September 2001

Stephen says life is good. I agree. We're at one of the resorts at Russian River, sipping cocktails poolside, recovering from last night's festivities in the city. The breeze is delicious. The sun departs; so does my penmanship. Someone is groping me. I have to go.
Lying on my back, surrounded by half-naked men, a nearby fountain spraying us, flirting and laughing, watching birds of prey circle slowly overhead, kissing Stephen in the sun... was heaven.
Some of the men had sex in a hot tub that was set back under a cluster of redwoods. I have no right to judge, but I found this scene comical and vulgar.
Too many cocktails in the sun led to a misunderstanding between Stephen and me, and he shoved me; not hard enough to knock me down. I couldn't believe it. Walking back to Stephen's Range Rover he tried to get me to talk, but I was angry and asked him to let it go. I privately wondered if what we had just begun was already over, before it had a chance to flourish.
On the drive back to Marin, when we'd both cooled off a bit, I apologized for whatever I had done or said to make him angry enough to push me. He said I had rejected his kiss.
'Well, I'm sorry. But nothing I do or say gives you permission to become in any way physical or violent with me. We've been honest all along and you need to trust that when I don't want to kiss there has to be a good reason that is my own and has nothing to do with you. You doubted me, Stephen.'
Stephen was remorseful, "I can't believe I did something to jeopardize our relationship."
I thought to myself, It's already over and you don't even know it, Stephen.
Then I remembered that one of my favorite shirts was at his apartment and I'd have to put off breaking up with him.
Mind you, I want to give this a try, but I have no tolerance for even an inkling of abuse. I guess I'll know in a few days what to do, or what to let happen...
Meanwhile, I will live with my heart open, but shrewd.
I called him tonight and again Stephen acknowledged losing his temper, didn't make up stupid excuses, which I respect. I, too, apologized for having been insensitive. He was relieved that I'd called, though he said he was prepared to be dumped. I suppose I have to admit that I like him.
And I don't want to be the kind of person who doesn't forgive others their shortcomings, is stringent, uptight, lonely. Not that I'm afraid of loneliness. If anything, it's very easy for me to walk away from anything and anyone.
We're not perfect, are we? But we're in this together- all of us. Let's take care of each other and hope for the best. All of us. Together.
Nothing's right, but nonetheless my life is amazing. I'm surprised at myself for wanting to be with Stephen, who I think can be shallow, materialistic, and drinks too much. Perhaps I see myself in him and find some semblance of commonality in his shortcomings. Also, I am homophobic and sometimes think he is too "gay", immersed in the Castro bar scene. But who am I to make such rash judgments about someone else's choices and needs?
I don't want to admit that I know Stephen and I are temporary, because I see nothing wrong with impermanence. Time cannot gauge or devalue the significance of human relationships as it does wine or a piece of furniture. Stephen and I will learn a great deal about ourselves and when we part ways we will do so, hopefully, with deeper respect for each other.
Yoga.
I met Stephen for drinks in the city where he greeted me with a huge bouquet of flowers. How did he know blue is my favorite color? For someone who pops pills and knows how to drink he sure can be thoughtful and romantic. I was deeply and superficially moved. The small card read, "Habibi, I'm glad to have you in my life... as is my heart".
In his presence I seem to lose touch with my prejudices and inhibitions. We kissed. And kissed. Other men looked at me and smiled, flirted, but I threw them up in the cool crisp San Francisco air. Stephen laughed with me, made funny faces. Someone left their headlights on and their battery died, but my flowers are still alive.
Where do I let go? How do I begin?
He says he wants to orgasm with me, however we choose. We've cuddled. We've kissed. We've slept tangled, but we have yet to have "sex".
I can't believe I want to go out again. What am I thinking? I'm still hungover from last night. Achy from yoga. I'm so immature. But there's so much life in me that needs to be lived, expressed, shouted! Jackie asked where the flowers came from and I told her about Stephen. Only his age, occupation, and how it's 'nothing serious. We're just dating. You know, having fun.'
This morning started like any other morning. I showered, dressed, stepped into the car, turned the engine and the radio came on. A woman's voice announced that all flights had been grounded. That's strange, I thought. Is this some kind of emergency drill? The horror unfolded as I sat in morning rush hour traffic. I looked at others sitting in the cars around me, searching their faces for answers I had no questions for. No words. Commercial airplanes flown into New York skyscrapers? The Pentagon attacked? A fourth airplane crashing elsewhere? Thousands of innocent people killed in a matter of minutes. Hours taking more lives...
The day was miserable. Serving customers was awkward and unnatural. I resented those who sipped lattes and laughed, and tried to accept that everyone handles trauma differently. And what next? Revenge? On whom? Is the U.S. going to react hastily as they did with Japan with atomic bombs? It's too much. All of this. Too much. Too sudden. Too frightening. As an Iranian Assyrian I am petrified as to what this may mean for me, my family, and all Middle Eastern people everywhere. Please God, guide us toward understanding and help us evolve from violence and war mentality. Help us.
It's a beautiful day, as was yesterday in New York City, from what I could tell on unfathomable news footage. And yet everything here in Marin, this bubble of unreality, seems unchanged. It's business as usual. People laugh, drink, eat, go about their day. There's even a Mylar birthday balloon tied to the back of one chair. It seems absurd that people should celebrate openly and not mourn the death of so many men and women. So much destruction. I don't expect them to wear black, but...
Is war around the corner? Will we learn or will we die?
Jackie and I decided to go to yoga and get away from the news that almost made our brains explode with grief and incomprehension. We soberly joked that we would have to change our names and make ourselves more American. We anticipate anti-Middle Eastern backlash. Jokingly she called me Mike. I called her Lisa. We hold our breath.
Stephen annoyed me on the telephone. He was almost giddy, arrogant, irreverent, untouchable. He spoke excitedly about the attacks as if they were scenes in a Hollywood movie, played out on a theater screen, the victims actors, the crumbling towers special effects. I said I didn't want to talk about it anymore, but he carried on excitedly.
Anita sounded worried, almost sick. Her voice was vacant. She's afraid of the government's reaction and cautioned me to be careful. "Watch your back. You look Arab. There are crazy people out there looking to get into fights."
Already we missed our freedom and rights, imagining a restricted half-life imposed on us Middle Eastern immigrants. Will we be issued some kind of identification card distinguishing us from citizens of this country, if not forced to leave altogether?
Jackie says the fact that we are Christian will protect us. I'm not sure how much I believe this.
Stephen and I were supposed to have dinner tonight. He cancelled.
I'm at a Japanese restaurant, feeling heavy, disenchanted. While I know the entire world feels dejected, I can't help but feel alone and isolated. I'm butting heads with people I once admired on the idea of war and retaliation. I cannot be in support of murder, no matter what the provocation. It's cowardly, inhumane. There is just no justification for the slaughtering of innocent people. Both Jackie and Stephen have said we need to go to war, take revenge. I disagree vehemently. I don't want to go into detail about who said what, but I know that I will never look at certain people the same way!
Will we open our eyes and be wiser?
It feels like winter. I'm chilled despite drinking hot jasmine tea.
Where is the sun? Does it refuse to shine on us lovely cowards and hypocrites? Where is the sun...
Some merely see the world with their eyes, feel it with their hands. This seems so limiting. Eyes and hands are for perceiving walls, ceilings. The heart has far more imagination, might, and depth of perception, and when allowed becomes the brain of compassion, forgiveness, gratitude, global harmony. The heart, unlike hands and eyes, can reach far beyond borders and prejudices.
Where is the sun? Not in my soul today.
I met Stephen Saturday evening at his apartment, sipped red wine as he got ready; red wine I purchased from a young Arab clerk at a convenience store. On Tuesday Stephen had been excited on the phone, charged, having stayed home from work and watched the news all day with a friend. They had drunk a bottle of something or other and taken Ecstasy. On Wednesday he'd cancelled dinner plans. Now I felt palpable distance between us. Even his roommate David was cold, when before he'd been affable and warm.
'Is David all aright?'
"Why? Was he cold to you?" Stephen asked matter-of-factly.
'Well, I didn't perceive it as having to do with me. I was just asking if he's OK.'
"We're all a little on edge right now."
'Yeah, so am I. But I don't think we should just rush off to war. Who would we go to war with anyway? We don't even know who's responsible yet.'
"I'd be careful if I were you and not run my mouth off."
'I'm entitled to my anti-war opinion, Stephen, as much as any member of this society!'
He did not hold my hand.
Dinner was uncomfortable. We agreed not to talk about terrorists and war anymore, to just have a nice time.
When the men sitting at a nearby table finished their meal and left Stephen said, "Did you notice those two men looking at you funny?"
I thought this was a peculiar question and answered with some annoyance, 'No, I didn't notice. And please don't point such things out to me if I don't pick up on them. I want to enjoy my dinner, not live in fear.'
"I just want you to be careful."
'If I was 'careful' I wouldn't be sitting here with you having dinner. I'd fear you and your HIV. Unless you sense immediate danger and feel we should react please don't tell me to be careful. It's not for me to deal with someone else's prejudices. As a queer person I've been self-conscious all my life and I'm finally getting over that. I'm not about to take a step backward!'
He remained unsympathetic.
'If I'm such an inconvenience to you maybe we should just break up!'
Only days before my otherwise compassionate aunt had said, "I'm sorry. I have no sympathy for Arabs. I'm going to buy an American flag." We'd argued. She'd attacked my sentiments regarding human rights, said I was naive. Hours later I had called her and apologized. 'I just think we need to differentiate terrorists and Arabs.'
Stephen said he didn't want to break up and was only concerned for my safety. I felt he was being oppressive.
After dinner we met some of his friends for drinks and again the conversation turned to Tuesday's attacks. Stephen and one of his friends were vehement about going to war, but against whom? I tried not to engage in the near-sighted debate, listening instead to ambient sounds of the bar, people-watching. I stood up and said I had to go, 'You guys have no idea what war is, what war means, sounds like, looks like, feels like. You think bombs will conveniently fall on the bad guys. Innocent people will be killed!' And stormed out.
Only when I was on the bustling street did I break down and weep. I drove home through the familiar fog that nightly wraps itself around Golden Gate, shrouding its curves, cables, and peaks. The next day I did not roll out of bed until three in the afternoon. Stephen did not call, and while I want nothing more to do with him, with his imperialistic views, I wished he would call and say he understood.
I do not hate Stephen, I hate no one. I only purely resent his inability to comprehend that wanting war is as hypocritical as the terrorist attacks that continue to divide us as individuals, as a nation, as a global community.
It feels strange to be doing yoga in a world that's dilapidating.
I called mom who is now in Modesto. She sounded worried. "Are people at the restaurant being mean to you?"
This annoyed me, 'No. On the contrary, they are being extra nice. Come on, mom, this is Marin. I should hope that ignorant people are in the minority here.' This seemed to assuage her.
I feel autumn approaching in my bones. A thought. A recollection. An association. A river. Colors change. Surrounding hills express in changing color joyous arrivals and sad departures. My soul is profoundly connected to the landscape, not to politics. I'm in accord with the politics of nature, trees, hills, storms, and flowers. Not men. Let them kill each other. I don't know them. Why should I feel for them, grieve for them, want the best for them? Let them eat each other alive!
When I stop feeling for others I begin to feel intensely sorry for myself.
We've all been living under a collective mask that's now being painfully peeled back, finding it hard to look at each other and ourselves without suspicion or flinching.
Now we ache for all the frivolous luxuries we took for granted, hurled into unknown places.
Let's fall between the grass blades that ripple high on Mt. Tam, bury the last of our wishes in the sand at Stinson, hurl our new hatred out to sea where it may be softened by salt, years, and sun.
Tariq worries for his brother who owns a convenience store in Ohio.
In a dream I walk for miles and miles in many cities.
I e-mail Stephen:

Dear Stephen,

This e-mail is not written with even an ounce of ill-will. On the contrary, I celebrate a lovely phase of my life that was shared with you. Thank you for that. I will always cherish it. 
It seems that right now, faced with a national crisis- rather international crisis, because this is about human rights across the globe- we are each forced to reevaluate our selves, our opinions, and our relationship with one another, as well as with the world. It is not an easy task. 
It seems also that everyone I know, American and Middle Eastern alike, once loving and nurturing, is beating the drums of war. But what do they mean by war? If they mean the capturing of terrorist groups and individuals responsible for the attacks on September 11th, then yes, I am in total agreement. But if they mean launching missiles, dropping bombs, destroying families, buildings, and cities then, no, I cannot advocate that way of thinking. I'm brother and sister of all people of the world. 
Everyone is entitled to their opinion, but I should hope that the people in my life arrive at theirs only after prolonged consideration, having felt more than just blind rage, sympathetic of the ordinary people who will be sacrificed in the process of war. 
I was only a child when Iran was at war with Iraq. I can still hear the sound of bombs in the distance- a terrifying memory. We were often without food and electricity. What had we as children done wrong? Nothing, Stephen. Nothing at all. 
Haven't I heard time and again that people living with AIDS be shipped off to an island somewhere because they are a threat to society? Am I to side with them too? Stephen, it is heartbreaking to hear someone living with HIV speak of war and of killing as a viable solution. How can you? 
I, too, resent the persons responsible for Tuesday's crimes. They have set us all back a hundred years. Thanks to them we must all start from scratch to prove that not all people from the Middle East are terrorists and against the U.S. 
You're a sweet man. I know this, but I also know that you're not strong enough to be in my life. I'm not saying you're not good enough. That you are. But this week you challenged my sensibility, my faith in humanity, and told me not to "run your mouth off". You projected your own prejudices onto me, your phobias, your insecurity. You think you're being protective by reminding me that I am different, but you are being oppressive. 
I love the world. I trust the world. I am not afraid of the world. Once you showed me off to your friends, kissed and touched me in public, then you forfeited, withdrew. Stephen, your fears are not mine. Do not give them to me. I do not feel them. 
Take profound care and know that I am grateful for having known you,
Emil 

Another summer falls from trees.
I've decided to move into Vanessa's two-bedroom apartment in San Anselmo.   
Atom and eve.
Feeling that I am abandoning my family by moving out.
I am half-everything, not fully devoted to one person, one country, one God. The dream always begins and always ends. The dream of love in a loveless slumber.
I have not felt connected to Jackie all summer. I don't believe in her anymore. I sense that she tries to understand me, listens but the words are processed in her intellect, not her soul. I withdraw, tell her nothing. I'm tired of these divorces. None of my relationships last. Is it my own doing? A sense of loss. Where does it come from? How long will it last? What part of me will it take with it when it, too, dies?
I'm hoping that Vanessa, who is again sober, will not slip back into heavy drug use as she did last summer.
Child's pose.
We ought to be born elderly, arriving at youth with all the knowledge of a lifetime, dying only as sage cells.