (2004)

(somewhat a predecessor to "Red")This poem is different from Red because it's about an immature me. Red is about being unable to connect with your mother due to the whole culture barrier, but it is also about how we will never completely be able to share ourselves with our mothers. This poem is about the guilt I felt looking back years later, at being "ashamed" in elementary school of having an immigrant parent that didn't speak English. It was really difficult to write back then (hence the fairly simple vocabulary) and I've never been able to read it out in its entirety.  The one time I did have to read it in an 11th grade poetry class, my friend Dayna got up and finished it for me.

For my mother

The forgotten days I have spent
countless hours over fading pictures
begging for forgiveness
from the inanimate woman
in explosive colors,
magenta lipstick
an unwelcome sight on American streets
For the nights I cried in silence,
remembering how she held me
For this cherished bond,
as sweet as blood
that envelops me in tenderness
intangible, but felt ever so softly
For innocence,
the breath of sleeping children
against a mother's cheek,
as painful as salty tears
streaming down a mother's worn cheek
For my wretchedness
hiding from a beautiful mother
neglecting a caring mother
feeling shame when kids saw my mother
For the love
she will never understand
the days she will never get back
the youth she will never have lived
For my mother.

An Exercise for Class, 2004

3 sketches, all related.

the water-bearers

my father gave me the strong bones in my face
and the tallness of his sisters-
swimmers that knew water,
before their feet ever touched land
I saw them many years ago
combing their long wet hair
on the stone steps of the banks

the discovery

tiny magnificent ripples
each one gliding over the next
in a play of rise and defeat
at five, I realized
I could break the calmness
of the warm glowing surface,
to submerge my legs in darkness
and still float

rebirth

I feel it as if I were there myself
because of the irony
that both separates and unites us:
He who approaches the banks of love
neither sinks nor floats

I am absorbed in this paradox
for had I known you,
I could have loved you
Beneath the shade
of green leaves and spotted sunlight,
my skin is still moist
I have just emerged.