Screaming Into a Paper Cup

Last night, I did a late night restorative yoga session. Just me (and my cat, Talula, of course).

I invited my body to guide me into shapes, well supported by blankets, blocks, and an ambient playlist of NIN songs curated by Mr. Reznor himself.

This image was my view into the night, softly illuminated by candlelight. I couldn’t close my eyes, because all I could see were images of children in Ghazza (Gaza): starving, maimed, unalive. So, I held the tiny flicker of light nearly swallowed by darkness in my gaze, praying some of that light would somehow find its way into the scariest parts of this world.

It feels so lonely in here, sometimes. Being Arab (of which I am quite proud), but only half as someone felt the need to point out last week (“ah, but I’m all Lebanese at heart”, I replied). Being Choctaw, but “undocumented”, as the gatekeepers would say due to my “unenrolled” status. Being Irish, but ashamed of the privilege it has given me while also being grateful that, of all the European ancestries I could have, that’s the one I’d choose.

Watching the world ignore the plight of an entire Arab population, very close cousins of mine, is gut wrenching. Are we invisible? When they’re done with Falestine, will Lubnan (Lebanon) be next? My DNA report shows that I’m also Palestinian and Syrian. Do we not matter?

I hear the silence of friends and family and I want to scream! What if they come for me or my son next? Do you not realize that I can’t even go and visit my father, whom I haven’t seen since I was my child’s age, 2 1/2, because of the world’s racism against Arabs? I cannot go to him and he cannot come to me… and time runs out quickly. And what if…

This is my world. The internal screaming surrounded by the silence of my “community”. Echoing frenzy. A constant downward spiral.

I go to the store. Can they see that I’m Arab? Can they see that my Little One is, too? Are we safe? Are the cops going to harass me? I keep a guard up at all times.

And then, I feel guilty for feeling fear when so many other folks don’t have the “light skinned” privilege that I have. But, that has never stopped random strangers from walking up to me and inquiring about my genetic resume or old men commenting on my “exotic appearance”

.

This was my practice last night. Feeling. Remembering. Crying. Moving through the fear with intention to continue healing for us all.