Speaking in Public

Dedication: To the news that evokes memories one works through by writing

The first time my husband and I took the LIRR from Penn Station, a tall, 6-foot something, middle-aged white man with graying hair aggressively interrupted our conversation and said, "Hey hey, we're in America. Speak in English."

Our conversations are usually a mix of English and Bangla -- and I'm not even sure if we were speaking in Bangla at that moment. We were standing in the area where people wait to see their gate number flash. It was incredibly crowded -- and it was as if this man came out of nowhere. Maybe the stranger took a look at my headscarf, overheard his accent, and then put the two together to mean 'not English?'

...but how could someone overhear anything in Penn Station during peak hours unless he stood very close and strained to listen in?

I was so mad. On behalf of MY country -- which I felt particularly entitled to claim because my husband was visiting from Canada -- I was especially mad. 

The Mad Hatter, Central Park, NYC

I had waited long for his first visit to the U.S. and was so invested in him having a wonderful experience -- that it pissed me off to have to meet a racist THAT DAY.  

They could at least give us a few months and THEN come out of the woodworks.

(It was also the fall I took kung fu and probably had an unrealistic vision of my "skillz.")

So I told the stranger I must have learned incorrectly from public school my rights; that I wasn't aware there was an official public speaking language; and that we could speak any language we want. 

He didn't stop. He moved closer into my space, lowering his voice, saying something like "Don't you know what's going on these days? This is America." 

It was dumb - but I couldn't help myself. Maybe I should have walked away. I've done that many times before - hold my tongue and walk away. For some reason, at that moment--I couldn't help myself. 

That moment of anger -- it was the kind of anger that comes from protectiveness. At that moment, I knew between me and my partner, I had more power. In spite of my gender, race, visibility - I had the idiomatic language, the sense of entitlement and belonging. 

I raised my voice and said repeatedly he needed to mind his own business. He then nodded at a white family standing nearby and said, "See? They agree with me." By that time, the father (I assume) spoke up and said, "WHAT?! Absolutely NOT. I agree with her." 

That's when I realized people were listening in -- because then an Indian-American guy spoke up. And then a Latino. And then the Huntington gate opened and everyone began running toward the train. 

---

It didn't/doesn't feel heroic; it all feels/felt absurd -- the way someone could/can storm in and out of your life, leaving destruction and debris in its wake without accountability. In our case, we live with a story to tell and with me slightly entertained that the men around me suddenly began to speak up once they heard an older white male give voice to an opinion they shared. 

---

While on the train, I still felt unnerved and looked around to see if we were followed. I even questioned whether the whole thing was staged, a mise-en-scène orchestrated by secret puppet masters... because as fast as the stranger seemed to come out of nowhere, it also felt like he disappeared into thin air.  

War, Rifles and Flags: Fútbol Fever Part Deux

Every human love and hate has a context.   

U.S. students debkeh to Yankee Doodle in Jarash, 2006.

I have now witnessed fútbol fever first-hand while living in four different countries. I was in Egypt during the African Cup when Ghana was hosting; and I was in three different countries during three consecutive World Cups -- first in Jordan when Germany was hosting; then in Bangladesh when South Africa was hosting; and most recently in the United States with Brazil hosting.

Some symptoms of this particular fever include temporary madness (if love is a temporary madness); peculiar manifestations of patriotism or transnational loyalties on one’s body, home, car, children, and pets; fickle bandwagonness and accusations of bandwagonning; erratic and ecstatic fangirling; sudden onset of hot sweats during the male pageantry; and increased levels of pious devotion including extra prayers, kinder behavior, and generous charity. 

The exact expressions of happiness and grief may vary according to context, but the intensity of delirious partisan adoration of team sports – regardless of context – mirrors each other in a way akin to the strife of kinship rivalry. 

************************

While I was studying Arabic at Yarmouk University in Jordan, the games coincided with the 2006 Lebanon War (also called the 2006 Israel–Hezbollah War, also known as the July War). There were moments my roommate and I thought we could see through our windows smoke clouds from the Israeli airstrikes in Lebanon.

Located near the northern border of Jordan, Irbid is also very close to the borders of Syria, the northwest of Israel, and Southern Lebanon. The fear and anger during the war — and the flooding in of refugees — was palpable in a characteristically quiet town. The flags of loyalties went up as if to both express and shield the crushing feelings of helplessness in the face of human suffering. 

... So when I first heard shots of gunfire and men shouting loudly at night, I was terrified. They felt close.

Too close.

My roommate and I ran to look out our apartment windows. The night in Irbid was dark — and it was too dark to see anything.  We considered whether the war had crossed the border, because, really, what were those borders without their guardians' machine guns and wars other than lines redrawn on a map by men who lived on another continent?

Our terror, however, soon changed to relief.

World Cup 2006 had begun, and fans were celebrating the first goals made — by shooting their rifles in the air.  Over a single night, flags representing team loyalties went up.  More Italian flags could be seen covering storefronts and cars than the usual Palestinian flags and paraphernalia of the Jordanian King.

Although in other contexts we might have been angry with this absurdly ridiculous waste and dangerous nuisance, we could not help but feel grateful that it was only celebratory fireworks — and not the fire of war.

Raad Adayleh/AP

Love in the Time of Fútbol Fever

Exactly four summers ago, after a quick and unexpected turn of events set in motion by the U.S. Embassy in Ottawa, I was in Bangladesh for a second round of wedding festivities.  Elders, cousins and new family who were unable to attend the first ceremony in the frigid Arctic North (i.e., Canada) celebrated with us and arranged a series of family feasts. Our families' beloved matriarchs, who have now all passed on, joyously placed mehendi on our palms, slyly whispered jokes about sex and marriage, and piously recited prayers when their audiences requested them.  

This was also the summer of World Cup 2010 when South Africa was hosting. It was when the whole world learned about the vuvuzela; when one of my new uncle-in-laws had Shakira’s “Waka Waka” uploaded as his ring tone; and when Spain's team dominated on the field rather than in hilarious fútbol jokes on twitter. 

That summer, as was to be expected this summer, Dhaka was covered in Argentinian and Brazilian colors. There was not an apartment building in Old Dhaka that did not have at least one flat proudly displaying a Brazilian or Argentinian flag.  Bangladeshis are diehard fans, and even though the teams to which they pledge their loyalty are probably not aware of their unwavering support (let alone where their own country of over 154 million souls was located) -- they did not care.

Such fútbol love is mad, and the madness of Bangladeshi summers alone could make one delirious enough to mistake love for hate -- or hate for love.   

As hot and humid as the capital is during the summer months, the city shut down electricity use during the day to avoid a shortage at night when people religiously gathered to watch the games. 

The city’s wealthy who owned private generators managed to get on with their air conditioners continuously circulating cool air inside and radiating more heat and noise outside; the poor, as always, bore the heat of others’ excesses.

The thing is — fútbol fans, rich or poor, were serious about the games. So serious that even a wedding celebration getting in the way could be an offense. So serious that a photographer reported with exasperation that he had to shoot a wedding in which the groom insisted on setting up a large screen during the reception so that the game could be projected and he and his guests would be able to watch and not miss his wedding.

The bride had tears in her eyes but did not protest.

In spite of all this, my mother-in-law organized a gorgeous evening reception. The fresh red roses and classy white lilies adorning the hall were perfect; the mouthwatering kachchi biryani was fragrant and the lamb was tender to near perfection.

Being as detail-oriented as she is, my mother-in-law considered and planned for any and all possible mishaps. Contingency plans included things like bringing along another pair of shoes in case the first pair did not match and considering a switch of gold and blood red hand clutches if necessary.

My father-in-law knew his wife usually took into account every detail a normal human being might miss, so he rarely interfered in such affairs. There was, however, one thing on his mind.

It was, after all, the summer of another World Cup. The timing of the reception had to be just right. As a new father-in-law, he could not stand idly by and risk overlooking the fact of the ongoing games. Word has it that my father-in-law took it upon himself to ensure — and double and triple (and probably quadruple) check to confirm — that there would be no match during the reception. More than a mismatched pair of cute heels, that would have been embarrassing. My father-in-law was the unsung hero of the event.

That evening after the reception, as tradition would have it, I was taken for the first time to my sasurbari. Greeted at the door by new in-laws with sweets and cold drinks, we were escorted to our bedroom which was covered in more roses and lilies. After a few more photos, the bedroom soon emptied out and I was left alone to change and rest. Having fulfilled their obligations, the men quietly but quickly gathered in the guest room next door to begin watching a match which they were grateful for not having missed. With their shouts of panic and joy in the background, I soon fell asleep. 

Being witness first-hand to fútbol fever in four countries and four years later reading a recent Time piece "You'll Never Guess Where Some of the Most Fanatical Fans of Argentina and Brazil Soccer Teams Can be Found," I must say -- Your sensational headline is wrong again, Time. My first guess was absolutely correct.

Photo of Dhaka in 2010/Instagram @sanahungry

Romance

27 June 2014 / 29 Sha'ban 1435

It’s the old man stopping to smile
On his stroll through the park
At the four sisters' reverie

And the sudden cool breeze
On a still summer’s day
Waltzing through the trees

And the sudden music to my ears
Perfectly Canon in D
Played on the strings of my memories

When again I'm hopelessly in love
Because the world's romance fills me.

The Hustler

24 June 2014 / 26 Sha'ban 1435

But peace destroy'd what war could never blight,

And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain -- 

On which the iron shower for years had pour'd

In vain.
  - Lord Byron

Overwhelmed by the animated chatter and networking buzz floating above and around her, expanding and contracting in rhythmic waves of excitement and hushed silences, the Writer quickly scanned the ballroom. She soon found two empty seats which she could comfortably occupy with her partner and eat dinner, retreating into the quiet world she imagined only they occupied between the edges of their two plates and the rims of their two glasses of ice cold water. Reflecting on their good luck, the couple proceeded to enjoy the generosity of their meal.

When the crowd began to peter out to a far corner, an elegantly dressed young woman in a carefully selected ensemble of statement accessories approached them.

"I wanted to introduce myself. I'm familiar with your work and have heard much about it."

She introduced herself as a local artist and expressed a shared appreciation for a novel the Writer had mentioned during her talk. Intrigued at the possibility of discussing a novel she loved, the Writer asked the stranger to pull up a chair. Between introductions, her partner motioned that he was going to survey the dessert table.

Not adept in small talk, the Writer expressed plainly and passionately her appreciation of the novelist's bold depiction and celebration of his fictional saints considered fallen women within the world he crafted. It pleased her to find a novel that resonated with her so deeply.

She was, after all, constantly considering the impact of her own craft on her audiences. 

The artist looked at the Writer, smiled slightly and then asked. "Yes, yes. That's wonderful, but...don't you believe certain stories are simply inappropriate to share? You've said yourself just because other Muslims might have written about certain things does not mean we should follow suit. I mean," she leaned in, "Don't you think it's wrong to celebrate stories of sin?"

The Writer wondered if this artist was in fact asking her a question or making a statement--because she was familiar with both the question and the statement. Before she could understand the impact of the conversation's tone on her emotions, the Writer instinctively tucked in the passion she prematurely laid bare. Examining her interlocutor's face continuing to comment on something or the other, the Writer quietly noted, "It's not a 'celebration of sin' to create an avenue of empathy when confronting reality." 

The artist suddenly noted the time and that it was a pleasure to meet and walked toward the crowd to rejoin the din of chatter.  

The Writer's partner returned with two bowls of rice pudding. Unsure of what had transpired, she was quite sure that she was agitated by an exhausting sentiment that lingered after what felt like a tiresome game -- but of what?

She again retreated into the world she imagined that only they occupied -- this time between the edges of their two bowls and half-emptied glasses of melted ice water.

---

Intrigued by the title of a YouTube video, the Writer pressed play to give it a three-minute opportunity to move her. As the camera widened its field of view, the small screen on her laptop displayed the faces of a large audience and several speakers. The clip cut to one speaker passionately encouraging her audience to not hold back in their creative endeavors for fears of moral policing and uncharitable judgment.  The camera zoomed in closer and suddenly, the face became familiar. 

It was the face of the artist the Writer had encountered that night several months ago who had stated, in the form of a rhetorical question, "Don't you think it's wrong to celebrate stories of sin?"

Relief washing over her, she could now identify that tiresome game.  The Writer had met an expert hustler. 

---

*cue "Empire State of Mind"*

WorldCup2014: Rules of Team Loyalty

Dr. K wanted to know which teams I'm supporting at the #WorldCup2014. 

The thing is — I am unabashedly superficial and non-committal when it comes to sports, so the logic of my loyalties goes something like this:

1. Who collectively has better looking players?
2. Who collectively has more melanin? See #1.
3. Always most recently colonized/war-torn/occupied over most recent colonizer/occupier
4. Who is the black sheep of the family no one expects to succeed and everyone expects to fail - or become a failed state? Or drug lord (unless you’re Brasil)?
5. Africa over everyone. Also see #1-4.
6. None of this applies if your team has a disproportionate number of obstinate jerks - or entitled drama queens who don't know how to act but believe they are worthy of a Tony. 
7. Always go back to #1.

Halalapalooza

Being raised by an incredibly clean mother who regularly feeds the masses AND miraculously keeps a spotless kitchen, it was only to be expected that I would be incredibly dubious about all halal carts when I first moved to NYC.

(Regarding shifty Trini cell phone vendors named “Mack" who offer “special discounts" if I would only pay $300 in cash - not so much.)

My suspicion of food trucks, however, quickly changed when one day, one of the homeless guys in my new neighborhood noticed me taking a long, suspicious look at a halal cart. As I stood there next to him examining the menu, he recommended, “You gotta try the chicken and rice. It's good - especially with white sauce and hot sauce.” I’ve followed his recommendation ever since (after a quick inspection and usually with a preference for lamb). I even have a favorite cart.

So although I feel wildly competitive on behalf of Hoda’s Halal after reading this piece of news, I salute you, Halal Guys. You're probably horrifying some Islamophobe right now, and truly, I love overhearing, “Yo, let's go hit up some Halal.” 

The New York Times: The Halal Guys cashing in on street cred