Sometimes we have both kinds of weather in the same day where I live; it makes getting dressed in the morning a game of Russian Roulette, where the key to survival is *~layers~*
Sunday, February 7, 2016
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
College Doodle
This is how college feels after a little while....don't let your studies catch up to you, kids.
Monday, January 5, 2015
TEACHER
I recently taught a class for the first time :)
I was filling in for the actual teacher, and the class was part of a homeschooling co-op where different moms gather and teach classes on different things. This class was on the water cycle, and I was tasked with teaching the children about precipitation.
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I had agreed to this deal in a very casual, last-minute kinda way. My mom (the teacher) had been looking for someone to take her place because my little brother's cast was coming off and she had to take him to the doctor. At some point, she had the bright idea to ask me, and I was like "yeah sure man no big deal, I can handle children, I'm the oldest child of like 25 kids, it's no big deal."
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And she was like, "Okay, if I can't find another replacement inshallah you're going to teach the class."
So I promptly went to bed and didn't think about it until Monday, when my mother shook me awake and announced, "It's time for class!".
Needless to say, I had
a) not prepared any lessons
b) not read the lessons that my mother had prepared
c) no idea what I'd be teaching
I sort of stumbled around collecting the supplies my mother was handing me; a binder with the lesson (JUST TEACH THEM PRECIPITATION), some dry erase markers, and all the supplies for the activity.
Furthermore, although I would be following my mom to the school, I would have to drive back ALL BY MYSELF, which was frightening because it was only the second time I'd done something like that, and the first time I was doing it with a license. (Dear Officers That May Be Reading This, the first time was because my parents had locked themselves out of the car while they were at a Little Caesars, and I was the only one who could go bail them out, and I can't reasonably be blamed for that).
My mom dropped me off, showed me to the classroom, and told me to chill out. I guess in retrospect I may have looked something like this:
I spent the entire 15 minutes rearranging the desks and re-drawing the little 'water cycle diagram' I'd scrawled on the board. (I also took some photos, because I wanted to text them to my cousin and prove that I had done something productive on break besides sleeping, cleaning, and sort-of learning how to code).
The classroom itself wasn't very big, and I knew I was only going to be teaching four students (minus my brother) but that didn't stop me from stressing out, and then my first student arrived.
He was so adorable, with a little backpack and his mom in tow. She dropped him off, and he fiddled with a toy car for a while til' the second student came. This kid was also cute (spoiler alert: THEY WERE ALL CUTE) but instead of a backpack, he had a huge deck of football cards.
I chatted with them for a while about sports until the last two students arrived with his mom, who waved cheerfully at me, and then forcefully locked the door. I can't say I wasn't terrified, because now I was alone with four little children, waiting for me to inject their minds with knowledge.
I think that's when they decided that
a) I was weak
b) I didn't know anything, and
c) they had all the power.
"We learned about the water cycle!" one kid shouted, complete with dramatic eye-rolling, before he turned away from the board and started a conversation about which sport was the raddest.
I was totally not prepared for this, so I just joined in their conversation, desperate to win back their attention by any means possible.
"Okay, so you guys want to be sportsmen?" I squeaked. "That's so cool, uh, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
"A football player."
"A soccer player."
"My mom teaches the other class, and she did science things with us last time."
"A racecar driver."
I jumped on that third response and blurted, "Well, we're GOING to be doing science stuff today, TOO, so let's go through the water cycle reeeeeally quickly, okay?"
It took about three seconds to get through the previous lessons (evaporation, condensation) and then two seconds to explain precipitation. Then I whipped out my supplies for the Big Experiment.
It was set up like this: I filled a clear cup halfway with water (to represent the atmosphere), and halfway with shaving cream (to be the clouds in the sky). Then I took a dropper full of blue dye and squirted it through the 'cloud'.
The dye would seep through and drizzle down through the water, simulating rain.
The kids thought it was immeasurably rad, and for a while I was excited because I'd recaptured their attention. However, there was a problem: I hadn't brought enough water to fill all their cups all the way.
"I'm coming back," I told them as I stepped out of the door. "Don't lock me out, okay?"
"Okay!"
Now, my mother had already warned me that these children had a tendency to run, so I basically sprinted to the bathroom, filled the bottle, and hightailed it back - but nobody had left.
They were biding their time.
I handed them each a plastic clear cup and told them to hold onto it, but when I started filling up the cups, it turned out that I still didn't have enough water. This time, when I burst out of the room at top speed, two of the boys followed me.
The other kids cheered as I chased the escapees around. One of them bolted out to the room where the mothers were, and I decided not to follow him because the other runner was doing circles in the hall. When I came back, the first boy had returned, and one of the students who had been sitting down was halfway out of his seat, ready to repeat the act.
It took about 5 minutes to sit them all down, and when that was done, I had to deal with the shaving cream.
Everyone wanted to stick their fingers in it, and because I wasn't sure how long I had to keep them in class, I let them drag it out and play with the white fluff. They spent hours shaping it like "real clouds".
Then it turned out that there was only one dropper in the supply case, so they couldn't all do their experiments at the same time, which meant I had to let the waiting children continue to mess with the shaving cream. Needless to say, the cleanup afterwards was a huge ordeal, and I got sprayed in the face with blue fluff about three times.
However, everybody seemed to grasp the idea of precipitation really well (that's what I was there for, anyway). They were really excited about their 'rain in a cup' - so excited that they wanted to take their cups home, but I had to say no.That didn't stop one child from attempting to sneak out of the room with it after class, though. He would have gotten away with it, too, if it weren't for his sneaky giggling and constant looking back.
Unfortunately, the cloud experiment was the coolest thing I had in my repertoire, besides some homework I cheerfully passed out and they all reluctantly stowed away. When the clock hit 12:30, they began to crowd the door.
"Wait, class isn't over!" I cried, blocking the exit. Then, less certainly, I asked, "when does this class end?"
I had completely forgotten to ask my mom. There was no signal, so I couldn't call her, and if I opened the door to ask one of the other teachers, there would be no stopping the flood of children.
"We need to go RIGHT NOW," one of the kids urged "RIGHT NOW!" And when all the other children began clamoring and agreeing, I decided to trust them. So I stepped aside and let them pour out of the classroom.
It turned out later that I had released them thirty minutes early; but in my defense, it's very hard to hold a group of children for class on a single topic, the entirety of which has already been exhausted.
I'm glad that the experience wasn't too stressful, and although it wasn't enough to make me wanna become a teacher, I still enjoyed it.
Unfortunately, my own classes start next week :( no more sleeping in for me!
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
Ruqaiya and Elphaba
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| She looks really sweet here, though |
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| YES, WE CAN |
The second picture was published in an anthology!!!
Summery Doodles
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| *~SUNSHINE~* |
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| (random girl who is totally NOT worrying about her final grades, which still haven't been posted yet *hint hint administration*)
Fun fact: I have like 30 unposted, but written blog passages about everything from my soccer days to my Congressional sojourn, but they're still in the "what will people think of this?" phase - and contrary to what the second picture says, I still care way too much.
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Monday, November 24, 2014
On Meeting a Famous Poet
It may look like I don't update my blog, but really what happens is this:
1.) I have an idea, a good one, for an article
2.) I write
3.) I edit
4.) Doubt and worry sets in that my article is a piece of trash
5.) I revert to draft, or permanently save as draft, until I have edited it to perfect perfectness
OR
1.) I have an idea
2.) I start to write
3.) Too long, I never finish
Edgar Allan Poe said something about this: write only short stories so you don't bore the reader and also don't bore yourself. I've already said too much in this introduction, so here's what I really wanted to write about: meeting Eavan Boland.
A long time ago, my mom's college class was going to a poetry reading, and she invited me to go because I was into poetry and writing and stuff. I was super excited, because I had imagined it would be a seedy underground place, filled with smoke, with hipsters and cool people snapping their fingers and saying things like "jive" and "groove." Something like this, with less music.
Anyhow, when we got the address, I was surprised to figure out it was at a tiny little arts theatre, dedicated to some famous writer or something. A well-known hole in the wall.
I instantly felt underdressed when a man in a tuxedo opened the door for us, only to feel relieved when he told us we were at the wrong side of the building. The real theater was very small, with two stages, and delicate, deatailed architecture and ceiling decor that made you look up so high you'd almost snap your neck trying to see it all. There were people in informal outfits milling around; my mother got our tickets and joined her teacher, a jolly woman with a PhD who insisted on my calling her by her first name. The classmates trickled in. The doors opened, and we were shown into the theater.
It was actually rather small, if I remember correctly, for a theater: about the size of an elementary school gym. The stage had three women seated behind a pulpit. We took our seats. I realized that there was a mural on the ceiling and that above us there were balcony seats! People hidden in the shadows! They murmured softly as everyone began to fill in.
I remember someone shoving papers into everyone's hands; they were all identical, with a poem on them written in someone's scrawly, looping handwriting. I tried to read it, but I didn't really get it; poetry is difficult enough without having to decipher the hieroglyphics it's written in.
People around me shushed each other, and a spotlight snapped on, highlighting the pulpit. A woman introduced the poet and their program, comparing her to the famous women of Shakespeare's time, and announced that the reading would begin.
The poet was an Irish woman, Eavan Boland. She didn't sound Irish at all. Rather, she sounded like an Englishwoman; she reminded me of a gentle mother or grandmother, and she had a warm and friendly laugh and a good sense of humor. She sat down, adjusted her glasses, remarked on her lack of an accent (to people's amusement), and began to read.
Ms. Boland began by explaining her poems and her background. I can't remember everything, but I do remember most of what she said. I remember that she spoke of her people, and their struggle for freedom, and to define themselves and to keep their language, long dead, alive.
She spoke of the fighting, and starvation, and love. She talked of a couple who died together, and were found, frozen to death, the man's stiff body warming the woman's feet even after death. She spoke of a little Irish girl burying her identity to become English (that explained the accent). She read a simple narrative and talked about books, shelves of them, and we smiled with her.
And then I heard a sea of crumpling noises all around me, and saw people unfolding their papers. I did the same with mine, because she was about to read the poem written on it. But I didn't end up reading along with her as she spoke. Instead, my eyes were focused on her, and they were full of tears.
Why was I so moved?
Because I felt the force that flowed underneath her words that night. When she talked about her childhood, she wasn't just talking about the loss of an accent - I felt her pain at the loss of a language, the same pain that worries me daily as a first-generation child of immigrants.
And when she talked about the starvation of her people, my mind wandered to a place I'd heard stories of long ago, when my mother would comb my hair and sing to me before bed.
I was teary because her pride for her people's history, and for their culture, and their triumphs, was my pride in my own, and her every word was resonating with me. This woman, whom I'd never heard of before tonight, had showed me everything I'd always felt before, in words.
Later, when she said she'd be selling her book, I stood in line and silently grabbed a copy. I shuffled forward, my brain full of the things she'd said and the way she'd said them.
And when it was my turn to meet her, I stood there for what seemed like an eternity.
There she was, in front of me. So much to say, so little time.
I wanted to ask, can you speak the language of your forefathers? Does it hurt you that you can't? Do you weep when you think of the lost deeds and songs, the stories and smiles, the pain and the pride and the essence of your ancestors, lost?
I wanted to tell her that she'd almost made me cry, but the only words that came out were, "It's a pleasure to meet you, and I really enjoyed your reading."
On the car ride home, I held a copy of her book to my heart; it was inscribed with her blessings for me and my sister - short, sweet, and impersonal.
The book is still with me, but the feelings have somewhat faded because my mind is always clouded with a thousand things, especially now that I'm entering the busiest years of my life.
However, occasionally I will reach up to my closet's highest shelf and dust off the cover, attempting to recapture the raw emotion and spiritual connection that I felt that night when Ms. Eavan Boland performed her ode to her people.
One day, I hope to perform my own.
1.) I have an idea, a good one, for an article
2.) I write
3.) I edit
4.) Doubt and worry sets in that my article is a piece of trash
5.) I revert to draft, or permanently save as draft, until I have edited it to perfect perfectness
OR
1.) I have an idea
2.) I start to write
3.) Too long, I never finish
Edgar Allan Poe said something about this: write only short stories so you don't bore the reader and also don't bore yourself. I've already said too much in this introduction, so here's what I really wanted to write about: meeting Eavan Boland.
A long time ago, my mom's college class was going to a poetry reading, and she invited me to go because I was into poetry and writing and stuff. I was super excited, because I had imagined it would be a seedy underground place, filled with smoke, with hipsters and cool people snapping their fingers and saying things like "jive" and "groove." Something like this, with less music.
Anyhow, when we got the address, I was surprised to figure out it was at a tiny little arts theatre, dedicated to some famous writer or something. A well-known hole in the wall.
I instantly felt underdressed when a man in a tuxedo opened the door for us, only to feel relieved when he told us we were at the wrong side of the building. The real theater was very small, with two stages, and delicate, deatailed architecture and ceiling decor that made you look up so high you'd almost snap your neck trying to see it all. There were people in informal outfits milling around; my mother got our tickets and joined her teacher, a jolly woman with a PhD who insisted on my calling her by her first name. The classmates trickled in. The doors opened, and we were shown into the theater.
It was actually rather small, if I remember correctly, for a theater: about the size of an elementary school gym. The stage had three women seated behind a pulpit. We took our seats. I realized that there was a mural on the ceiling and that above us there were balcony seats! People hidden in the shadows! They murmured softly as everyone began to fill in.
I remember someone shoving papers into everyone's hands; they were all identical, with a poem on them written in someone's scrawly, looping handwriting. I tried to read it, but I didn't really get it; poetry is difficult enough without having to decipher the hieroglyphics it's written in.
People around me shushed each other, and a spotlight snapped on, highlighting the pulpit. A woman introduced the poet and their program, comparing her to the famous women of Shakespeare's time, and announced that the reading would begin.
The poet was an Irish woman, Eavan Boland. She didn't sound Irish at all. Rather, she sounded like an Englishwoman; she reminded me of a gentle mother or grandmother, and she had a warm and friendly laugh and a good sense of humor. She sat down, adjusted her glasses, remarked on her lack of an accent (to people's amusement), and began to read.
Ms. Boland began by explaining her poems and her background. I can't remember everything, but I do remember most of what she said. I remember that she spoke of her people, and their struggle for freedom, and to define themselves and to keep their language, long dead, alive.
She spoke of the fighting, and starvation, and love. She talked of a couple who died together, and were found, frozen to death, the man's stiff body warming the woman's feet even after death. She spoke of a little Irish girl burying her identity to become English (that explained the accent). She read a simple narrative and talked about books, shelves of them, and we smiled with her.
And then I heard a sea of crumpling noises all around me, and saw people unfolding their papers. I did the same with mine, because she was about to read the poem written on it. But I didn't end up reading along with her as she spoke. Instead, my eyes were focused on her, and they were full of tears.
Why was I so moved?
Because I felt the force that flowed underneath her words that night. When she talked about her childhood, she wasn't just talking about the loss of an accent - I felt her pain at the loss of a language, the same pain that worries me daily as a first-generation child of immigrants.
And when she talked about the starvation of her people, my mind wandered to a place I'd heard stories of long ago, when my mother would comb my hair and sing to me before bed.
I was teary because her pride for her people's history, and for their culture, and their triumphs, was my pride in my own, and her every word was resonating with me. This woman, whom I'd never heard of before tonight, had showed me everything I'd always felt before, in words.
Later, when she said she'd be selling her book, I stood in line and silently grabbed a copy. I shuffled forward, my brain full of the things she'd said and the way she'd said them.
And when it was my turn to meet her, I stood there for what seemed like an eternity.
There she was, in front of me. So much to say, so little time.
I wanted to ask, can you speak the language of your forefathers? Does it hurt you that you can't? Do you weep when you think of the lost deeds and songs, the stories and smiles, the pain and the pride and the essence of your ancestors, lost?
I wanted to tell her that she'd almost made me cry, but the only words that came out were, "It's a pleasure to meet you, and I really enjoyed your reading."
On the car ride home, I held a copy of her book to my heart; it was inscribed with her blessings for me and my sister - short, sweet, and impersonal.
The book is still with me, but the feelings have somewhat faded because my mind is always clouded with a thousand things, especially now that I'm entering the busiest years of my life.
However, occasionally I will reach up to my closet's highest shelf and dust off the cover, attempting to recapture the raw emotion and spiritual connection that I felt that night when Ms. Eavan Boland performed her ode to her people.
One day, I hope to perform my own.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Laser Tag
Yesterday I got the opportunity to go laser-tagging with a bunch of Muslim high-schoolers from our county's coalition of Muslim Student Associations, and it was such a blast.
In case you have never been laser-tagging, it's basically when a bunch of people put on futuristic suits with phasers attached, and then run around in a dark smoky room trying to tag each other with lasers. The whole experience is incredibly fun, and also dangerous
When you tag someone, you get points and they lose points, and the team with the most points wins.
I had been laser-tagging before, but never with people in my own height range. Usually, I end up tagging along with my little brother and his army of elementary school boys. This does not make for a pleasant experience, partly because little boys are too quick to hit, and partly because they are too short to be seen.
Anyhow, there were about forty of us there, which was the exact size a group has to be if they want a discount. What I didn't know, was that their "discount" still left me swiping a card for fifty dollars.
Those of you who want to play laser-tag: prepare to be robbed.
We signed our waivers and were hustled into a little room lit by UV lights. Before I could start asking whether or not they would cause skin cancer, a bored staff member started droning the rules at us.
Both feet on the ground, don't cuss, no physical contact, yadda yadda.....
As he was putting us all to sleep, I noticed a GROWN MAN sitting in the midst of all these kids. BY HIMSELF.
Earlier, I had seen him walk up to the register and pay for a game - but I didn't think that he would be paying for himself. And even if he was, WHY WAS HE ALONE?
There were a bunch of other pre-teen boys hanging around in the back, but he was sitting apart from them. I became highly suspicious, but just as I began to tell my friends, the door opened and we were unleashed into the arena.
Instantly, I slung on my pack and sped into the arena to find a good hiding spot, 'cause if there's one thing I'm good at, it's cowering and avoiding battle.
Presently, I was hidden in a little nook where I could see others, but they couldn't really see me, and I began zapping away. I was so focused on hitting others that I didn't really check the information panel on my phaser,which told me who I hit, who hit me, and what my points/life/ammo/credits looked like.
Apparently, though, I kept zapping this particular kid, who I'm going to call Angry Gamer Boy. When you get into the game, you get to pick a codename. Mine was Queen 'Superbat', a cute title that my baby brother gave to me earlier that month <3. Angry Gamer Boy was called 'destoryer1' or something along these lines.
Every time I turned a corner, there he was - and because he was on the opposite team, I would instantly take aim, shoot, and disable him.
Apparently, he believed that I was targeting him in particular, and that made him angry. Angry Gamer Boy ended up facing off with my brother - codename 'Stick' - whose gaming skills are on a whole new level. My brother had somehow discovered the secret to invincibility, which pissed Angry Gamer Boy off until he was frothing with rage.
"That's a d*** move!" he kept hollering, according to my brother, before stalking off to find out how he could get his own hands on that invincibility juice.
When he did, he hunted me down.
At this point, I was just minding my own business, sitting in my little corner with my friends, when BAM! Out of nowhere, I see this kid stomping towards me.
His laser was flashing, which made me assume that I had hit him, so I just kept blasting him until he got the message that this was my turf and to back off or get toasted, but he just kept coming.
"INVINCIBILITY!" he roared, getting all up in my face. "You like that, huh? You like that?"
He was close enough that I could see the demented glee in his eyes. He plugged me with about thirty thousand more shots (I was already hit, so half of them were wasted) before he strolled away, cackling with pleasure at his well-executed revenge.
I had no idea what he was targeting me for - until I got my ranking later on, and discovered that I had taken him out on several occasions.
That wasn't the only startling thing, though. At some point later on in the second round, I was chilling on a sniper podium with my green-team homies when somebody came barreling in, rolling like a tumbleweed.
Who is this guy? I wondered, turning to see if it was one of my teammates - and who should it be but the GROWN MAN I had seen earlier?!?!
I just about died with shock. He babbled something out of Call of Duty like "my position has been compromised, fare thee well, teammates!" before rolling off again, leaving me and some of the other snipers in shock. In my surprise, I got zapped from behind, confirming my suspicion that this guy was bad news.
We played two games, and both times my rank was in the top 20 (there were forty spots). In the second round, I might have made it to the top ten, but I unknowingly stood under a Gem for about thirty minutes without realizing it.
For those of you who don't know, a Gem is a machine that looks like a clock and is mounted on a wall. If you stand under it, it activates - and you have to shoot it before it shoots you. If you manage to hit it before the countdown ends, you get a reward. If you fail to hit it, like I did (because I had no idea it was there), the Gem shoots you and takes your points.
After the first game ended, we gathered outside to pray Maghrib salat in the street, on the concrete. Luckily, someone had brought a cloth we could use to cover the ground. That was one of the highlights of the evening - the night air was so cool and peaceful, and the moon was gleaming in the sky.
When both games were over, we walked to a nearby restaurant and deliberated over whether there were enough seats. There weren't, so some people went to get fast food, and some people went to get pizza, like me and my siblings.
We ate dinner and stayed there until 10, when my father came to pick us up. By that time, I had made some new friends from different schools, and the group planning on the next outing with the same people.
Overall, it was an exciting evening, and I'd like to do it again sometime - who knows? Maybe this time I can make it to the top spot.
In case you have never been laser-tagging, it's basically when a bunch of people put on futuristic suits with phasers attached, and then run around in a dark smoky room trying to tag each other with lasers. The whole experience is incredibly fun, and also dangerous
When you tag someone, you get points and they lose points, and the team with the most points wins.
I had been laser-tagging before, but never with people in my own height range. Usually, I end up tagging along with my little brother and his army of elementary school boys. This does not make for a pleasant experience, partly because little boys are too quick to hit, and partly because they are too short to be seen.
Anyhow, there were about forty of us there, which was the exact size a group has to be if they want a discount. What I didn't know, was that their "discount" still left me swiping a card for fifty dollars.
Those of you who want to play laser-tag: prepare to be robbed.
We signed our waivers and were hustled into a little room lit by UV lights. Before I could start asking whether or not they would cause skin cancer, a bored staff member started droning the rules at us.
Both feet on the ground, don't cuss, no physical contact, yadda yadda.....
As he was putting us all to sleep, I noticed a GROWN MAN sitting in the midst of all these kids. BY HIMSELF.
Earlier, I had seen him walk up to the register and pay for a game - but I didn't think that he would be paying for himself. And even if he was, WHY WAS HE ALONE?
There were a bunch of other pre-teen boys hanging around in the back, but he was sitting apart from them. I became highly suspicious, but just as I began to tell my friends, the door opened and we were unleashed into the arena.
Instantly, I slung on my pack and sped into the arena to find a good hiding spot, 'cause if there's one thing I'm good at, it's cowering and avoiding battle.
Presently, I was hidden in a little nook where I could see others, but they couldn't really see me, and I began zapping away. I was so focused on hitting others that I didn't really check the information panel on my phaser,which told me who I hit, who hit me, and what my points/life/ammo/credits looked like.
Apparently, though, I kept zapping this particular kid, who I'm going to call Angry Gamer Boy. When you get into the game, you get to pick a codename. Mine was Queen 'Superbat', a cute title that my baby brother gave to me earlier that month <3. Angry Gamer Boy was called 'destoryer1' or something along these lines.
Every time I turned a corner, there he was - and because he was on the opposite team, I would instantly take aim, shoot, and disable him.
Apparently, he believed that I was targeting him in particular, and that made him angry. Angry Gamer Boy ended up facing off with my brother - codename 'Stick' - whose gaming skills are on a whole new level. My brother had somehow discovered the secret to invincibility, which pissed Angry Gamer Boy off until he was frothing with rage.
"That's a d*** move!" he kept hollering, according to my brother, before stalking off to find out how he could get his own hands on that invincibility juice.
When he did, he hunted me down.
At this point, I was just minding my own business, sitting in my little corner with my friends, when BAM! Out of nowhere, I see this kid stomping towards me.
His laser was flashing, which made me assume that I had hit him, so I just kept blasting him until he got the message that this was my turf and to back off or get toasted, but he just kept coming.
"INVINCIBILITY!" he roared, getting all up in my face. "You like that, huh? You like that?"
He was close enough that I could see the demented glee in his eyes. He plugged me with about thirty thousand more shots (I was already hit, so half of them were wasted) before he strolled away, cackling with pleasure at his well-executed revenge.
I had no idea what he was targeting me for - until I got my ranking later on, and discovered that I had taken him out on several occasions.
That wasn't the only startling thing, though. At some point later on in the second round, I was chilling on a sniper podium with my green-team homies when somebody came barreling in, rolling like a tumbleweed.
Who is this guy? I wondered, turning to see if it was one of my teammates - and who should it be but the GROWN MAN I had seen earlier?!?!
I just about died with shock. He babbled something out of Call of Duty like "my position has been compromised, fare thee well, teammates!" before rolling off again, leaving me and some of the other snipers in shock. In my surprise, I got zapped from behind, confirming my suspicion that this guy was bad news.
We played two games, and both times my rank was in the top 20 (there were forty spots). In the second round, I might have made it to the top ten, but I unknowingly stood under a Gem for about thirty minutes without realizing it.
For those of you who don't know, a Gem is a machine that looks like a clock and is mounted on a wall. If you stand under it, it activates - and you have to shoot it before it shoots you. If you manage to hit it before the countdown ends, you get a reward. If you fail to hit it, like I did (because I had no idea it was there), the Gem shoots you and takes your points.
After the first game ended, we gathered outside to pray Maghrib salat in the street, on the concrete. Luckily, someone had brought a cloth we could use to cover the ground. That was one of the highlights of the evening - the night air was so cool and peaceful, and the moon was gleaming in the sky.
When both games were over, we walked to a nearby restaurant and deliberated over whether there were enough seats. There weren't, so some people went to get fast food, and some people went to get pizza, like me and my siblings.
We ate dinner and stayed there until 10, when my father came to pick us up. By that time, I had made some new friends from different schools, and the group planning on the next outing with the same people.
Overall, it was an exciting evening, and I'd like to do it again sometime - who knows? Maybe this time I can make it to the top spot.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Summer
How can I tell that it's summer rather than spring?
I can tell when I can hear the buzzing hum of a lawnmower far away in the distance. I can tell when the sun envelops me with a warm glow that makes me feel like a lightbulb in a blanket, but in contrast, the wind blows soft and cool, slipping by, caressing me with airy kisses as it goes.
It is summer when, after the dull gray skies of winter, all the colors burst exceptionally vivid. As I look outside, the grass is a fresh green, bushes with sharp yellow leaves grow in the backyard - cherry blossoms shed milky white petals on the cobbled stone steps leading down our porch and past the white picket fence.
To the right, trees line the street with every color imaginable: pink, mauve, crisp granny-smith-apple and deep forest green. To the left, an American flag snaps in the wind, a wind catcher's silver tinkling accompanies the breeze, and stone rabbits peep out from behind bushes in the neighbor's garden.
Children are laughing and playing by the pond, and adults walk their dogs or push strollers along or pull red rumbling wagons, bulky with babies and toys. You can find teenagers, cellphones in hand, ambling near the pond, having been lured away from their computers by the joy they hear outside their windows.
Summer is a time for porch swings to creak, doorbells to ring, scooters to unfold and flip-flops to appear. The pool will open and school will close, sending home legions of kids. Soon, you will be able to hear the chatter of crowds, splashing and whistles, the music-box jingles from the ice cream man and one night, the hiss crackle popping of fireworks and soda cans as we gather to watch the sky light up with patriotism.
The sun, like a magnet, draws us outdoors to meet our neighbors and friends. We exhale the stale air from indoors, replacing it with the fresh oxygenated knowledge that we are alive.
Sometimes we overheat, and flock to fill up stadiums, theaters, and the mall, where we wander aimlessly, blasted with icy jets from air conditioners, until it's time to step out into the heat again.
Summer is the barbecue smoke that means charred meat. It's the kids poking bugs with sticks, their clothes covered in soil, heads bowed together, one ear pricked to listen for the sound of their mother's voice.
Summer is when memories are made and filed away so that in the chill of winter, when each breath manifests as a puff, we can close our eyes and feel the sun on our skin again. Summer is what we count down to, and hold onto, and the time of the year when flowers, trees, birds, bees, the wind, the water, and everything else is at its liveliest.
I can tell it's summer when I smile upon waking up, and smile upon closing my eyes. Summer warms my heart and lightens my spirit, and I hope it does the same for everyone else, too.
Happy early summer to you all, and many more.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
My Ancestors
My grandfathers:
Me:
My grandmothers:
Me:
I guess they'd be sort of ashamed of me. Maybe they'd disown me if they knew what I was like. It's okay, though. I would disown me, too.
Me:
My grandmothers:
Me:
I guess they'd be sort of ashamed of me. Maybe they'd disown me if they knew what I was like. It's okay, though. I would disown me, too.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Bathroom Business
I'm going to start by saying that this is an article (in case you missed the title) about bathroom business. If my mother read this, she would consficate my computer and disown me, because she believes that bathroom business and potty talk are strictly personal, only to be revealed to your doctor. My opinion is that this is public business, because every living person has at some point gone to the bathroom, from Barack Obama to the Pope to Marilyn Monroe, and so if this is a natural human function, we should be able to discuss it in polite society.
I wanted to write about the anxiety girls feel when they have to use a public bathroom when there are people around. At first I thought it was just me, but after candid discussions and a little reading, I found out it even has a name: parauresis. I realize that men can have this problem, but I'm going to limit this article to women on the grounds that I don't know what it's like to have to face your fear in the men's room, where the urinals are public and you don't even have the privacy of stalls.
I'm sure it hasn't always been this way - at least, not for me. When I was a baby, I did my business where I wanted, when I wanted. Mom was really busy with the groceries? Too bad, I had just dropped a stinker. Dad had just gotten ready to go out? Perfect time to let him know I needed him.
I had no shame. For two years, I harassed my parents left and right, and I think this is why my younger brother, born directly a year after me, was such a good baby. God probably figured I was three times the trouble of a normal child and made him the sleepiest, chubbiest baby ever born. No problem at all.
When I was a little older, my parents endeavored to teach me some manners, but all I got out of this was that you shouldn't poop in front of people, so I would go behind a door (usually their bedroom door) and complete my business there. Depending on what I ate, they wouldn't smell it for a good long time, and I was pretty pleased with myself for being so polite.
Of course, my mother, being only human, eventually snapped. She began the most rigorous potty training routine known to man, so rigorous that I was fully potty trained by two and even knew how to pee into a bottle, standing up. (Not that I was allowed to talk about this, obviously, until now.) (Not that I even remembered.)
For years I was a moral, upstanding member of society, one that politely requested to use the bathroom (or washroom, depending on where I was) rather than just bluntly saying what she needed to do there. Everything went fine, until I hit puberty.
Then I became very self-conscious of whether other people could hear me in the bathroom. I would literally choke my bladder if I heard someone in the next stall, and I'd wait till they flushed to let loose. If we both walked out of the stalls at the same time, I'd feel the need to avoid eye contact, so as not to shame us both.
I don't even understand it now. Why? Why did it matter so much if the girl next door heard me drop a particularly large log?
Why does it matter to us what our poop smells like, or if it's too stinky? You didn't go in there to make perfume, did you? (Did you???)
This question ate at me for a long, long time, but I'm not a paid researcher, so I had no way to carry out my numerous hypotheses. Was it a gender thing? Is it genetic? Am I just a freak who spends way too much time answering strange questions like this one?
I suppose it all boils down to society. If we're not allowed to even talk about certain things, then how are we supposed to do them in the same area as others? Maybe bathroom talk should be legal. We should organize a revolution (carefully, though, lest it go too far and we end up making "what was your poop like" the next "how's the weather"). It should be something like that one Nickelodeon campaign that taught kids farting was natural. It's okay! Poop smells! Peeing is loud! We get it, and nobody's judging you!
........
I looked for a clever way to end this article but I can't think of one, so goodbye!
I wanted to write about the anxiety girls feel when they have to use a public bathroom when there are people around. At first I thought it was just me, but after candid discussions and a little reading, I found out it even has a name: parauresis. I realize that men can have this problem, but I'm going to limit this article to women on the grounds that I don't know what it's like to have to face your fear in the men's room, where the urinals are public and you don't even have the privacy of stalls.
I'm sure it hasn't always been this way - at least, not for me. When I was a baby, I did my business where I wanted, when I wanted. Mom was really busy with the groceries? Too bad, I had just dropped a stinker. Dad had just gotten ready to go out? Perfect time to let him know I needed him.
I had no shame. For two years, I harassed my parents left and right, and I think this is why my younger brother, born directly a year after me, was such a good baby. God probably figured I was three times the trouble of a normal child and made him the sleepiest, chubbiest baby ever born. No problem at all.
When I was a little older, my parents endeavored to teach me some manners, but all I got out of this was that you shouldn't poop in front of people, so I would go behind a door (usually their bedroom door) and complete my business there. Depending on what I ate, they wouldn't smell it for a good long time, and I was pretty pleased with myself for being so polite.
Of course, my mother, being only human, eventually snapped. She began the most rigorous potty training routine known to man, so rigorous that I was fully potty trained by two and even knew how to pee into a bottle, standing up. (Not that I was allowed to talk about this, obviously, until now.) (Not that I even remembered.)
For years I was a moral, upstanding member of society, one that politely requested to use the bathroom (or washroom, depending on where I was) rather than just bluntly saying what she needed to do there. Everything went fine, until I hit puberty.
Then I became very self-conscious of whether other people could hear me in the bathroom. I would literally choke my bladder if I heard someone in the next stall, and I'd wait till they flushed to let loose. If we both walked out of the stalls at the same time, I'd feel the need to avoid eye contact, so as not to shame us both.
I don't even understand it now. Why? Why did it matter so much if the girl next door heard me drop a particularly large log?
Why does it matter to us what our poop smells like, or if it's too stinky? You didn't go in there to make perfume, did you? (Did you???)
This question ate at me for a long, long time, but I'm not a paid researcher, so I had no way to carry out my numerous hypotheses. Was it a gender thing? Is it genetic? Am I just a freak who spends way too much time answering strange questions like this one?
I suppose it all boils down to society. If we're not allowed to even talk about certain things, then how are we supposed to do them in the same area as others? Maybe bathroom talk should be legal. We should organize a revolution (carefully, though, lest it go too far and we end up making "what was your poop like" the next "how's the weather"). It should be something like that one Nickelodeon campaign that taught kids farting was natural. It's okay! Poop smells! Peeing is loud! We get it, and nobody's judging you!
........
I looked for a clever way to end this article but I can't think of one, so goodbye!
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