October 2000

A drink of water. Autumn sun on my arm. A leaf flying at the windshield. Jackie's smile. Tariq's voice. Mom's little surprises. A hush. A wish.
In line at the drugstore I scrutinize the cashier. It is evident that she is weary and annoyed. Her hands are small and bony and she wears glasses. There is sorrow in her brown eyes. She has an accent I can't make out. When I'm face to face with her I say something light, encouraging. She smiles. She looks around, leans forward and whispers that she's only got eight more months of this work, that her son will soon graduate college, that she's working only to put him through school. 'I admire you,' I say before the automatic sliding doors swoosh open and we disappear from each other's life.
Tomorrow is the reading for Male Lust at Good Vibrations, the sex toy shop in the Mission. I always get so nervous before reading, but once I'm up in front of people I become very calm, natural.
There's been another attack on Gaza. I worry about Tariq.
I bring a box of donuts to anatomy class, which puts a smile on the early morning faces of classmates.
Things are a mess in the world, not just the Arab world, but right here, and perhaps America is the biggest mess of them all.
This morning I took mom to the farmer's market in the city. Here in the open air market mom came completely to life, seemed totally at home, perhaps as she'd been in similar markets in Iran, as a young mother, picking the perfect pomegranates, the freshest eggplant, haggling. My mother, who changes before my eyes into a hundred women, always a surprise and a mystery.
Night is a swarthy lover with starry eyes gazing into mine. Hypnotic. Wine. Laughter in a violent world. Love in a loveless time. With you...
The date with David? He was an hour late, didn't offer to pay for dinner, gave me a blowjob he did not finish.
Came home to a package from Alyson Books- two crisp shiny copies of Revolutionary Voices!
David e-mails the day after the date. In the e-mail he is sincere and thoughtful.
Wael looks surprised when I show up at his door, joking that he had expected me to cancel. We strolled in the cool Oakland air to a nearby restaurant and for the first time I felt closer to Wael, enjoyed him more, understood him. He, too, seemed more open, talking more freely about himself. He said I looked different but couldn't quite place his finger on it. We talked a little about Tariq, politics, and life in general.
On the drive back to Marin I again felt the severity of solitude- the black highway, multitudinous lights flickering across the bay, lives and deaths intermingling in the near-distance under the pseudonym: San Francisco.
My run in the rain, off the beaten path, was serene and picturesque, and when the clouds let up new colors without names emerged, sunrays falling delicately on the surrounding hills and their dramatic folds.
Nothing about a person you've just met is real. We step up to each other gingerly, in tailored replicas of our real, disheveled selves.
Tariq, I love you.
Everyone I've ever known is somewhere in the world- loving, living, dreaming. Something grand connects us all and I feel them in my own veins as I live every single moment as if it's the second to last, touch everything as if my hands are about to be cut off.
My grandmother tells me to keep growing my hair out so I can wear it up. I look at her funny, 'That's not what an Assyrian grandmother is supposed to say!' We laugh.
At work I overheard more than one table discussing Israel and the Palestinians.
Tariq writes that he's been drunk with a Palestinian friend and I'm glad to know he's not alone, but with a kindred spirit, commiserating.
If I believe that religion is for mad people then why do I find myself praying for peace?
The moon is amazing tonight. I'm in bed and have left my window wide open so that its rust-colored rays may enter my room and softly kiss my naked, changing body, abate the palpitations of my flesh, which longs for hands, lips. I ought to be making love, not sleeping alone, my youth being wasted. I'm bursting with love and energy, my body burning.
It's not clear yet what it is I'm supposed to learn from Tariq. It's hard to believe my sense of trust could be so easily diminished. I'm full of mistrust, have become a wave that retreats, then returns timidly, cautiously, but crashes- drowning in the foaming confusion of my own enthusiasm. Everything exhausts me. Everyone overwhelms me.
It is morning in San Francisco and although I'm supposed to be in anatomy class I am here at Cafe Flore, sitting outside. I just couldn't imagine myself sitting in a sterile room, among sleepy eyes, assaulted by our over-enthusiastic instructor's rantings about nerves- wearing on my own! So, I sped past the Sir Francis Drake exit, continued on 101 with other vehicles, crossed Golden Gate, the city sunny and welcoming.
Bassam's party was lovely and he was the consummate host- serving a new dish at the buffet table, mixing drinks, hugs, smiles, introductions. Moe brought flowers. Wael, a bottle of wine. I gave Bassam a signed copy of Revolutionary Voices.
Heba ran up to me with grapes in her hand sporting a wide, bright-eyed smile, announcing that ever since we first met she'd wanted to feed me grapes because of my deceptively Roman profile. She sat with me a while and for the first time we talked about her love life. I listened with all my senses, absorbing her sentences. Love is a tactile conversation. Tariq's name came up and Heba asked if it was alright to talk about him. 'Of course,' I answered with a smile. She told me about their humorous deep-sea fishing excursion in Santa Barbara recently. Tariq deep-sea fishing? I couldn't picture it. But evidently it had happened.
Laura, slender, looking as though she were from the nineteen-twenties stopped by with a plate of food and for the first time we spoke openly, intimately. I said, 'Only you could dye your hair black from red and still look fiery!' She smiled and explained that she has reached a certain level of peace with the world, attained her master's in theology, and feels closer to God. Her dark eyes emanated warmth, vitality. I broke the surface further with, 'I want you to know that although Shammi and I are close she doesn't talk about the details of your relationship or breakup.' She touched my knee with her free hand and smiled, "It means a lot to me that you said that." Her high cheekbones, her long neck, her warm Lebanese eyes... She asked how I was doing. I said that love changed me, explaining that upon my return from Columbus I quit smoking, began to eat better and started exercising. This really moved her and she actually choked up a bit. In the end we decided that we would remain vulnerable and open to life, sensitive without suffering.
Later in the night everyone gathered round the table of food and cakes and champagne was served. Laura announced that she would like to make a toast and this she did, emotionally and eloquently. She even made a point of turning around and smiling at me.
Moe remained stationary most of the evening because of the pain and painkillers. He was in a terrible car accident that seems to have changed him somehow. He seemed older, more humble. I sat with him, gently rubbing his aching back. He admitted that a year ago he was loud and obnoxious and apologized. "You're sweet, Emil," he said softly.
We talked a little of the accident, which he barely remembers, and of his many nebulous days in the hospital where feeding tubes sustained his battered body. He said the first time he looked at himself in the mirror he had been repulsed by the reflection, how dirty he was, amazed that friends who had kept vigil had touched him, kissed him.
When Wael, Moe, and I left the party Moe began to shiver violently. He regretted having overstayed and tired himself. The persistent shivering made his broken ribs ache more. He winced and moaned in pain. When we were in the car Wael cranked the heat. Moe asked Wael to hold his hand.
The next afternoon I am in the city, on a large empty stage at Harvey Milk Institute, reading from Revolutionary Voices. Alone.
David e-mails.
Yesterday I received a sad e-mail from Tariq asking me for at least one word just to know I am alive and well. I wrote an hour-long response, which in the end I deleted. Loving him from here, from the corners of my life, from the mouth of my heart is something that I cherish and shirk from. Letting him go hurts. Accepting him hurts. So, I exercise- the other extreme of my emotional pain: physical highs!
I vacillate between many contradictions within a single moment. The unease reshapes me.
Wine by the fire with Jackie and grandmother. I miss Tariq like I am the logs burning in the fire, like the wine swirling in the glass, like the blackness of night beyond the windows. But no one needs to know, after all fire is supposed to burn, wine is expected to intoxicate, night is meant for longing.
Mom and I woke up early and drove to San Francisco in the dark, sipping hot coffee out of paper cups with white plastic lids. I listened to music, talking little. Mom smoked and was chipper, but nervous. She clutched the three-dollar bridge toll, which I had asked her to put away, it was too soon.
In fact, we were leaving the house too early, but I didn't say anything, knowing this was an important day for mom. I respected her wishes, no matter how neurotic.
We arrived at the INS office, room 45, waiting area A, at seven; her appointment was at eight-forty. We took a seat by the window, beyond which the city was still shrouded in darkness. We were the first two people in the hideous room with no pictures, no plants, no magazines. Only dirty white walls. A door with a peep hole and a combination lock.
I opened my book, crossed my legs, and began to read. Mom asked if she should review her answers. I said no, to just sit back and try to relax; I had tested her some days before and her answers had been, without exaggeration perfect!
Soon the sun was rising as others began to shuffle sheepishly into the spiritless room. I noted that everyone, mom included, was apologetic- as if they had no right to place their dirty foreign feet on sacred American floors. This made me indignant, so I met their eyes, smiled openly at them, laughed with mom in an attempt to dissipate the tension in the air, which made the already oppressive space more intolerable.
I continued reading the anthology Ahimsa had sent me. Poems by Arab writers. Beautiful poems. I read them achingly. I turned occasionally to the one dirty window, stained by last year's rains, and looked out on the surrounding rooftops. This scene seemed to lull me a little. I returned to the book, turned the page, and discovered a poem appropriately titled Rooftops.
Of course mom passed the citizenship test. She came out beaming; not only had she overcome her insecurities, the young officer had been polite, she said, respectful, efficient. We stepped buoyantly out onto the morning street that was now bustling with people, cars, activity. Mom could not stop smiling. She was shining and the exuberance made her skin flush.
Back in Marin we sat on the patio of a restaurant on the water and I silently pondered Home, Happiness, being American, everything mercurial, and wondered what is to become of us contemporary Assyrians...
My grandmother is visibly overworked, so I suggested we go to the farmers' market in the city. We set out in a drizzle, I played a Turkish CD, and my wonderful grandmother danced playfully and comically in the passenger seat. The city was wet and overcast, but bustling and alive. Scents of fresh fruits, vegetables, and fish wafted in the air, along with sounds of cars and people. Flocks of pigeons circled overhead. A young woman tried passing me a flier and asked, "Are you a San Francisco voter?" I answered reflexively, 'No. I can't vote.' She tilted her head to one side, smiled sympathetically, "Oh, that's OK." She chuckled awkwardly. Suddenly I was reminded just how powerless I am and the feeling surged in me all afternoon. By evening I was flat out depressed. I tried to write, as always grappling in the dark for words like backs of chairs, stubbing my toe on nebulous phrases, blindly feeling for textures. I cried for many reasons, for many people, specifically for my queer friends- Martin, Grant, Moe, Tariq, Heba, Bassam, all of whom have been unfairly made to feel inferior in life, when they should have been nurtured, celebrated.
It makes me crazy, and fear I'm nearing a nervous breakdown.
Many lonely places have taken me in over the years, many rainy evenings such as this one have kissed me, many mysteries have baffled me, but none as extreme as now, here. I have the house to myself and look out the window at the wet yard, glistening in the last light. Music fills the entire house, my head, knocking words about. I've fixed myself a gin and tonic, extra lime.
So, here I am living out the best years of my life, a most precious time, sweet years in a comfortable, middle-class American home, with my wonderful family of three zany, strong women. What am I to do with all these memories, this panoply of loving moments? How am I to capture them?
Jackie looked stunning stepping out of the house in a red dress, smiling, radiating. I can't help but feel protective. My grandmother and I played cards, which always puts her in a good mood. Of course she always wins. We play the same game every time, the one she learned many years ago in the village. She insists that the way I shuffle the cards puts them back in the order they were. 'Mom-Suzie, leya!' (That's impossible!) We laugh.
She is an impossibly impatient woman, my grandmother. Years of an abusive marriage and struggle have made her neurotic about action and work. She has a hard time resting, relaxing. A dirty dish cannot sit for long on the table before us. It will drive her crazy. Jackie gets annoyed about this habit and they argue about it. A lot!
I savor everything, every minute detail- stepping in and out spaces, walking, hearing shrill birds in branches, drinking a glass of water, expressions on faces, the slightest flinch. Life is delicious. I eat it slowly, taste every small bite. It's not only life I find amazing, but my health and freedom, that I am able to move about physically, with total access to many simple, even luxurious amenities. I could get dressed now and drive across a bridge into the city, singing, have a drink, make a friend, have an experience of any nature!
This acuteness frightens me. Everything breaks open, splits into many different directions. It is a strange and amazing time. Everything is at risk.
I'll never have a lasting romantic relationship. I feel it. I know it. I'm not made to be with one person. I'll never be happy... like others can be. It's difficult to explain.
I also know that I'll never feel at home here in Marin, or perhaps anywhere. I am the recurring Assyrian guest in the diaspora of earth's borderless imagination. A sigh at night... in blue orchard- this ink, this diary.
Lying on the rug, under the table around which my mother, aunt, and grandmother converse, joke, and laugh. I could remain here, in this commonplace moment forever. Under each everyday occurrence a river of gold flows, taking with it my youth, my freedom, my family. It's hard to imagine that our time here together will pass, and without warning end. I place my lips tenderly against each second, breathing in the passing perfume, the departing music, the temporary warmth.