There is a lot that I’ve been thinking about, jotting down, wanting to elaborate on: updates since The Out List came out and the amazing supportive acknowledgments and kind words; reflections on the Bay Area; personal growth… so so much. And inshallah, I will be given the opportunity to emotionally unpack them and have space/time for myself to sit down.
Sometimes time feels so finite.
Sometimes I feel so finite and I give myself so little space to feel what feels infinitely pressing.
Coming upon another Ramadan this year feels very different. I feel so present to having been allowed to be here at this moment, today. I feel present to being shepherded through another year – particularly a time when Ramadan comes at a heavy time.
But I’ve been allowed to be here not by sheer will, luck, happenstance or coincidence. I’m taken into each new day and moment because of fate and because of God. I am supposed to be here and now, with weight on my shoulders and infinite thoughts and feelings racing through my head and heart – during my 30th year alive.
Generally, I am not a fan of celebrating my birthday but this last December, I was willing to acknowledge it more readily – especially as it represented entry into a marked and inarguable adult status. Into a new place and status with a set of experiences that would carry me into the next number of years intended for me. And as I turned 30, I wondered to myself what it would mean for me – what I would accomplish this year? And more than everything else, I wondered what it would mean for me and my parents.
Since then, I’ve been waiting for it to settle in. When would I feel (more) adult? How would I rise to the occasion of being a wiser, in action adult? How would it set me apart from 29 or 25? It wasn’t until the end of June when I came to feel the 30th Ramadan that I would be alive for.
Birthdays seem arbitrary to me. And more than that, I grew up in a family where most family members didn’t have birth certificates (or death certificates) – you were born generally on X date, around about when Y and Z got married… and it was Winter… or Spring.
And in this country, we remember (some) dates for the wrong reasons: to enshrine death and casualty
This year, I felt a tugging that Ramadan was when 30 began. This marked my 30th year alive – my 30th Ramadan. And this month feels significant. It matches the significant and infinite feelings and thoughts swirling and whirling, cooking inside. And this moment/month also underlines a desire to act on responsibility in action and words, that may be received (inshallah) differently than before.
I specifically mean restarting the conversation about my queerness and my life with my parents.
The letter I sent them was intercepted for many/all the right reasons by my siblings. It’s not fair to them to be the messengers, or the ones who bear the brunt of the weight of our parents reactions… I have to return to my role as the older sister and I know in my heart that my parents want me to return to them as both daughter and now adult. It has been undeniably too long that we’ve held our breaths, skirted questions and that I have been restrained in my living, breathing, and being me: as whole self.
Next steps are brewing.
But I feel renewed in this moment, after moment. Infinitely.
(this was started the other day in preparation to be posted yesterday, which didn’t happen: the 8th day of Ramadan- 8, on it’s side: infinity)