Role Models For The Less Regal

I have a four year old niece who is obsessed with wanting to be a princess. She wants to have long flowing hair (i.e. straight), hers is curly and difficult to tame. She wants a princess dress (i.e. puffy). She likes to wear nail polish, acts cutesy and all girly. I'm finding this totally and utterly annoying.

Growing up, I was a tomboy. As a teenager, I was a tomboy. Now, in my late thirties, I'm still a tomboy. I dressed in shorts and sneakers. I too have curly disobedient hair, I always wore it in two long braids, now I wear a veil. I played astek with my fiends and ran after boys and beat the crap out them. The scars on my knees attest to my school yard adventures. I don't remember much prior to turning seven. From the photographs in the family album, I can only infer that my mother attempted, yet failed, to morph me into a sweet princess by putting me in pink dresses. My idols where Lynda Carter of Wonder Woman and Lindsay Wagner from The Bionic Woman. I wanted to be Wonder Woman. Little did I know that I had my own super hero at home who raised me to be a strong independent woman just like her. Although I have very little say, if any, on how my niece is raised, I can't help but wonder about the female role models she is exposed to in global media.

Despite the recent uproar in regards to Merida's makeover, Pixar movies have showcased the best role models for young girls. In Toy Story 2 we are introduced to the tenacious strong-willed defiant Jesse. She is as much part of the action as are Woody and Buzz. In A Bug's Life there's both the wise Ant Queen and princess Atta. Although misplacing their fates in Flik, they do not stand down from their responsibilities towards the colony. Even in Monsters, Inc, Boo courageously explores Mike and Sulley world.

As I struggle to accept that my niece will become the woman she is meant to be, in spite of me. I can't help but pray that she embodies the strength, perseverance, and resourcefulness of Mrs. Incredible, take charge attitude of Sally from Cars, and the free adventurous nature of Ellie from Up. Only then will she become a true princess.

The Stupidity Surplus

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present our most abundant resource - STUPIDITY! Trust me, there is enough stupidity to circle the globe many times over and still have some left to spare. Of course, it helps that the supply of stupidity is directly proportional with the world's population. With seven billion humans roaming the land, there's no shortage of stupidity, if only ! Please let me clarify what I mean by stupidity. I'm not referring to those of us who are slow or suffer from learning disabilities or other ailments. These individuals were born with such limitations, to no fault of their own. They endure insufferable ostracization because they are misplaced and under utilized by society. When I say stupid, I'm referring to the dumdums of this world. Those who are too lazy, too indifferent or too selfish to do better. Those who are fully aware of the correct way to behave, yet freely elect to remain stupid and do as they please with a complete disregard to others. Those who repeatedly refuse to learn despite numerous eye-rolling  scorns and stares of contempt. I have often wondered if these individuals are truly oblivious to the magnitude of their stupidity until I notice a slight change in their demeanor as I visibly reach the tipping point of my dumdum tolerance. They fleetly retreat and correct course, thus I am reminded that these people are stupid by choice. 

To further illustrate, let me give you a for instance,

1. The dumdums who always make a right turn at the red lights, blatantly ignoring pedestrians and the "No Right on Red" signs, unless of course there's a patrol car in sight 
2. The dumdums who loudly converse on their phones in public places. Yet, they lower their voices and even cup their free hand over their mouths when communicating embarrassing occurrences.
3. The dumdums who sing along to their iTunes while walking down the street. Belting out the lyrics, terribly I might add, as if they were auditioning for American Ideal
4. Everyone between 13 and 27 years old
5. The dumdums who continue to chitchat even when you stop engaging in the conversation and only contributes constipated ums and nodes
6. The dumdums who talk back to the screen at movie theaters and act as if they are streaming the film on Netflix in their living rooms
7. The dumdums who leave their coffee pods in the communal coffee machine and never refill the water tank
8. The dumdums who never flush the toilet after use
9. The dumdums who talk on the phone while in a public toilet stall
10. The dumdums who always tweet pictures without adding meaningful captions. Instagram, dude! 

The list can go on and on, but I digress. The most guilty of all dumdums, besides multi-offenders, are the idiots who still think of IT professionals as "The Computer Guy". Those who solicit unwarranted technology counseling from unsuspecting IT people on the elevator. FYI - that's so not okay. I understand that there are some people who don't realize their faux pas - again no shortage of stupidity. So to all of you out there who don't know better, here are a few words of advice,

• IT professions are as many and diverse as doctors. There are the general practitioners of helpdesk and Genus barkeepers, the specialists server administrators, DBAs and software developers, and finally the cardiologists and brain surgeons of information security, business analysts, and project managers. Unless you let Dr. Bob who prescribes anti-fungal creme for you scaly feet extract molars and remove your gallbladder, don't expect all IT professionals to know everything about "computers".
• Guess what dumdum, you are the expert in MS Office not us, because you use it everyday. So, no, it's not okay to casually ask us how to sort an excel sheet in an ascending order and then smirk when we don't tell you the answer.
• Working in IT is not cool. Let me repeat this for the benefit of those dumdums who don't believe me. WORKING IN IT IS NOT COOL. We are cooped up indoors for 10 hours a day. We have bad posture from sitting all day. We have bad eye sight from staring at a monitor all day. So uncool !
• We hate the soul-sucking meetings and conference calls we have to attend.
• It is a thankless job. When anything, and I do mean anything, goes wrong, IT is always to blame or looked upon to solve the issue. Toilet clogged? Call IT! We are very very busy cleaning up other people's shit, so please when that very important document doesn't print, make sure the printer is turned on before shooting a ticket at your helpdesk.
• Yes, we think that all non-technical people are stupid idiots who could not find their asses if they weren't parked on the seats underneath them. Please prove us wrong.

RayBan Cool

As a teenager in Cairo during the late 80s and early 90s, the ultimate status symbol of coolness was a pair of RayBans. The black boxy model propelled into stardom when donned by pop icon Amr Diab in his debut album Mayal. The title song echoed in all Egyptian realms with taxi cabs broadcasting it where ever they went. This was a time before minibuses littered the streets of Cairo. Diab's posters, with him in the shades, lined Ibrahim El Lakany street in Roxy, promoting the album as it played on repeat by the cassette kiosks. The music video, one of the very first, portrayed Diab, in and out of his RayBans, singing at a concert. The video was filmed at my school's auditorium. All teens and preteens coveted a pair of RayBans. Most of us had look-a-likes bought from street vendors. Very few could afford the real deal. Those who could, wore their RayBans proudly, showing off the authentic emblem. The cool kids wore them in the morning before school started and flung them on their faces with the ring of the last bell.

 
I was and still am a dork. I didn't know much about pop culture and I was cool averse. Raised by a single mother, we couldn't afford much, least of all a pair of vanity laced plastic sunglasses. I didn't quite care because I had no idea who Amr Diab was until a field trip in the 7th grade to the botanical gardens. On the bus ride, Mayal played on cassette as we sung along and swayed to the tunes. This was my first forte into Egyptian pop culture and teenhood. I remained on the sidelines observing and participating at my convenience. I fell in love with the rhythmic tunes that compelled hips to swing and arms to flutter. We all tried, and failed miserably, to mimic the elegance of legendary belly dancers of yonder. I saved up and bought the album on cassette tape. I paid six Egyptian pounds, the equivalent of two US dollars. Holding my breathe, I carefully unwrapped the plastic cover off my minted inaugural tape. Until that day, my sister and I made our own mixed tapes. When we couldn't afford to buy blank tapes, we'd siphon from our grandmother's stash. My mother's youngest sisters moved to Kuwait after getting married. She recorded messages on cassette tapes and sent them to my grandmother. This was how expat Egyptians overcame the high cost of long distance telephone charges. My sister and I regularly borrowed tapes from our grandmother's treasure trove. We'd hold our gray clunky cassette player against the TV set, order everyone to be quiet, and record songs from shows like Al Alam Yoghany - The World is Singing. Sometimes we'd place concave dinner plates over the cassette player's speakers so the sound ricocheted back into the built in microphone and record songs from the Breakfast Show. We never asked permission to buy albums, we simply assumed our mother would say no and thus resorted to make our own bootlegged tapes. More than often, these song medleys were peppered with our mother's voice echoing in the background. Mayal was our first authentic album. Unwrapping the clear plastic cover felt like an initiation ceremony. I was finally cool, or so I thought.

In 1990, I scored a pair of the coveted sunglasses. They weren't original RayBans, but they were close enough. They had a white frame with a Fido Dido pattern and black handles. I wore them every where, even at night. I still have them. They are securely locked away in my closet. They have yellowed with age and some of the design has peeled off. Nevertheless, they are one of my treasured possessions. Every once in a while, I take them out, place them on my wrinkled face, and relive the good old days, back when I was cool.

Adventures and New Things – Bird Shit

On the first day of 2013 I dared myself to live, to take a chance and step outside my comfort zones. I started by enrolling in a creative writing class as an outlet for my boredom. Truth be told, a writing class more hovered on the border of my comfort level and tumbled further into the zone with each session. During my master pursuit, I discovered that I savor learning. I have an insatiable appetite for knowing more. I flourished during my MBA studies. After graduating, I embarked on an endless journey of knowledge acquisition. I have been devouring volume upon volume of books ever since, sampling as many genres as possible. Therefore, a writing course seemed like the natural progression. It gave me the opportunity to return to my beloved class room format, bounce ideas around with my fellow students, and explore the option of phrasing the acquired knowledge in my own words. I admit it was a very enjoyable experience. However, I still wanted to challenge myself to venture further away from my comfort zone. In this attempt, I attended a performance art performance and a literary reading.

As an ardent Franco Fan (i.e. James Franco), I follow him on Twitter (duh!). I must be honest and attest that Franco isn’t a good tweeter. He always tweets pictures, rarely adding captions. His tweets are irregularly spaced, so you never know when you’ll get a post. As a result, his mystery encased pictures have become sort of surprise. They come in a slew of many consecutive tweets, bearing the unknown. Early March, one of his ominous tweets came a chirping. He was advocating a show called “Bird Shit” that was scheduled to show at MoMA PS1 in Long Island City on April 7^th. The promotional webpage stated that the project was under Franco’s guidance as the performance was delivered by NYU students. A major sponsor pulled out four weeks prior to the performance. James (yes, we are on first name bases) was helping raise money for the project.”Ahhhhh! How sweat”, was my immediate thought. Bird Shit was inspired by Chekhov’s Seagull and Ginsberg’s Kaddish. It employed a multitude of media, song, dance, images, and live performance. I was intrigued. Knowing nothing about the Seagull and Kaddish, I set out to research both. I was intrigued further. Since the show was scheduled for a Sunday, I resolved to go and see it.

I arrived at MoMA PS1 at 11:53 am and waited in line for the doors to open. I noticed that there were several families in line. I took this to be a sign that I will enjoy the art on display, given that it would appeal to a toddler.  The museum promptly opened at noon as we filed into the admissions structure to purchase tickets. Bird Shit was scheduled to start at 14:00 in the VW Dome. I decided to explore the exhibits during those two superfluous hours. Having visited MoMA in Manhattan, I naïvely assumed I could digest the modern arts. There definitely were too contemporary pieces that I couldn’t understand, such as a large white canvas with small orange dots aligned in vertical and horizontal lines. However, there also were the Monets, Picassos, and Pollocks which I immensely enjoyed. I thought MoMA PS1 was merely a smaller version of MoMA. I was deeply mistaken. It is smaller in terms of square footage, but the art on display is quite different. Each exhibit is snuggly tucked away in its own enclosed space. The exhibits on display that day were engaging with the use of light, sound, and graphics. Yet, they weren’t quite for me. I feel guilty because I’m unable to give the artist their due. I didn’t retain enough details to describe why I wasn’t attracted to the displays. I found myself interested in the building more than the art. I stood at a window sill on a landing along the stairwell, gazing at the post office building across the street. I marveled at the additional details that appeared with each floor I ascended. I was done with exploring MoMA PS1 within 50 minutes, which was sad. I sat outside reading “In Cold Blood” by Truman Capote and brushed gravel induced dust off my face as I waited for Bird Shit to begin.

The VW Dome was in sight from my vantage point on a bench by the entrance to M. Wells Dinette. In case you are wondering why I elected to sit outside, the restaurant was packed with Sunday Brunchers and a long queue of want-to-be diners waiting to be seated. At 13:30 people started to line up for the show. I claimed my place in line, eagerly waiting to flash my hot pink wristband as verification that I purchased a ticket. I felt awkward standing among the eclectic crowd of young hipster, NYU art students, and mature art aficionados. Measured against the hipsters, I amounted to a hobbit, more Bilbo Baggins than Frodo. In contrast to the cool crew, I was short, dumpy and old. Measured against the older audience, I was a fraud. I lacked their maturity and sophistication. Nevertheless, I stood firmly in line, refusing to be intimidated by the experience. I buried my head in my book, willing the doors to open so I can escape the chilling weather. At 13:55 I heard the rusted squeak of a metal door opening ajar. People gasped and proclaimed, “That’s him!” I was too engrossed in my book to care. Moreover, I was standing behind a seven foot giant with my forehead hovering dangerously near his elbow. I could not see who “him” was, even if I wanted to. Over the masses, I heard a familiar voice, a voice I had heard a million times in the YouTube videos I religiously watch. It was James Franco in the flesh. Apparently, he stepped out of the theater to announce, “Guys, we’re really sorry but we’re having some technical issues and the show’s going to be a few minutes late. We’re really sorry about the delay.” He swiftly disappeared back into the dome, leaving us all, or maybe just me, craving for more. My face flushed. Had I known that Franco would be in attendance, I would not have come to the performance. I didn’t want to appear as a James Franco stalker, least of all to myself. But I was there. I had already purchased a ticket. There was nothing I could do at that point. Nevertheless, I felt sheepish, like a groupie following a rock star from one concert to the next.

Evidently, not only was Franco present but he was also part of the performance. He introduced Bird Shit with his signature modest and humble demeanor, thanking the audience for coming, reassuring us that the show wasn’t long, and hoping we’ll enjoy it. The VW dome is a very intimate setting. A small white stage stood erect in the middle, surrounded by five rows of folding chairs arranged in a hexagon and cordoned by the live band and technical stations. Next to this technical station, Franco stood in attention for the entire performance, overlooking his students perform. The light contrast between the dim theater and sunlit outer space was blinding. I could barely see as I entered the dome. I followed the silhouette of the lady in front of me until I found a seat to my liking. I immediately scoped out the space. There was an elaborate mechanical contraption affixed from a scaffold over the stage. Based on the promotional image of a man with white slimy substance covering his face, the show’s title, and the plastic lining the floor I correctly guessed the devise would dispense something during the performance. There were also three large projectors positions as the apexes of an invisible equilateral triangle hovering above the stage.

As promised, Bird Shit incorporated dialogue, dance, song, and prerecorded performances projected on the ceiling. Having done my homework before hand, I was able to recognize the Chekhov and Kaddish references with ease. After my experience with MoMA PS1 art, I was afraid that the performance would escape the grasp of my feeble mind as I intellectually struggled to comprehend the abstract. However, I was able to follow Bird Shit from the very first mega images of Franco projected on the ceiling with him disparaging fame and all the way through until the poor female lead was dragged out into the cold courtyard and drenched with water. I enjoyed every aspect of the performance, including the indecipherable songs. The show stayed with me as I darted from the theater on my way out, purposely avoiding Franco.  It still remains firmly in memory and mind three weeks later.

I had so many questions to ask, but I didn’t have a companion with whom I could ponder. I decided to file away these inquiries until the next time I encounter Franco. However, my take on Bird Shit is that we must endure the consequences of our choices, even when these byproducts are the shit we have to deal with every day. Fame is an unwanted result of living in the spot light. Some artists do not pursue fame, they simply desire the art. Yet, they have to accept the notoriety. I’m not sure if my interpretation of Bird Shit is what Franco had intended. Honestly, I don’t care. I was able to identify with this notion as I strive to deal with my own bird shit.

"Crowd" Writing Practice from Hitrecord.org

The crowd has started to gather. I can barely see ahead of me. It seems that everyone here is at least six feet tall. I hover dangerously close to a million elbows. I keep my head down just in case I get jousted, better on top of the head than the face. It is getting difficult to breath. I keep looking straight up and engulfing as much air as I can before ducking back down into the sea of people. I firmly hold tight to my backpack, confused to whether it helps or hinders my progress. I can feel strangers bumping into the waterproof hump, jolting me left and right but I maintain course. I can see the masses diverting above in a forty five degree upwards angle as they ascend out of the station. I order my heart to calm down, soon enough I too shall step on the escalator to ride out onto thirty fourth street. Penn station is always crowded on weekday evenings. I hate riding into NYC every Friday, having to fight the wave of people rushing to catch their rides at the end of the week as I walk against their tide. But all is well once I step onto the street and into the fresh air. It’s only a three minute journey from the train platform to the seventh avenue exist, but on Friday evenings it seems to take years to emerge from the station. I think about what we are going to do tonight to get my mind to focus on something else then the crowded station. Suddenly I feel the corrugated metal of the escalator, my hand darts to the mechanical handrail to secure my stance as I ride out of Penn station. I smile as my lungs fill with the cool air descending from the street above.

Just Call Me Nostradamus

We never expected a competent president. No. Let me rephrase
We never expected a very competent president. Yet, here we are today

Mr. President, are you sure you got your degree ?
Mr. President, are you sure you got your PhD ?

Dance for me, Sing for me
Entertain me drunk monkey

Oh! But wait
Drunk and dance don't mix

Never to mingle
Morsi and fix

Clueless to see what lies ahead
Clueless to be the truths unsaid

Buffoon, be fooled
Shame on me, shame on you

Do you sleep at night when you close your eyes ?
Do you rest awake anticipating your demise ?

Killer of hopes, Killer of dreams
Be hung, besieged

Will the day come when you wave from a cage ?
Will the day come when you ignite renewed rage ?

Lies, denies the fears in their eyes
Voices muzzled with tears and cries

An illusion of grandeur, an illusion of good
A savior of voices with so much said unheard

A savior to come, but not today
A savior to come, when if he may ?

My heart swells with sadness as I weep
For the lost ones I could not keep

Remember the departed who have withered away
Remember the departed to never flourish another day 

Note: This poem was first published in April 2013. I initially called it "An Untitled Poem" because I  was speechless to summarize my anguish due to the demise of Egypt at the hands of the Brotherhood and their puppet Mohamed Morsi. July 2013, after the Brotherhood fell from grace, I retitled the piece "Just Call Me Nostradamus".

An Egyptian Childhood - Heliopolis Summers

I was born in Charlotte, North Carolina, to Egyptian immigrants. When I was seven, my parents decided to move back to Cairo, Egypt. We lived with my maternal grandmother in Heliopolis area. Our apartment was on the third floor in a building sandwiched between a local park, The Merry Land, and the municipal court house. It was also adjacent to the sole supermarket of the nineteen eighties, Supermarket Express. This establishment more resembled a bodega than supermarket, as it occupied the lower two levels of an apartment building. Although small in size, Express was large in stature. It stocked a plethora of imported goods. Every Heliopolis resident knew Supermarket Express. Anyone who was anyone shopped there. My sister and I would save up our allowance money for weeks in anticipation of our scarce shopping sprees. We would waste it all on candy and bubble gum. We couldn't find the familiar Hershey bars, so we satiated our chocolate cravings with exotic European flavors of Lion and Smarties. My family couldn't afford to regularly shop at Supermarket Express, so it was always a treat to roam the store and reminisce about our memories of the US.

Our weekly groceries list was replenished from the local produce vendors who roamed the streets of Heliopolis , pulling wooden carts and singing their daily offerings in a voice so proliferating it radiated to the far realms of tenth story apartments. My mother would stick her head out of the window and shout out her order. The goods were delivered by an ingenious transportation device that comprised of a green nylon rope tied to the handle of a deep round basket. The rope was long enough to allow the basket to gingerly descend three stories to the street where merchants took their payments and placed the goods. Retrieving the basket wasn't always an easy assignment, depending on the size of the order. My mother was tasked with the obligation of fighting gravity and pulling her purchase up the very same three floors the basket had descended earlier. I spent many hours running to and from the local grocery story, Al Gameeya. My mother would send me on hunting expeditions to gather pantry items. We'd often run out of tomato paste, garlic, and onions. I would concede to her demands, often numerous times a day as she discovered missing ingredients with each step of the recipe. I always ran the entire distance, flapping my arms and raising my knees as high as they'd go. My long braids danced around my head and smacked me in the face. The fresh air would enter my lungs as I gasped for breaths through smile-parted lips. To this very day, every time I walk along the familiar path, I dream of running the whole way as I did in the past.

It was customary for the neighborhood kids to congregate during summer afternoons and play along the surrounding back streets. They rood bikes around the block and had impromptu soccer matches with stacked up debris marking the goal posts. Between the hours of two and four PM, mothers scooted their children out the door to play in the street while they enjoyed their afternoon siesta. My sister and I were not allowed to join these daily get-togethers. We spent the afternoons quietly cooped up in our glassed encased terrace, listening to the animated screeches and squeals emanating from the street. We laid on the floor and stared at the ceiling, daydreaming and reading Little House on The Prairie, with brief interruptions from the cable cars passing by at irregular intervals bringing with them the sound of metal chugging on gravel  and the toot of a whistle signaling the station right across our bedroom balcony. I was always amazed that my mother could nap despite all this ruckus, yet the sound of our hushed footsteps would awaken her in fits of angry rage.