“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I often lose myself to music, let the song pick up and carry the emotions I don’t have the words for, allow my mind to drift and my body to move in whatever way feels best for it in those moments. With joy, excitement, sensuality, silliness, vibrancy I may dance. A simple sway to carry my sadness, yearning, heartache, hope into the world. Jumping, yelling, crying, shaking the walls of my home in vengeance, anger, reclamation. And sometimes absolute stillness, a quiet rest for my body while my mind runs through the world of the song and creates the movement and emotion and expression behind my eye.
Songs, I truly believe, are the sound of the soul. The way our spirits communicate the things we know but can’t explain, the lessons we internalize and let spill out with our voices and bodies. The communion between ourselves and those we love. What feeling is better than the one we share when enjoying music and dance with those we love. Driving with the windows down screaming lyrics at the top of our lungs, choreographing stupid little dances to a favorite tune to share with the world, learning the steps to a dance number for a celebration or just for fun, going out for a night of karaoke or dancing at the bars. These are the moments that feed our soul, that relieve the burden of living for a moment and lets us fly. This is what music and dance is to me. My friend, my comfort, my dictionary. The catharsis of movement, of sound, is healing. It is why we listen to sad songs, to angry songs, to happy songs. The range and depth of music tells so much of its own story and purpose. It is art. It is life, in its many forms. It is history.
The form and matter of dance tells us so much about who we are, where we come from, how comfortable we feel in the world, how we feel in time. It is a diary of who we were, who we are, who we want to be. Without song and dance, the world would be dull and lifeless, empty of that magic that makes life worth living.
I live in my body every day. I experience the world through the eyes of my body. It is my vision that allows for interaction, and my choices of how to take action or respond that shape who I am as a person. My body should be in my control. So why do other people have so much say on how I live my life? I used to go to the gym twice a week at the break of dawn so no one was in the gym, but recently more people started going to the gym and it’s gotten more crowded. I tell myself I don’t go anymore because of the crowds, but I know it’s more so because my gym buddies won’t be there with me. Having other people with me helps me forget about other people and in turn increases my self-confidence. Very much so the safer in a group mentality. So even though it’s my body, and I know these people’s opinions won’t hurt me, and know I will survive any mean comments or judgmental stares, I’m still scared to go to the gym. It doesn’t help that I don’t look like any of the other people in the gym. How people interpret my body, the comments and staring, has affected how I move about the world. Other people also affect what I wear and how I sit or stand. If I try to have good posture I feel too tall (I’m not even tall standing.) and like I’m drawing attention to myself. If I wear something revealing I’m scared people will misinterpret what I might say or do. There is judgment everywhere, and society rewards the judgmental, social media, magazines, hot or not lists all promote the practice of judging someone’s body and assigning worth to a specific look. I believe one of the things that makes feeling judged worse is also being judgmental of others. If I’m judging other people, then that same energy from myself is reflected back sometimes even harsher than the original judgment. According to the article “Why Do We Judge Other People?” from Psychology Today, judging perpetuates a cycle of negativity and pushing other people down to make yourself feel better. So other than the gym equipment being unavailable, I have the ability to go, have fun and move my body. It’s a matter of mindset and not internalizing the judgment other people give.
Often, I look back on my life and wish I hadn’t given up on dance. I, like so many little girls, took ballet and tap at a very young age but gave up after a little over a year or so. I didn’t like to practice at home so I never developed the hip flexibility necessary to be a dancer. In high school, I took a semester of dance and I learned some valuable lessons that I will never forget…regarding dance, that is. I learned that dancing on the balls of your feet, on releve, as it’s called, allows you to move faster. I learned to appreciate the creativity of choreography. When I studied at Anne Arundel Community College, I took a year of modern dance and I think I can honestly say it was one of the best classes I have ever taken in my academic career. I learned so much about dance history, about technique, and about the human body in motion. In that class, we focused mostly on Martha Graham’s technique, the mother of modern dance, a legend. Most of the students in that class were very good dancers and knew what they were doing. I was among the few students who weren’t quite the most graceful but it was still an enjoyable experience. I got so much out of that class; it changed my life even though I’m not a dancer. Mikhail Baryshnikov has a special place in my heart as we were born in the same country (Latvija). He is an amazing human. I have seen videos of him defying the laws of physics.
Who doesn’t like music? I can’t imagine a life without music, it’s magic. The last time I went to a concert was to see Barry Manilow. He was just phenomenal, especially for an eighty year old man. He still has great hair and can still hit some very impressive notes. I was so upset though that people were talking, and photographing the concert without any regard to others around them. There were so many drunk people in the audience; I can not fathom why one would get drunk at a concert. How can you enjoy it if you’re inebriated? Moreover, it was so disrespectful in my opinion. Manilow is a serious musician, a brilliant composer.
Now, this might sound a bit pretentious but is not meant to. I, on occasion, like to listen to opera music. I have been to the opera once and saw Don Giovanni at the Kennedy Centre a couple of years ago and it was just incredible. How they do what they do with their voices is a phenomena…and to do it in Italian and/or German!? I would love to one day see Carmen or La Traviata. My favorite aria is “Sempre Libera” from La Traviata by Verdi. There are really only two opera singers whose work I enjoy and go out of my way to listen to: Maria Callas and Renée Flemming. I also would like to mention that I adore an overture. Perhaps the most beautiful overture I can think of off the top of my head is the overture to The Light in the Piazza by Adam Guettel, the grandson of wait for it… Richard Rogers!! I think there are many instrumental pieces that say more than songs with lyrics. For example, “Lux Aeterna” by Clint Mansell is a piece with such intensity. It also happens to be the overture or theme to the film, Requiem for a Dream. To put it plainly, I believe instrumental pieces carry more emotion than lyrics. Eugen Doga, a composer from Moldova, has written some of my favorite pieces. He wrote many a waltz that make you feel like dancing when you’re just sitting down. I am very grateful to my sister for introducing me to her favorite classical pieces and to my brother and his wife for introducing me to music in the alternative genre. (Side note: I am listening to Taylor Swift as I write this entry.)
The last couple weeks have been a journey to say the least. My meds started to kick in, the depression is not as horrible, but now I feel so guilty and worthless that I pretty much failed this semester. I loved this class, yet I missed so many classes and let the missing assignments pile up. I thought I could be better. I thought I was better than this. Because of my parents, I tend to keep school stuff to myself out of fear of being yelled at or specific reactions because it bring me to a very negative mental space, and I do not think remembering and feeling that again is going to do anything but harm. Due to this, I have an extremely hard time accepting help out of fear of judgement and failure. Because to my parents, at least the way I interpret it is that I am a failure until I get a degree. Do I know thats not true? Deep down, yes, but its still something that weighs on me most I had no chance to morn the losses though, I had too much going on, and I honestly don’t think I wanted to sit with those emotions. I do that alot, I just make a joke about it, and keep going. Im in survival mode and working in therapy to try to work on the things that put me in survival mode and it is hitting nerves I didn’t know existed. It is terrifying. I am more traumatized than I thought and have way less control over my own emotions than I thought. I hate that, I like having control, I like being able to turn off my emotions and shove them down, to not remember the bodies and hands that have forced themselves on me, or the mouths that have screamed at me so loud the neighbors could hear, or the insults that brought me to my room sobbing alone for hours. I do not want to remember those times, to re feel that pain that I worked so hard to mask and shove down, but I have to. I have to because I have a boyfriend and I wanted to enjoy things with him, I have to because Im tired of feeling worthless each time I walk into my childhood bedroom, I have to so I don’t keep allowing abusive people in my life. I have to because I want to thrive, not just survive. But then the question, am I capable of thriving? Ive only survived my whole life, I am so sure and so unsure at the same time that it needs to happen now. I cannot continue with my brain this distorted, if I want to help people for a living, I must help myself first. So I have to ask myself how bad I want it, do determine how capable I am of thriving in this life.
Unruly Bodies 