I'm Not Islamic: An Open Letter

Since I started my MA in Religious Studies focusing on Islam and the Middle East, there has been one question plaguing my study.

"Are you Islamic/Arabic/Arab/Muslim/an Islamist?"

You name the adjective, I've heard it.

First, as an objective statement, the only appropriate way to ask this question is "Are you a Muslim?" If you want to know about more the definitions and why that's the only question, let me know. That's a separate rant.

And yes, I was explicitly asked if I was a Muslim by my ex-boyfriend's (very Catholic) mother, and yes, the answer to that question is also no, just like the answer to every other adjective you could put in that question relating to the Middle East.

Second, I'm not a Muslim/Islamic/or anything else. I am Rachel. And if we have to add any adjective, then I'm an Islamicist, which is someone who studies and specializes in the Middle East and Islam.

I am an MA Student in Religious Studies studying Islam in the Middle East. I became interested in the Middle East largely after 9/11. It was a huge issue that divided our country, and everyone saw Muslims precisely as "those people:" those people who destroyed our country and were evil and so on and so on. It was one group lumping of evil.

Don't get me wrong, I do not condone the actions of those terrorists who distort Islam to fit their twisted ideology to perform perverse actions that harm others. I hate Osama Bin Laden and Al-Qaeda as much as everyone else. And from what I know of Islamic theology, those people have thoroughly mistaken what jihad means and what the core of Islam is, and will most assuredly be in hell.

But where I became fascinated was the idea that not all Muslims were terrorists. I knew they weren't just one lump group, but I needed evidence and facts to prove it.

In America, when we talk about the 1%, we're talking about the upper wealthy class who has more than everyone else. Think of my research this way: the 1% in Muslim countries are the terrorists. They are the people who have a misunderstanding and consequently perform perverse actions. But those 1% do not define Islam or the Arab World.

My research focuses on this 1% though and looking at what they're misinterpreting and how in doing so and performing acts of terrorism are perpetuating the notion of Islamophobia that rose in the West. I'm essentially that these people are creating their own downfall, while also trying to protect and understand that 99% who are innocent victims. I want to see how the other 99% feel about the 1%, and use that to dispel the Islamophobia that was created because of how horribly the 1% misrepresented their faith.

And most importantly, what I teach focuses on what Islam is and how it began, and how it plays a role in international relations presently. I don't project my research on my students, or try and convert them to Islam. I try and get them to be aware of current events in the world, like the Israel/Palestine Conflict or the Arab Spring, to understand international relations between the US and the Middle East. And never ever have I had a professor who has tried to convert his students. The majority of Religious Studies programs in the US are also secular, and just teach tenets of faiths, and not sermons of conversion.

But there's a reason I'm writing this, and it's not to give you a prospectus of my thesis, or brag about being a graduate student.

Let me preface my rationale by saying this: I'm not perfect. I'm not putting myself on a pedestal because I chose to go to graduate school to study this. I don't know everything. I'm learning.

The conflict between the US and the Middle East is largely rooted in the misunderstanding about how the 1% actually does not represent the truth about what Islam is. And the bottom line is, is that if more people took a moment to ask questions about the other 99%, we would not be in nearly as much conflict as we are, and Islamophobia would not be the outlandish phenomenon that it is. This is simply because we would have a better understanding of the world, and we could attack the 1%, and not the 100%.

I am no saint by going to graduate school to learn about this, but I firmly believe that everyone should take time to learn about the 99%, instead of asking the question of "Are you Islamic?" and trying to lump everyone into the 1% to further perpetuate the cultural divide.

And if for some reason you don't believe me about the 99%, let me tell you a story.

I was in Minnesota this week taking my class on a field trip to meet the other students in their virtual classroom. In the planning stages of the trip, my student told me that he was invited to give the khutba (sermon) at a local Islamic Community Center. Mind you, our class has an interesting dynamic. My student is a practicing Muslim, our chaperone is a practicing Muslim, and then myself and the other student are just people looking to learn more about the Middle East. We were extended the invitation to come to the mosque and observe, but we were also extended the invitation to stay behind, because the practicers in our group did not want to make the non-practicers uncomfortable and for us to feel like some beliefs were being forced upon us. (Read: Islam is not intended as a proselytizing religion or as a religion of forced conversion). We decided to go and observe just for experiences of understanding the five pillars and six articles we had learned about in class.

We arrived at the mosque. The Brothers (the men) went to the front and prepared themselves to listen. The Sisters (the women, or myself and my other student), went to the back for the sisters section. Disclaimer: the lump grouping of sisters just means women, not necessarily practicing female Muslims. Out of respect, we covered our heads and took off our shoes (much like I did in India). We went to the back and sat in the corner, only slightly smiling and nodding at the other women out of respect, but otherwise minded our own business. When the time came to perform the rak'ah (cycles of prayer), we remained seated and observed. Prayers ended, and we stayed seated observing the community formation.

A woman named Sarah came up to herself and introduce herself and welcomed us and asked how we came to find their mosque. We explained our visit to MN and our relation to the imam (the man giving the sermon or Khutba is my student), and how we wanted to come and observe and learn for our class.

Sarah's reaction at this point will never leave my mind. She welcomed us and thanked us for coming to learn. She introduced us to the other Sisters around us, and told us about the mosque and her history with the mosque and in the US. She explained how grateful she was for people like myself and my students because she is from Pakistan, a region largely plagued by conflict, and she wished more people would take the time to learn. She then invited us to come and observe whenever we would like, and to join them for Ramadan, where they would be happy to feed us and introduce us to the rest of their community. Ramadan is the singular most sacred time for Muslims, so to be asked to come and observe Ramadan and to be fed by them and learn from their experiences is a huge honor, and it was a social and learning invitation, not a conversion opportunity.

In all of this, here's what you should read. Sarah is the 99%. Sarah is an incredibly kind woman who has her beliefs, but will keep them to herself until you explicitly say you want to convert or you want to participate. She welcomes those who want to observe, and respects anyone and everyone who wants to take the time to learn. In fact, she wishes more people would observe and get to know them and take the time to learn.

And if you don't yet grasp the reality of the misunderstanding between us and the 99%, you would have when you walked out of the mosque to find armed guards guarding the surrounding area as people came in and out for afternoon prayers. Because people are so angry at the 1% that they will physically harm the 99% in retaliation for the 1%.

I am not a Muslim. I am not Islamic/Arabic/Arab/or anything else. I do not support the 1% who are deemed as terrorists. I fully despise the 1% for their false actions that misconvey what Islam is. But I believe in the 99%, and I want nothing more than to understand the 99%. To me, I just think I'm taking the time to be a global citizen and understand other people, and then to teach that to future generations in hopes of living in a world not entirely plagued by conflict.

And if there were more people who asked "What is Islam?" instead of "Are you Islamic?", soon, our population in the US would understand the vast difference between the 99% and the 1%, and somehow, the world just might be a little better place.

On Last Words

After a series of missed opportunities and conversations, I began to wonder: if you had one last chance to say anything and everything, what would you say, and who would you say it to?

Don't wait. Your words will be heard and welcomed with open arms.

I asked a dear friend for his opinion, and his response summed it up: "If we discovered that we only had five minutes left to say all that we wanted to say, every telephone booth would be occupied by people calling other people to hammer that they loved them."

But it got me thinking, what would you say?

For that matter, what would I say?

I like to think of myself as a writer. As prolific as I like to think I am, I don't think my words ever amount to much. My Facebook timeline is a series of shared quotes that encapsulate the things I dream of saying better than I could ever say it. I only have momentary epiphanies of clarity. I can't find the words to articulate the overwhelming array of emotions I feel at such extreme extents.

I lay awake at night and think of conversations that won't exist. I think of witty and philosophical things to say. I imagine how you would respond. I replay old conversations and think of how I should have handled them differently. The conversations go on and on until I eventually just pass out. Then I dream of usually the negative version of the conversation I just imagined.  Then I wake up the next morning unable to find new words.

Then I wonder about opportunities. We all have things we want to say, but will we ever have the chance to say them?

Perhaps you'll get that chance. But in the moment, how will you respond?

The problem with having last words is they are often spontaneous, but the emotions behind them are so varied that in the moment, it is unknown what will come out. Will you express anger? Heartbreak? Gratitude? Sorrow? Happiness?

When you can't plan your last words, what of your emotions will take over you, and what will you choose to express?

For the sake of this conversation, we will just imagine that we can all plan.

So here you go, you get to plan.

Me? What would I say? Well, that's irrelevant. So, I'll just give you my thoughts and you can keep yours, and together we'll work something out. Alright?

I would probably change my mind about forty-seven different times and still be unsatisfied with the final result. I would meditate on it for days and think hard, but I don't know that it would ever come to me.

But I know this much is true. (Also, a book by Wally Lamb, which is a must read)

I have last words. The last words have to be as much about you as they are about me. We both need a catharsis. But I've learned that as awful as life is, it is a waste of time to be angry. You can hold on all you want, but you can't change anything. So if my last words can't be anger, and they have to be a catharsis, then what's next?

Expressing genuine emotion, for one. Catharsis means admitting to your feelings and where you are. You are on a journey. You are on the first step of many. But you can't move forward without acknowledging where you are. And sometimes, that means facing the brutal truth: you are broken, sad, decimated, and struggling to face the world and move on.

But to get to where you are, you had to come part way on this journey to be at this step to continue. Thus, there's a level of gratitude. Thank you for where you brought me, and thank you for getting me here so I can go forward. Thank you for teaching me a lesson, whether good or bad.

And that's where you're at. Genuine emotion and gratitude.

Your last words may be different than mine. Truly, I hypothesize, but I don't know what mine will be in the moment. I don't even know what mine will be in the event I get to plan them.

But I know this: your last words are not meant to be something that is feared. To be able to write or say your thoughts is to be revered. Don't hide away your beautiful words.

So here's what I'll leave you with. Go grab a few pieces of paper and a pen. Think of the person who has made an impact on you recently. Think of what you want to say to them. Go full out Freudian stream of consciousness and write. Write through the tears, the hand cramps, the writer's block, the messed up paragraph order, the missing words and poor sentence structure. Write until your heart finally releases everything you've pent up. Write until you get the catharsis you deserve. I promise that just getting it on paper will help.

Because you deserve the world. You deserve closure and moving on. You deserve a second chance to start over. But that won't come if you're holding on to the words you wish you would have said or wish you could say now that the situation has changed.

Share your words. They're meant to be heard. YOU are meant to be heard. You may never get a response, but there's nothing to say you can't say them anyways.

But if you're going to do this, drop the laptop (well, put it down gently). Put the phone on airplane mode. This isn't meant for a text, an email, a Facebook message, a snapchat, or anything else. (Yes, I realize the irony of that statement as I sit here blogging on my laptop. Moving on.)

It's meant for pen and paper. For conversation. For honesty and vulnerability.

You can make the opportunity for words. You can make the opportunity to be heard. Because being stuck in the past with your words is not a kind of misery that anyone deserves to feel.

Say the words. Set them free. They'll do what they will. What will happen will happen.

But before it can happen, you have to put the world in motion. Say it.

Go ahead, write. Have your catharsis. I'll be here.

"Let go of the outcome, and let the universe rest." 

On the World & Starting Over

This blog is to every lover who has ever experienced heartbreak, has ever lost someone they love, and knows what it means to be lost and alone in the world after a breakup.

To the Teds and Robins on their gut wrenching breaks. To the Lilys and Marshalls when Lily is in Rome. To the Barneys who find and lose their Robins.

To anyone who has ever love and lost.

You are not alone.

After recently experiencing breakup #647,129, I realized that the concept of breakups is something worth considering. Don't get me wrong, I'm basically a pro. How to do it, how not to do it, how to survive it, you name it, I got it. But after falling into the same rut, it got me thinking.

Why?

It's pretty simple. After every break up, a few things happen. You fall into a miserable depression, sleep a ton, cry yourself to sleep, cry about sleeping alone, eat all your feelings, watch your favorite movie that induces wallowing, drink yourself into a stupor, look for someone to hit on you, send way too many drunk texts to said ex, creep infinitely on social media, speculate on why it really happened, become enraged about what just happened to you, make some other stupid decisions, and probably some crying in there.

But why?

It's pretty simple. You deserve someone who will give you the world. Anything less, and they aren't worth you. Because you are worth the world. You are worth good morning texts, food deliveries, smiles, love, cuddles, free drinks, home cooked meals, surprises, and anything else to the moon and back.

And what a breakup means is that someone isn't willing to give you the world. That's what you deserve.

You can be sad about the disruption in your life. You can be angry for how you've been hurt and tossed to the curb.

But someone who won't give you the world isn't worth your tears. And to be honest, they're not worth the anger. You can be angry that they don't see what you want them to see in you, and you can be sad that they don't see that too.

But at the end of the day, it's not worth your effort. Because if they can't see how great you are, then that means they won't give you the world.

And you deserve someone that gives you the world.

Go ahead. Have a day or two of aimlessly creeping on their social media for cues about their lives. Eat your feelings. Have a night or two to cry. Make a stupid decision or two.

But at the end of the day, smile. Pick yourself up. Put on a nice outfit and go dancing. Do your hair and make up. Let a stranger hit on you.

But through it all, smile.

Because the best is yet to come. And you didn't lose the love of your life. You merely crossed out another name of people that don't deserve you because they won't give you the world.

Pick yourself up. Turn off the sad movies. Put away the ice cream and the alcohol. Put on your favorite outfit, do your hair and make up. Get out of bed. Go out and enjoy your night.

Smile.

Sleeping alone will get easier. The memories will fade. The pain will go away. Your heart will soften. And eventually, you will just let go.

Because the best is yet to come.

Your Ted will come back with your blue french horn. Your Lily will return from Rome. Your Barney will find a new Robin.

Give it time.

You're one step closer to finding someone who will recognize just what you are worth and give you everything that you deserve.

You're one step closer to finding someone who will give you the world.

"I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me. But it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world. Sometimes, I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold onto it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life. You have no idea what I'm talking about, I"m sure. But don't worry. You will someday."

A Brilliant Read

If you've ever considered the definition of an abusive relationship, this is a great read. Not to be on a soapbox, but abusive relationships are not just about physical abuse. It's about mental, psychological, and emotional trauma.

Love shouldn't hurt.

http://social.huffingtonpost.com/xojane-/i-didnt-know-i-was-in-an-abusive-relationship_b_7151678.html

Why Do I Do It?

People always ask me, “Why do you do it?”

Why do I study art history? Why do I go into a field without prospects? Why do I subject myself to forced graduate school? Why do I make it so difficult? 

For those of you who know me, I’m literally the living definition of a Type A workaholic. I’m OCD, frantic, over caffeinated, moving at the speed of light, always trying to think five steps ahead and overachieve. I also have exactly three emotions: exhausted, angry, or in desperate need of caffeine. 

As I wandered the Walker Arts Center today, I figured out why I do it. 

It’s for that one moment. 

Today, it was staring at "Cut" by Kara Walker. I did research on her and her connection to Michel Foucault for about a year. 

You know how you hear the hopeless romantics talk about that moment that took their breath away? The surprise gesture? The first kiss? 

For me, it’s art. 

Art is my love and my drug. I turn a corner to a new piece, and it takes my breath away. Further contemplation creates this twinge as I ponder and lose myself in the piece. I fall into it and began to feel the same emotion and the same moment in time that’s in the piece. 

It’s watching a work of video art and losing yourself. That eight minute video loop seems like 30 seconds and you just crave more. You want it to go on longer. You suddenly become one with the piece, and it creates this experience. 

It’s about the experience where you feel something because you’ve simultaneously lost yourself and found yourself in that moment. 

That’s why I do it. Because I crave that moment. Art is my drug. I need it to survive. I need my days at the museum and free time spent with art books to be complete. 

And to me, the brief moments where I feel that twinge and find myself in a work of art are priceless. To me, years of graduate school spent pouring over books so that I can understand and experience these moments is worth every second. 

Who knows? Maybe I’ll learn enough that one day, I can teach someone else so they can have these moments? 

Why do I do it? 

For the moment. 

On Rose Colored Glasses

Lately, I've felt the need to write, but I haven't had the epiphany.

Well, I had the epiphany.

In one of my bouts of insomnia, I ended up in one of those deep conversations. Per the usual.

The essence of the conversation went like this: I had to describe myself. I described myself as a workaholic who doesn't quite seem to know what they're doing and is just a little bit damaged from the past. And highly over caffeinated.

The response was the kicker. The essence of the response was, I see you as someone who has a plan and is incredibly driven, and is incredibly passionate and throws herself into everything she does; and yes, she's over caffeinated.

Me being my snarky self, I said you see through rose colored glasses.

The response? "No, I see the real you."

And to be honest, even though I'm writing at my desk now holding my India mug of coffee for dear life, I think I'm still thinking in that moment. And now I wonder, what do I see?

Do I see through rose colored glasses? Do I see reality? Or do I see things in a kind of negative fifty shades of grey? (Read: fifty shades of negativity and indifference)

I like to think of myself as pragmatic. I see things as they are. I'm critical, but I try to be honest. I would rather know the truth than to lie to myself for a feigning moment.

But I have to wonder, how exactly do we choose to see the world? Is my pragmatic view really negative? Is the rose colored view really correct? Are we given a point of view, or do we choose one?

So tell me, what do you see?

I don't think I know the answer. I think my lens changes daily. The lens is a swinging pendulum. There's something about my pendulum that tends to get stuck in one area. But I think at some point we all get stuck. It's the horrible bosses, the overwhelming amounts of homework, the failing friendships and relationships. It's a world of lines, dimensions, but no color.

But there's variety. There's another side to the world. It's not just lines. It's dimension and color. It's like a pinwheel. It's constantly moving and providing us a different color and a different view on things.

Don't get me wrong, my wardrobe is still going to be all black, or very, very dark grey.

But if you ask me, I'm going to switch to the rose colored glasses.

"I see the world from both sides. The colorful and the dark. Either way, I move forward, whether bright or dark."

Preach.

http://elitedaily.com/life/motivation/blessing-disguise-heartbreak-can-make-motivated-creative/935857/

Valentine's.

http://hellogiggles.com/ok-rush-relationship

And...

I couldn't have said it better myself.

http://elitedaily.com/dating/person-broke-cant-one-fixes/920194/

The Things I Find..

http://elitedaily.com/women/success-paradox-womans-independence-intimidates-men/916451/

On Memory.

The other day, I was reading an art history article (shocker) about memory, and how we personify memories. The whole point of the article was that memory is a societal construction.

Then I got to thinking, how is memory a personal construction? More importantly, how is forgetfulness also a personal construction?

There are moments I want to remember. I want to have eidetic memory. I want my pupils to dilate so wide that I can record everything I'm seeing. I want to be able to replay scenes in my mind on command. I want to smell the same musk. I want to hear the same words with the same intonation over and over again. I want to re-experience the one moment. The fleeting feeling as a part of one scene.

But I want to pick it. I want selective memory. But, my selection, not whatever the universe decides is to convenient to select.

Because the universe is a cruel and unusual bastard.

Anyways.

I find I can't choose what I remember. Sometimes the good things stick. The smile. The laugh. The look. The one brief moment that tattoos itself to the core of your existence. And sometimes, you're happy by what you remember.

Sometimes, you just wish you didn't ever remember.

But there's this weird grey area I've found. It's not about what I do or don't remember. It's what I forget over time. It's how I find a new memory.

It's how I forget the memories I held so dear and make new ones. It's how the new memories slowly fade away and recreate themselves.

And suddenly you realize, the things you never thought you would remember, or the things you never thought you would need, are the new memories that make you cherish every moment.

It goes like this, or so I think. There's a thing that occupies your mind. Sometimes, the thing falls away. Suddenly, your memory is a bizarre place where the old dominates while searching for the new. Then, at some point, when you least expect it, there's a new experience. There are new memories. And suddenly, the old memories fade away, and the new ones begin to take over.

Suddenly, you no longer wish for the old memories, and you're happily enjoying the new memories.

It's bizarre. I don't understand why I remember some things and forget others. But I know new memories will take over the old. But I think that's the fun of it. I think that memories are meant to be temporary.

Because of memories are temporary, then we will never stop searching for new memories and new experiences.

Memory may leave us too soon, but it always comes back. 

On Time & On Time.

Time is an enigma: some days it's short and some days it's long. Time is relative. Microwave minutes are different from class minutes. Time is a thing that seems to change us all.

You close your eyes and then you open them and it's three hours later (but that may just be me and a nap, but either way). You close your eyes and suddenly you open them to see your undergrad career is ending in the most finite of time periods. You close your eyes and you don't know where time went. You close your eyes and the next time you open them, you're not sure whose life you're living.

I closed my eyes, and for the first time, I opened them. I woke up this morning and had a revelation.

I've been back in America for exactly 12 days. And if you would have asked me 12 days ago what my life would be today, I would have a very different answer. I would have said that nothing would have changed from what it used to be, and that I would go on letting time pass and waiting for something to happen.

I opened my eyes. In fact, I'm somewhat convinced I'm living in a bizarre parallel universe and that this isn't actually my life. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining, but how long were my eyes closed?

In 12 days, everything has changed. Truly, it changed from my first day back in the country. But now, a new element gets added every day. A new piece of the puzzle falls in, and a new change happens daily, slowly but surely. And every day, I find that I see something new, and I find that I'm a little happier than I was the day before.

As I think about it, I think slowly but surely over time, things have been changing. That my life today should be no surprise. That if I sat down and wrote it out, it's been coming for a while. It's a surprise to no one but me.

So I have to wonder, are changes on time (on the passing of time) or on time (due right now)?

As much as change happens slowly but surely, and the passing of time is importance to see how far you've traveled, I think changes are more on time than anything. They're due. They happen when you least expect them and most need them. I think changes have a due date. It's just that we don't know them. It's not like a due date on your syllabus that dictates your future. It's a date beyond our control.

And then you have a choice: do you arrive on time, or do you leave yourself watching time pass wondering if change happens?

When change comes, you have to stand up and say, okay, I'm ready. When change comes, you have to open your arms and accept a new life.

When change comes, you have to open your eyes, and say yes, I am happy, and I am okay.

I'm on time. I opened my eyes. I see the change. I'm happy, and I'm okay.

Bring it on, world.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ztotPvPA-mw

On Returning.

I remember hearing about this interesting experiment. In this study, they found that no matter how horrible something smells, you will always go back and try it again. I remember some friends and I tried it before we knew the results of the study, and every time there was a putrid smell, the person went back to smell it again. It was tried time and time again, and overtime, it was smelled twice before they walked away.

But why? Why do we stay to smell something vile and try again? Why do we stay for the thing that's horrible for us?

In a way, it's like a second chance. Something happens. Then the red flag is waved and the sirens blare. But you stay. Why?

I can't say I know, but I can say I'm pondering it. I think it's something about hope. I think it's something about change. We hope the second time will be different and that something will change. We hope our voices are heard and our actions are understood.

We hope, we hope, we hope.

But change isn't like Taylor Swift says. It isn't magical and swift. It's long and grueling, often littered with more defeats than victories. It often feels less glorious than one dreams of it being. Change is an elusive figment of one's imagination that drives insanity.

There was an author that once said that the very thing you want the most is the very thing that will drive you insane. I don't think he had any idea how correct he would be when he said that. But as I puzzle this out, I wonder.

Perhaps change is what drives us, but perhaps it's also to insanity. Put the pieces together. We go back time and time again hoping things change. And when things never change, it breaks us. It destroys us. We question everything around us.

All we want is change, but we want it so much that it's the very thing that drives us insane. Going back and going back and expecting different results and it never happening creates insanity. And insanity continues to drive us to return expecting change.

It's a vicious circle of wanting something so much, even though it will destroy you and it will never change.

Again, I can't say why you want to go back and smell it again, but I can tell you to prepare for insanity.

"I always wonder why birds stay in the same place when they can fly anywhere on the earth. Then I ask myself the same question."

It's Okay.

Definitely a great read...

http://hellogiggles.com/its-ok-to-miss-ex

Things you need.

This song.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5uBTy10WFRA

Questions on Breaking that Break.

Every day, we meet people. It’s the new acquaintance in class, the guy working at the coffee shop, etc. But usually, we don’t communicate. It’s a silent acknowledgement in which a comfortable distance is maintained. 

The other day, we visited some art students in Jaipur. Keep in mind, I’m not an artist. I had some time, so I did some writing while I listened to our roundtable discussion. After the chat, a man came up to chat about my writing/drawing. He was a very nice man who was also a writer. 

After a few minutes, he asked if he could ask a personal question. I said why not? 

He asked me at what moment I broke. 

And then I stopped. 

I suppose most people would struggle understanding what he was trying to ask, and then muddle through trying to make up an answer to get out of the question. 

I stopped out of shock that he asked the question. But I knew the answer. In a matter of seconds I could recite the answer and the story. I was about minutes from being able to recall the date and the time. If I would have had the time, I could have told him the story for hours describing the minutia of the scenario and how it happened. 

Of course, I didn’t. I just gave the brief synopsis. 

But then I had an epiphany. 

It wasn’t the person who broke me. It wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the place. It wasn’t a lot of things. It was simply the words. 

For the sake of anonymity and such, I’ll leave out who said what. But the point is, I knew it all. Every detail. And it was the words said. 

There’s two points to this. 

(And a side note - how did he know I was broken? But anyways, moving on). 

One, what breaks. It’s the words. It’s when something that should be neutral becomes so violent and destructive. It’s something you hear and can’t unhear. And I’m still thinking about how those words still ring in my head. 

Two, the questions we ask. I meet people all the time, and I ask vague questions. Where are you from, how old are you, what are you interested in, etc. And those are good to start, for sure. And when I get to know someone, I ask some of the hard questions. But this man jumped right to the hard question. And somehow I felt safe enough to answer. But I’m curious. Why don’t we ask the hard questions sooner? And if we do, why are we so afraid to truthfully answer? Why do we have walls around us that continue to grow tall? 

I’m still thinking about this conversation. I will probably never forget it. I think his words will ring in my head as much as the words I replied to him. 

In some ways, I’m a bit proud of myself that I’ve come to the point in my life that I know the answer and can repeat it. Keep in mind, it’s been three years in the making. And I know I have my walls, and I’m still working on pulling them down. But I tend to think they would come down if someone asked me the hard questions.

And I wonder if I could help someone else if I asked the hard questions too. 

So, let me ask: when did you break?

And...

An update from India.

http://thewanderlustofanarthistorian.blogspot.com

Words.

If you asked me what I am, even though there are many answers, I would never say I’m a writer. 

And yes, I realize that’s a bit bizarre as I sit here writing a blog. But anyways. 

I don’t think I’m a writer. I think I have a voice. And I think I have an interesting comprehension of words and their meaning (blame it on my honors research). 

It’s called semantics. It’s the study of what words mean. It’s not my specific area of study, but I know a lot about what words mean. I also know that despite technical meanings and linguistic roots, words carry a lot of their own meaning based on context, culture, and the speaker. 

I think words are meant to be neutral. Ambivalent. Without charge. 

When we use words, more often than not, they become a knife. More often than not, maybe even a double edged sword hurting both the sender and the receiver. 

I think we forget that words have other connotations and other meanings that aren’t accounted for in the literal interpretation. Blame semantics for forgetting to consider the other part of language. 

As I sit here writing all these words, I know I’m not the most eloquent. I know I misuse meanings and don’t account for interpretations sometimes. But I like to think how words are interpreted and understand how words evoke emotions.

Sometimes, it’s the words you use so literally that mean something so subjective. Maybe it’s one point you try to express that comes across the polar opposite. Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

The possibilities are endless, but more often than not, words are more than we think. They can heal, but they often hurt. They often do more damage than expected. They themselves are often unexpected and inexplicable, to say the least. 

But once they’re out, they’re there. Whether auditory or visually, they exist, and they don’t go away. 

But their damage isn’t always irreparable. 

As you sit here reading this, I hope you have an emotion. Maybe it’s unrelated to my post. Maybe it’s happiness from the day, sadness from a turn of events, hurt from another sequence of events, or anything between. Maybe it is my words that make you feel something. 

I hope my words make you feel things. 

But I also know my own words and the words spoken to me make me feel things. As I write this, I feel so many things. A happiness from a good day. A release from getting thoughts out. A pondering of how I’m grappling at syntax and semantics trying to express something beyond words. I choose each word carefully, hoping it carries more weight than that that can be expressed in words. 

And I don’t know that I have a grand epiphany that I want to express in the end as a thesis. But maybe all I want to say is that I hope you think about your words. 

I hope you wrestle with words. I hope you ponder the meaning. I hope you account for interpretations. I hope you listen when you speak, and listen when spoken to. I hope the words resonate in you as they echo through your receiver. I hope you ramble and ramble as you try to express and understand. I hope you reconsider. I hope you find your catharsis and epiphany. 

The answer is in the words. Just look a little closer. 

“Everything is different the second time around.”