I’m just trying to survive, man, damn. I don’t know which way is what anymore. Can I live without being judged? Can I learn to be easy on myself? Allahu A’lam. (To myself: Breathe. Be easy, youngblood.) I write a whole helluva lot. It’s just that nobody ever sees it. I don’t want them to. To hell with their thoughts about my writing. I’m going to be selfish with it, I mean, I already am. By hoarding my writing, I’m saying:
“Y’all can’t have none of my pie. This is Said only pie. Y’all can have some of that Whites-Only pie you’ve been raving about. Go on and serve it up with a side of Vanilla Privilege, and keep it to yourself. I got my own pie.”
I’m good. I’ll be hanging out at coffee shops for forever and a day. I’ll be sipping Evenings in Missoula, that herbal tea, that caffeine free. Let me get a mocha-chocolate-chip muffin to go with it, too. And it has to be heated; I like my muffins gooey in the middle. That really lifts my spirits. My moods have been in the dumps lately. This is the way of life, and life is always changing, from season to season.
And Allah (ever) watches over His Servants [40:44].
I have been talking about leaving this medical interpreting gig for too long. It’s funny that when I tell my mom I want to change careers, she gets upset. It doesn’t matter how much I suffer for this so-called profession, how long I’ve done it, how sick of it I’ve become, or how much stress I put up with just to eke out an existing which puts me well below the national poverty line. The older Somali generation’s way of thinking is based in scarcity. Hold onto one job, and don’t lose it, because jobs don’t just fall out of the sky. Put up with the crap and make your living and be thankful. I agree with gratitude, it’s a necessity. Making a living is, too. But putting up with crap, day in and day out, in the land of opportunity? I think not. One of the decent things about this country is that we have the freedom to choose what crap we’re willing to put up with.
Look, here, Diary; I’ve come a long way since last year this time around. I’ve learned to make life decisions for myself, without the input of others, because they won’t share in my internal struggles. Why, then, should they share in the decision making? It’s hard for well wishes to reach past my skin and into my heart. I mean, folks have been there for me, are there for me, and will be there for me, but they can only do so much.
They won’t be there at 3 in the morning when I’m huddled in fetal position, clutching the ground, swimming in my own tears. When the mucous is streaming from my nose, so thick that one would think I was Slimed on Nickelodeon in 1999; and when my sinuses are so overworked from pushing out the ingredients needed to produce mucus that my face is buzzing, vibrating, and my head is spinning, the grief rolling me around like a surfer caught in the breaks, jagged rocks coming up fast towards his head as the waves thrash him about, unable to do anything but pray for salvation. No, Diary, they aren’t there for me in those wee hours. You know who is, though? Allah SWT.
Allah is the Beginning and the End. Allah is our ultimate return. Allah is all we’ve ever had, all we’ll ever need. I don’t care about this life, Diary. It’s a tragic, woeful mess. It is full of heartache and misery. It is a constant test, and the moments of relief are few and far in between. That’s okay. That’s the Will of Allah.
It is not my place to question my place in this question we call life. It is my duty to worship – I must worship. That is the only reason I am here. All the trials that I face, all the mishaps, the blunders, the lost friends, the people yelling at me for trying to live, the misunderstandings, the burnt bridges, the animosity, the racism, the fear creeping up my spine when a police cruiser pulls up behind me, all of it. All of it is part of Allah’s Will.
All of it can raise us by degrees on the Day of Judgement, if the Good Lord Wills it. We’re just fish in an aquarium, bumping into our glass enclosure and wondering why we can’t reach the magazine stand on the other side of the dentist’s waiting room. Our perception is limited. My time is little, my life is short. Only God knows when I’ll die. Until then, I must worship. I must strive to purify my soul. Allah loves me, as He loves us all. I know one day all of this will be easier. Not by much, maybe, but it’ll be easier. Perhaps my ability to patiently bear hardship will increase, too. All I know is that I must keep reading, writing, praying. I say this all the time, Diary, but I really mean it: I have come a long way & I have much to give thanks for. Ain’t no squares in my circle, dawg. It’s just me. You, me and Allah. What more do we need?