The Doom and Glory of Knowing Who You Are

“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, who had ever been alive.”

James Baldwin, The Doom and Glory of Knowing Who You Are, Life Magazine, May 24, 1963.

This is my favorite quote from James Baldwin and it has resonated with me so deeply since the first time I read it. Although Baldwin was having a larger conversation about the role of artists in our society and I don’t necessarily consider myself an artist or creative, I connect with these words because reading has given me so much in this world. Like Baldwin, books have given me words for what I previously thought was singular to me and undefinable. Anyone that knows me knows that I love reading and writing and I will likely always surround myself with books in some fashion.

The aforementioned quote continues with Baldwin characterizing the artist as a “spiritual historian” whose role is to “make you realize the doom and glory of knowing who you are and what you are”. While reading has provided me a pathway to freedom (spiritual, mental and physical) from the bonds that are placed on so many of us, especially our minds, sometimes I focus more on the doom rather than the glory of who and what I am. At times I find myself wondering if ignorance truly is bliss and if I would be happier with myself if I knew a little less about how the world works. This shows up as me rejecting certain experiences because I know how people who inhabit similar bodies as mine are treated by others. Even though knowledge has allowed for so much personal growth and development, I sometimes let that knowledge turn into fear.

It’s strange, choosing to live freely because I know that the pain and violence I have experienced from others and the world at large is not my own fault yet simultaneously limiting myself for the same reasons. This has been on my mind lately as I’ve been in a rut that I’ve been struggling to get out of for the past few months. Depression and anxiety aren’t new for me and they’ve been with me since I was a child but now, I question how I can have all the words for what is causing this most recent state and still feel so immobile.

I don’t really have much to say but ultimately, I will always choose to reject ignorance and to think/learn about how I and others take up space and move through this world. I believe everyone should read more because I know what it has done for me. At the same time I recognize the difficulty that comes with choosing what to do with new information. It’s not an easy road.

Not an Easy Road – Buju Banton

Parallels Between Dance Expectations and Society

During class, we talked about dance, and one of the things that was brought up was that dance in other countries (specifically in Europe) is funded by the government. It made me wonder about the traditional (ballet) aspects of dance played a role into how dance is now as an artform. We could even look at societal standards and see how that plays out.

First off when ballet was created, only men could perform, which is so funny to me because ballet is so feminized now. But I believe that dance and hierarchies and such are exactly the same. Back then, women were expected to be modest and be elegant “garden fairies”, which is accurate to their expectations at the time. Think of Snow White, and that’s who women were expected to be like. Very “men save the princess”. Female dancers were only supposed to look graceful at the time in society, and men were supposed to be suit and armor knights. That is just gender roles alone.

Looking at the capitalist structure of our government, dance is also a pretty accurate mirror to corporate society. For example, the large companies are considered the representation of dance, such as Alvin Ailey, New York City Ballet, and some other bigger ones. Dancers fail to think about the smaller companies and projects that are more inclusive and overall better work environment. It’s the same as the government in that aspect. People think of the corporate organizations such as Starbucks first before considering local coffee shops. That is very much the exact same way it is in dance. Dance has it’s own little structure that matches exactly how corporate America is ran. That is crazy to me.

Because of that way of thinking, that makes a career in dance a lot more viable than what people originally thought. It is still going to be hell to find a stable job, but thinking about smaller dance companies makes things a lot easier as an adult.

Black Women and Health Care

Last year, I experienced for myself how black women are ignored and gaslit in health care. My grandmother and mother dealt with chronic illness for as long as I can remember, so I’ve always had a front seat to the treatment they have received. However, it was still shocking when I experienced it for myself.

December 2022, I was diagnosed with Hashimoto’s disease. Hashimoto’s disease is an immune disorder where the body creates antibodies that attack the cells of the thyroid, which causes the thyroid not to be able to make enough thyroid hormone. Months before December, I had done the usual blood work after an annual exam and my Thyroid Stimulating Hormone (TSH) levels were two times higher than the normal range. I contacted my doctor and was told I had nothing to worry about. In the months following, I started to experience fatigue, no matter how much rest I got, severe depression, sensitivity to the cold, dryness of the skin and hair, pain in my neck, and symptoms I couldn’t articulate until now. It wasn’t until about September, that the depression and fatigue became so severe I could barely leave the bed. Finally, I started missing periods, which is not normal for me, and knew something was wrong. 

At first, I called my ob/gyn and told her I had missed 2 periods and was starting to worry. All I was told was to continue taking my birth control as prescribed and to schedule an appointment, which wouldn’t be until January. Since the symptoms were worsening by the day, I scheduled the appointment but also sought answers elsewhere– the primary care physician who had ordered my blood work. Like my ob/gyn, I wouldn’t be able to see my PCP in person until January, so I scheduled a virtual appointment, at this point I wanted answers now. 

On the call with my PCP, I told her all the symptoms I was experiencing, how they were getting worse, and that I was missing periods. I was told that I was stressing too much and that this is what was causing me to miss periods and to schedule an appointment with my ob/gyn. The symptoms continued and again I missed another period. At one point my body was feeling so tired and in pain, so I went to urgent care. Of course, they didn’t help either and just told me that I was pregnant, despite a negative pregnancy test, and that there was nothing they could do for any of my symptoms. 

I was becoming desperate for answers at this point. I was so depressed, my symptoms were getting worse, and my grades were tanking. After much googling and help from my mother and boyfriend, I took a look again at my blood work, my TSH levels being this high had to mean something, so I scheduled another virtual appointment with my PCP. At the visit, I told her about my blood work and she finally agreed that my symptoms were unusual and that the TSH levels could possibly lead us to answers for why I was having them and she ordered blood work for my thyroid hormones to be looked at. My TSH levels were two times the normal range and my Thyroperoxidase (TPO) antibodies were more than 5 times the usual range. 

At the next visit with my PCP, I was told that because my TSH and TPO antibody levels were high, I more than likely had an autoimmune disease level called Hashimoto’s disease and I was prescribed medication.

After being on the medication for a month my symptoms had already started to get better. At last, I was being listened to and getting answers and solutions, but after how long and how many times being told I was stressing out about my condition and that there was nothing that could be done. Why did I have to tell my doctor my blood work was off and that it should be looked into when she is the one who signed off on it? 

Looking back on this whole experience, it makes me think what if I had a condition that was life-threatening and was ignored that many times? It honestly hurts my heart how black women are treated in health care. We deserve to be listened to and for our issues to be taken seriously. I hope that one day it truly reaches a point in health care where black women and their health issues/concerns are listened to and taken seriously.

Body Shaming In Sports

I have always been an athlete since the day I could walk.

Growing up, my dad got me to try out different sports. From gymnastics, track, swimming, soccer, you name it. It was something that my dad saw was important to grow up with. I ended up sticking to soccer and I used to HATE it. I was forced to play coed soccer (which always meant a team full of boys and one or two girls) and it always made me dislike the sport. I used to cry and never want to go to practice because it scared me. Being the only girl on the team, knowing I was never going to get the ball because I’m a girl, and having to play rough with the boys. Soccer was always something that I always hated as a kid. My dad ended up putting me in an a girls team after while and that is when I started to enjoy the sport.

I found love for the game and I never quit. It made me want to try out different sports in high school as well and it allowed me to pick up athletic skills super quick. Being an athlete was my life all through out middle and high school and I loved every second of it. Soccer is a sport that a lot of people start when they are super young so there were a lot of player in my high school varsity team that was really good. Since I had a huge gap in skills because of the time I stopped playing my dad really wanted to motivate me to do better. He was encouraging – in his own way. He made me practice on the field near my house on days I had no practice for my club team and tried to get me to exercise more. But it got to the point where the encouragement were comments that tried to get me motivated in different ways. Instead of just telling me to go on runs in the morning, it became “you look like you’re gaining weight” at the dinner table. Instead of “keep practicing, you’re going to get better”, it became “you’re getting fat.” It was really hurtful to hear sometimes, but I knew in his own weird way he thought it would encourage me to be more active. I grew to ignore the comments and I did my own thing and never lost sight of the things I love. I picked up a new sport in high school and I became really good in it super fast. Soccer was still a sport I enjoyed, but to me it will always hold a lot of pressure as well.

Thinking about my experiences with bodies and sports, it makes me sad to think that there are sports where body shaming is extra bad. Ballet, gymnastics, figure skating, etc. I have heard stories of girls who are so skinny to the point they are just skin and bones, are called overweight and fat. But now in everyday scenarios I am always very cautious with comments about appearances and I urge people to do the same. Words are so powerful and they hold so much weight. We all need to be mindful about the things we comment on or how we say things.

What Were You Wearing

“I was seven,
Wearing play clothes,
When he decided,
I was his experiment
I was seven,
Playing in my home,
When he decided to
Claim my innocence”

“I was eight,
Wearing a black shirt,
And pj pants with pink stars
When it all started
I was eight,
In the trusting lap
Of my uncle,
Too young to question,
Too young to debate”

“I was three,
Or possibly five,
When it became,
A monthly encounter,
I think I was three,
Sometimes in a sundress,
Others in pajamas,
When he decided
He had the right to me”

This poem was inspired by an exhibit called What Were You Wearing. The title of the exhibit is a question commonly asked to victims of rape/sexual assault, implying that what happened to them was somehow their own fault. The exhibit proves that clothing is irrelevant when it comes to sexual assault, and that we should stop victim-blaming by asking this question. 

Burnout Feels like Smoke

Burnout feels like smoke.

Smoke in your head, so thick you can’t think straight.

Smoke in your bones that makes your movements heavy and sluggish.

Smoke in your eyes, burning them with tears and clouding your vision.

Smoke all around you, a never-ending haze that you struggle to work through.  Following you around wherever you walk.

The smoke stays with you.

It stays in your lungs, making you choke on your words, and eventually you realize that speaking is just too goddamn exhausting to do right now.

It stays in your mouth, as you struggle to eat a simple meal since you haven’t eaten in hours.   But chewing is a slow and anguishing process, and you can barely taste the food over the ash.

It stays in your throat as you force it all down, threatening to make you cough.  But you don’t even have the energy for that.

Where there’s smoke there’s fire, a flame just recently extinguished.  If you leave it alone long enough, the last embers will fade and the smoke with it.

But not if you keep stoking the fire.

If you could just rest, the smoke would fade.  If you could take a day off, just a single day, it would be clear enough to think.

But you don’t even have a single day; every day you need to do so much, and you know that if you stop now then everything will pile up and you’ll have no hope of ever catching up.

So, you need to keep stoking the fire.

Some days are better, some are worse.  

Sometimes it is just a haze that makes you wheeze slightly and forces you to squint to see everything.  But, you can mostly see and mostly breathe, so it’s okay.

Sometimes it’s a thick cloud, almost unbreathable, making everything around you difficult to see.  But you still have tasks to do, so you force yourself through every agonizing breath you take as you stumble around near blind.  

It can happen with anything.

In school from having to do too much homework, to many assignments, to many tests to study for.

In sports from doing the same drills for too long, or having too many competitions, going and going but never stopping for a second.

In dance from needing to perfect the routine, practicing the same things for hours and hours, and you can’t stop now lest you forget everything.

Anything where you put in so much, but get so little in return.  Anything where despite your body’s pleas, you just can’t stop.

Something that you don’t enjoy anymore even though you used to.

Where there is always someone saying “It’s not good enough, you must do more,” despite the fact that you’ve used all your efforts to the point of burning.

No, it’s not perfect.

Hell, it’s probably not even that good.

Because I’m doing this surrounded by smoke that you are forcing me to stoke.

I’m tired.

I just want to rest.

Please just let me rest.

When I said this song feels like burnout, I meant that it feels like how burnout makes you feel. The feeling of being too tired to do anything, and everything you do feels like it’s slowly killing you. You are tired and unhappy, and you just want it to be silent.

Moving

I’ve always wanted to dance, even before I knew what dancing was. My family has told me that I was the kind of baby that could never sit still, I was always moving to something or another that was running through my head – finding some kind of rhythm in just about anything. The birds singing, the sounds of bustling streets below, the perfectly chaotic harmony of my mother and her mother in the kitchen. There wasn’t an end to what I could find a song in, and every tune deserved some kind of movement.

I was far from a shy kid, and I never got stage fright when I used to perform bharathanatyam (a classical dance used to tell religious stories through the combination of expression, melody, and rhythm). My dance teacher was far from sweet but she pushed me so much that I was dancing with girls twice my age before I was 7. What enamored me so much about bharathanatyam was the patterns found in the cycles of beats, so it made sense that my passion for the dance faded when my teacher moved away. I lost the sense of stability I found in dance class, and decided that I couldn’t continue learning under a different teacher.

Growing up made me too tired to pursue all the passions I have, from dancing to music to art. Moving became a chore, rather than something that was supposed to be freeing. When all I wanted to do was rest, there was still that voice in the back of my mind telling me that I’m just making excuses for myself and I need to push through and reconnect with the activities that gave my life meaning. I hope that as my semester ends and I can basically restart my routine I can factor in dancing to my life’s motions. I rejoined a bharathanatyam class a couple months ago but I haven’t had much luck finding transport to it during the school year, but winter break should free me up and I really hope that I can find my love for dancing again.

Regaining my Identity

My father is from Pakistan and immigrated to the United States when he was in his twenties. My mother is a first-generation Pakistani who was born and raised in Vancouver, British Columbia. My parents wanted to raise my brothers and I to love and embrace our heritage, and they didn’t want us to lose it growing up here. Starting from our childhood, we were immersed in South Asian culture. This includes the flavorful food, colorful clothing, and of course Bollywood films and songs. One of the most important aspects of my culture that helped me develop a deep appreciation for it is the music. Desi music is so powerful in so many ways. The songs can evoke a range of intense emotions, such as love, joy, or heartbreak. The lyrics are very well-written, and hold a poetic and deep meaning which speaks to the listener’s heart. Also, desi music definitely helped me strengthen my connection with my culture. 

Even though it played such a pivotal role in my life, I never acknowledged or represented my culture at school. I attended predominantly white schools and I was usually the only South Asian kid. As a result, I would try to blend in with everyone else as much as possible in order to prevent calling attention to my differences. I was ashamed of my ethnic features, including my curly hair, full eyebrows, and tan skin. In an attempt to be accepted by my peers, I would frequently straighten my hair and trim my eyebrows thin. It genuinely makes me so sad that I felt the need to hide my unique features which make us Desi women so beautiful. By the time I graduated high school, I decided that I wanted to regain my cultural identity and find a community in which I felt accepted for who I am. 

Coming to UMBC allowed me to meet other South Asians who share similar experiences as me. In the past, I had never been in an environment that truly made me feel understood. Since we all share similar upbringings, we are able to bond over our connection with our heritage in so many ways. The Desi events on campus unite us and allow us to create special memories while we dance to our favorite songs that we grew up loving. My ethnic features are appreciated and I don’t feel the need to change myself or my appearance to fit into my environment. At this school, I have formed so many special friendships with others who help me embrace our beautiful culture and feel proud of it.

Music Is the Love of My Life

In the third grade, I picked up the violin and learned diligently how to play the instrument and feel in love with it ever since. In high school I learned how to play the piano and that completely changed my perspective on music for such a long time.

Even at the loneliest of times, my music is what keeps me company. In the midst of all my panic attacks, its my playlist that soothes my soul and really calms my nerves. After getting into conflict with my friends, parents, or other people, it’s music that will reset my mind and get my mind back right. On Sunday mornings my praise playlist or the Christian radio is what gets my spirit ready to receive the word of God at church. The only thing that helps keep me focused while I’m studying is my music playing in my ears. At the gym when I’m using all my might to lift up those heavy ass weights, my music is the extra push of adrenaline that helps me successfully complete the workout.

Music is the connecting bridge between me and my family back home. I don’t speak the native language fluently, but when traditional Nigerian music comes on, I can recite every word and joyfully sing along with the rest of my family.

Music is what helps keep me stable. It has helped me find myself and come to be comfortable with who I am as a person. I don’t know who or where I would be without all the music that I listen to.

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

You’re not like your brothers

For as long as I can remember the way my siblings were raised was never. Aspects of parenting displayed by my parents often never reached her because she was a girl. For a time this worked in her favor, no heavy labor, fewer responsibilities, and discipline were all things that we as siblings saw as normal. As they mirrored the society that we would soon step into, I was naive to think that the differences between men and women within our household would always be pleasant or necessary. When my sister got older she would begin to grow tall very quickly. Shocked, my parents decided she needed to eat less to stop her from growing. The cycle of body shaming started in her at such an early age I was unaware of the repercussions associated with this until I got older. Even more so when we discussed weight and its role in society and black women in particular. My sister was always an active person despite her weight and height. Se played 3 sports all throughout high school and continued on club teams after graduation. Despite her best efforts, our parents would restrict her food intake and when questioned by my sister my parents would say “You’re not like your brothers”. The stress associated with an early cycle of body shaming is associated with what we know about black women in society my sister is already at a mental disadvantage when trying to regulate herself. At a young age, I watched her struggle with self-love, identity issues, self-worth, and many other social concepts that she should not have had to entertain. As a brother, I was ignorant of what the effects really were because as a man I chalked it up to independent struggles, not a systemic issue. Her frustration with her body and its treatment is felt by many young black women as a way to ease them into patriarchal values.