Henry Ward Beecher
My birthday was last Monday (the 4th). I turned 21 (yes I know very young) and I don’t know what it is, but this time around, I felt a little different for this start of my next lap around the Sun. I often prefer to evade the topic of my birthday when Fall comes around, and I always hated it because I had always felt like it brought bad luck and reminded me of traumatic events that were connected to the month of October for me (I quite literally got into a bad car accident the morning after my birthday).
More than anything October reminded me that I had managed to survive another year, that I still managed to continue existing— and as someone who is somewhere between the category of recovering from depression but somehow still falling deeper and deeper into it, that didn’t feel as celebratory. I always wondered in amazement how people summoned such splendid celebrations for their birthday. Why did it matter? How do so many people care about one person? These are questions that I was always curious about. Now at 21, I’m starting to realize that my own pessimistic view of birthdays was really rooted in my own insecurity and hurt, I was insecure that not many people were invested in celebrating my existence, mostly because I had pushed most of them away (something that is somewhat a self-constructed but also something that I didn’t particularly choose). I was also deeply ashamed about wanting that kind of love, the communal kind that engulfs you and makes you forget we were born alone— I never wanted to accept that even after being afflicted with heartbreak from people I once considered my friends, family, and community, that I naturally still had a hunger for mutual love and comradeship?
Mahmoud Darwish, from Memory for Forgetfulness: August, Beirut, 1982 (tr. Ibrahim Muhawi)
After going through an entire series of depression that was caused by severe bullying I faced in high school, and other traumatic (quite literally nerve-damaging) relationships in college, my emotional mechanism had become resorting to anesthetizing my needs, desires, and ultimately feelings. The very need to feel seen, cared for or cherished, were the first things I forfeited in order to build my armor that was hyper independence— amongst other things. I thought maybe if I never relied on anyone, even to remember/celebrate my date of birth, I’d be free. I had imagined freeing myself from human connections as the path to avoiding pain, it’s quite literally the opposite. My birthday was a reminder that I had spent this day with people who gave me life-altering trauma, I didn’t want it anymore, I wanted to throw it away. I was giving up my power because surrendering had felt like the only right thing to do— and also the easier thing.
I guess at 21 I realize that deep down, I didn’t like my birthday because it didn’t fit the narrative I have been feeding myself for the last couple of years (5 years, to be exact). I wanted so badly to convince myself that nobody cares and nobody should care because I wanted a good reason to severe my attachment to other humans. Often, our biggest insecurities and wounds also end up shaping the only lens through which we see the world and perceive our personal interactions. At 21, I am choosing to convince myself that I am loved, I am cherished and appreciated, I am cared for. I deserve to exist and I still manage to survive despite everything life has thrown at me and continues to do so. I need people, and people need me, and this is the nature of life. None of this is a threat, love and communion are what I was made for, and that’s why opposing my very biological instinct to connect tends to disrupt the order of my life. Sometimes, this can hurt; it’s not always easy to take steps towards people when you’ve been in defense mode for so long. Because of my inability to let my guards down, I often lose on great opportunities to foster meaningful bonds; the pandemic changed that a bit by allowing me to make virtual friends. Virtual friends as a concept were great for me because they were always there for you but never too close because God forbid I got close to anyone— I’d have to hit the road again.
Phoebe Waller-Bridge, Fleabag
I consider myself someone who has mastered the art of solitude and let me tell you that it is very stupid. I go to the movies alone, I go to the mountains and lakes alone, on dates alone— basically anything that could be done alone… I have done. I hate how capitalism has instilled this wicked idea that spending less time with humans, loved ones, means that you are the epitome of success. I didn’t see my loneliness as an ameblem that I was a successful Western woman who didn’t need anyone, I hate how this idea had infiltrated my self-view for so long.
Me and a very close friend of mine (he/him) do this exercise where we write journal entries on a shared document to practice our psych-related writing skills and also give each other feedback and exchange support for whatever we express within these entries. Some months ago, I wrote something to him along the lines of, I am exhausted of being alone. The hole that loneliness had left in my heart was draining me in all aspects and taking a toll on me, especially my health (my health has deteriorated rapidly since the pandemic, so I will assume this is true). Nothing was empowering about alienation, and I was angry at how normalized the isolation of people is in this country was—especially as someone who originated from a communal society but was raised in an individualist one.
One of my dear high school friends, probably the only person I still am in contact with from that place, recently moved back home to Ethiopia. We met for one last time and before departing, his last words of advice to me were to cherish the remaining moments I have with my loved ones. To tolerate it, even if sometimes I cannot see the outcomes of these small deposits of patience. Because one day I’ll be in a different city an ocean away from my mom and dad and I will definitely wish I didn’t skip that phone call, that I attended dinner, that I helped my dad garden, and accompanied my mom on her walks. I’ll wish I worked less and told my friends I loved them more. I’ll wish I kissed my brother more often, I’ll wish I visited my grandfather every weekend. I’ll wish I said thank you more and reminded people how much they mean to me. More than anything, I’ll wish I never held my tongue and expressed the deep infatuation I held for all the souls I encounter in this life. And that is the rhythm of existence, and love, and human connection— so on midnight of October 4th, I realized I owe all the people who got me here, I owe the universe, and most of all that I cherish those who choose to love me every day, despite.
Jeanette Winterson, Lighthousekeeping
Things I think everyone should read/checkout:
On October 3rd 2013, a boat carrying Eritrean refugees (some may have been from Somalia and Ghana as well)from Libya to Italy sank off the Italian island, Lampedusa. Approximately 368 people died and 155 survived. The Lampedusa shipwreck of 2013 was considered one of the deadliest “postwar disasters in Italy” shocking Europe and even prompting reactions from Pope Francis and Antonio Guitteres. A project called Remembering Lampedusa has been created by some European and Eritrean media and human rights experts that seeks to highlight the accounts of survivors of the shipwreck while also analyzing the impacts of the EU’s deadly migration laws. Currently, East African (mainly Eritrean) refugees are being tortured under the supervision of the UNHCR in Libya by Libyan authorities. East African refugees are specifically persecuted when migrating to Europe via Libya due to their Christian faith (ISIS slaughtered Ethiopian and Eritrean Christians in 2015 in Libya).
“The Contradictions of Afro-Arab Solidarity(ies): The Aswan High Dam & the Erasure of the Global Black Experience” from Jadaliyya has to be the best thing I’ve read in a while, highly recommend.
On Oct. 14th, Netflix will be launching a series of Palestinian films, 32 films to be exact.
The General Index, a database mapping scientific human knowledge from 107,233,728 journal articles. The co-creator Carl Malamud describes the General Index as “a dictionary of knowledge, a map to knowledge, a tool that we believe is a central facility to the practice of science in our modern age”.
This piece from the NYT “Why Is It Ok to Be Mean to The Ugly?” was really thought-provoking for me, in terms of recognizing how I have been socialized to value people and the real life impacts of beauty standards that can be financial or material. Perceived attractive and unattractive people experience substantial wage gaps between, and the latter is most likely deemed untrustworthy and less likely to be hired at a job.
This thread includes other alternatives to Netflix’s upcoming series of Palestinian films, worth checking out to learn more about and support existing Palestinian/Arab film organizations.
“Two Sons, two systems of justice, but one message for Indians: Fall In Line” is a short opinon piece by the Indian journalist Rana Ayubb who is known for documenting the BJP/Modi’s governments sectarian crimes over the last several years (check her book the Gujarat Files). She writes about how the recent arrest of Aryan Khan (Shah Rukh Khan’s son) and the son of a high-profile BJP Minister’s son display the inequalities facing Indian Muslims despite how rich they may be. Who would’ve known that SRK would be discriminated against even with all his glory and fame? The Juggernaut also has a piece going into detail about the ramifications of Aryan’s arrest.
This interview of Iman the model, her insights on modeling and her experience as a pioneer for Black models in the industry.