June 1999

The demystifying of needles, blood, and sex. Dreams and sexuality.
We give of ourselves in so many ways, in so many places. We juggle many appointments with hope, with fear, with dramas and art, with people, and moods.
When I woke up this morning I did not know that I would be going into a clinic for a fourth such HIV test, and endured the procedure almost mechanically, knowing what to do and when to do it, well before the technician had to ask.
I'm tired of repeating the same traumatic and dangerous scene, reliving the moments so that I may glimpse something I may have missed the million times before, something better, more beautiful, and beautifully lasting- something other than my lingering loneliness.
Do I will this familiar obstacle course, or is sinking simply everyone's destiny and challenge in life?
Is this my audition for a death that does not require talent, but wounds?
I pray that I will be strong through life; I do not pray that I test negative for HIV for why should I be spared when millions others are not? I should like to think that I am mature enough to accept the consequences of my behavior, my neurosis. I pray that in spite of my lonely and drunken misadventures life will not lose its magic.
I am not alone! I am not alone. I am not alone…
Dinner with Wael went well. We sat inside the small Japanese restaurant in the Castro and again talked of our past and coming out, and coming to terms. Wael sat with his back to the window beyond which I intermittently watched the pedestrians pass- dozens of them, men and women of different color, styles of dress, expressions, and pace. One such face stood out the most and our eyes locked for an instant.
It was Jack!
Wael talked of coming out in Lebanon while Jack had seemed like a lonely figure moving slowly by, looking in, seeing me. And although he had been discreet and walked on without acknowledging me- or perhaps he had not noticed me at all- I felt a hotness in the soles of my feet which shot straight through, flushing my face.
Wael asked, "What's wrong? You're not eating. Too full?"
'Yes, too full.'
I felt nauseous, cornered. Images of Jack's dimly lit bedroom, where he'd eaten from my ass, sought me. Images of the wealthy older man attacking my body, forcing himself in, fulfilling my sick fantasies of rape, of molestation, of being the child every man desires. And Jack is every man- his age, his physique, his mystique all encompass the men of my fantasies.
Dizziness.
Claustrophobia of memory.
This is not my life.
Wael casually enjoyed his dinner, talking in a mellow sweet monologue that had now become a soliloquy with which I could not keep up, though I pretended to.
I was busy splintering into two men. One who was afflicted with carnal appetites for a semblance of connection, whatever its nature, offering his ass to the stranger walking by beyond the window, and the other who was at peace and content with a slow and platonic unreality, as with Wael.
The former was merely a shell here conversing soberly with Wael, and the shell was hollow now, and had no heat, no texture, no movement, and parched it peeled from my body, fell to the restaurant floor, and shattered into a million unwanted pieces. And though I wanted nothing more than to scramble about and collect the fragments and hide every incriminating piece of the puzzle, I strived to stay seated, half-present, acting.
Afterward I wondered if I'd ever be able to confide such things in Wael- as friend or as unconditional lover. And would I ever be capable of being the ideal partner, faithful and healthy? Merciful enough not to demand that Wael, or anyone, be my anchor, my all-encompassing buffer…
And would my own patterns and past fade into the busy sidewalk, into oblivion like Jack?
A crazy, violent wind pounds its fists into the roof of the house where I am taking a precarious walk through the mine-laden fields of my imagination; a place where possibilities, both exciting and perturbing, explode and deafen my ears, simply because I have been reckless with my sexuality, careless with my body.
I am not.
I am!
It couldn't be. Yes, it could!
No, not me. Why not me!
I cannot meet my mother's eyes.
Is this what being queer means, and only this?
It can't be!
But life is so incredible, filled with golden moments, and ineffable magic, and I have felt so much joy, so much promise. Could this same life actually turn on me even while I have written so much about it, praised and poeticized it? Have I willingly forsaken life's gift by being twenty-something and motivated by the very hormones of mystery and sexual desire, by the cells of being me, the bloodstream of emotion itself?
I trusted too much in the spirit and forgot the body, which is fragile.
I lived so much in the spirit and the magic that I altogether forgot the chemical realities of the shell, the sinewy foundations.
I'm not.
But I might very well be!
Not me. Why not me!
A crazy, brutal wind…
In this empty coffee house, faced with the prospect of another empty page, I vacillate between a feeling of doom and a story of redemption. It is a struggle that has long become fused to my heart like an artery to a future I am not permitted to define.
Here unreal blood is generated, while the unreal blood sustains me. And my heart beats with fictitious spasms, dreamlike incentives.
It has become embarrassing to make such tenuous promises as- I will never again have sex and jeopardize my health! By now I know that this is insecurity speaking, lying. The root of all this belongs elsewhere, in richer, more fecund soils of conviction and human nature.
At a party Vanessa pulls down her jeans and white panties to show us her clitoral ring that pierces the hood of a shaved pussy. We are in the kitchen. Of course, it is not the first time I have witnessed this eighth wonder of the world!
Mitra, Anna, and I are sitting in the sun, in the woods. We spent last night around the fire, which Anna fed, fostered, and poked. We drank, burped, and farted in tandem, singing fragments of songs we knew and remembered.
The laugher here comes as naturally as the raccoons that stalk our locked supplies, as easily as the seeds that fall all around us from great Redwood heights.
Everything is an effort, though. There are many commands, "Anna, will you hand me a beer?" "Emil, do you have the lighter?" 'Ooh, Mitra, will you grab the roll of paper towels while you're up?'
To wash one's face takes five decisive steps, to fetch a plastic fork demands thought, concentration, and the retracing of older steps; a certain dexterity. Maybe it's the altitude. But isn't the point of camping to get in touch with the everyday while in the presence of wildness?
Effort, stars, cigarettes, song.
Although I stepped out of the clinic in San Rafael breathing a now hackneyed sigh of relief I knew that AIDS belongs to all of us- even us Assyrians.
It feels as though a certain chapter of horrors has been traversed and conquered, then dramatically placed back on the shelf, with one gesture of seeming finality. But I know I will revisit this place.
Ahimsa speaks of growing up knowing he would resist the violence he witnessed in his family, in his Brooklyn neighborhood, and his country. We are sitting on the sofa in his small, dark, Oakland apartment. Outside, the wind had blown litter all around my feet- dried leaves, pieces of dirty crumbled paper, cigarette butts, candy wrappers. I had thought of my own youth in Chicago, on dirty Devon.
When I ask him about an interesting collage which hangs on his bedroom wall Ahimsa reveals having lived on the streets. He says the piece represented to him a semblance of beauty even as he worked on it, depicted the nebulous ideal of perfection at a time when he was estranged from his family… because he was "different".
I'm always amazed by his mind, which is organized. Ideas come but he lays them gently aside on his lap so that he may finish the thought that is at hand. And when that topic is illustrated, branched out in poignant extremes, and completed he promptly and without hesitation picks up the one that is kept warm in his lap. Nothing is lost. He is a natural lecturer and destined to teach.
We lye on his bedspread and read aloud the pieces we have selected for the upcoming event. The excerpts from Ahimsa's book in progress are intimate and raw just like a diary. I am struck by their immediacy.
Of my work he says, "This is Walker, Marquez, Morrison. It is so specific that it is in the end universal."
He stands from the bed and pulls a book from the shelf. He points to the intricate geometric pattern on the cover and says, "This is the shape of your work."
It is a productive four hours and when I leave I know that tomorrow I will be reading as an Assyrian, and not as an ethnically anonymous writer.
The space where the reading was held was not at all what I had envisioned. I had not anticipated the elevator; the sterile feel of the building, the low ceilings. There were far too many people in attendance. I felt inadequate as the other poets and writers read works that were immensely moving and well constructed. They read more like performers than writers. As a diarist I felt totally out of place and ill-prepared.
During the intermission a slender figure approached me. It was Wael. He had decided to come after all. I was obviously pleased and felt at a loss for words. And when Wael struck up a conversation with a Lebanese writer who was blond and blue-eyed, and whose work dealt with being Arab but passing as European or American, I made a beeline for the restroom. Here I stood in the air that blasted from a vent in the ceiling. The cold felt shocking and rejuvenating, though nothing could blast me out of feeling very much in a private mood, not wanting to give of myself, not in public at least.
Ahimsa and I did not utilize a microphone, but projected our voices out and far, as far as the people standing in the back of the long room. When I looked up I saw shadows, outlines. Ahimsa's selections were by far more political in nature, longer in length, and the contrast seemed to work well. The audience was generous and applauded uproariously.
A few days before the reading I had received the following e-mail from Ahimsa:
Dear Emil & L,
I hope you are both doing well. Just got word from Amy that you have both cancelled for the June 11th reading, n I wuz wondering why. I wuz really looking forward ta the event, had helped her organize it, suggested u two as readers/writers/performers, n wuz in particular looking forward ta reading with two other queer Middle Eastern writers within a larger cultural event. For me, it would have been a big moment of visibility for our community, n would've been one of the rare opportunities when I wuzn't the token Arab/Middle Easterner.
For me, where I come from, on the East Coast, b-ing a New Yorker, we just do shit. If we make a commitment, don't matter if we half dead, we show up. Now this may not b the healthiest nor most flexible approach, but it's how we do things, how we survive n thrive. For me, I am beginning ta realize the how colonized I have become by white feminist/white queer Bay Area ways of doing things, n how much more I need ta return ta my roots racially, culturally, n geographically. This is part of my decolonization process, learning ta c how I have been beaten down by Bay Area whiteness n avoidance of anger, commitment, conflict, n loud voices.
So now I'm walking inta an environment that is somewhat hostile with no racial backup, no community, n support. So, I'm feeling a bit hurt, disappointed, n angry. True, u aint aiming the guns at me, aint shooting mad bullets my way, but I wuz counting on my community ta have my back as I'd have yrs, and for us ta come out n represent. We r almost completely invisible/invisibilized as a community in POC organizing. Many other colored folk have no respect for us n our struggles. They c us as white, irrelevant, n/or just a good place ta get hummus, drop bombs, n blame for the killing of some white girl from Walnut Creek. So, while I wanna know that u'r both alright, n I wanna know that u'r taking care of yrself in every possible imaginable way n not burning yrselves out, n while I know u do not need ta justify or explain yr existence, I wanna know wassup.
Where I come from we get shit out, over, n done with. I've gotten so distanced from myself, so disassociated, that sometimes, a lot of times, I don't even know how ta do this anymore- communicate my truth, my b-ing, my experiences/perspectives. This is how the cultural violence of the Bay Area has affected me, self-silencing, translating, n pussyfooting around the issue, burying it until either u or it r dead, with no movement forward. I am c-ing how all my interactions n relationships must b revisited n readdressed, transformed, cycled out. Or left behind if necessary. Even writing this is somewhat frightening. For once, however, my anger at myself for not fully revealing n self-silencing my truth, my ghetto-colored-rooted truth, is greater than my fear of potential loss of love from others, for if I have racially, culturally, economically, linguistically, n geographically lost myself in the efforts ta gain love, I must reexamine every colonial notion that I have internalized that says I cannot b authentically n indigenously myself n simultaneously receive mad love, community, support, liberation, revolution, n freedom from the universe. For if I lose myself in order ta gain the love of others, their love will b meaningless, bcuz they will have been loving the wrong person, yet another mask I need ta discard as I decolonize.
For years, for a lifetime, I have lived in fear that I would either die young n alone or old n alone n forgotten. This is the result of having internalized mad racism, AIDSphobia, queerphobia, classism, misogyny n transphobia, n all the other oppressions that bear down on me, on us, as multioppressed n subjugated/marginalized/enslaved peoples. We r told over n over again that we will not live, or if by some miracle or miracles we do, our existence will b hellish, nightmarish, n will have wished that we had died. Lovely thought. Gotta thank the white man for that one when I get the chance.
Back ta love. I have sacrificed a great deal of my soul in order ta receive what I thought wuz love, affection, n intimacy, but wuz in essence only the merest of war-time rations, only the slightest taste of the full-body/full-bodies that wuz/were yet ta come. How can someone love me when they do not know me? How can someone love me when it is the self I run from n hide from others? We suffer when we do not ask for enuf, when we dwell in our internalized self-hatred n notions of un-deserving-ness. U both mean a great deal ta me, n I don't want ta lose u. but if in my attempt ta "keep" u, I lose ever more of myself, which of us, none of us, gains from that process. If in my attempt ta "keep" u I am further sold inta slavery n imprisoned/incarcerated, who but the white man profits?
Fear. Love. Sacrifice. Slavery. War. Silence. Truth. Redemption. Reclamation. Home. I must return home if I am ta b free, it is the only pathway ta my wholeness. N, while yes, I will actually b making that sacred journey, b making Hajj this coming fall when I return ta my birthing grounds, when I return ta the tierra sangrada de Nueva York, I must take this journey forth first within. "Things happen twice, first on the inside and then on the outside"- Iyanla Vanzant. I cannot live in fear anymore. I must ground myself in anger n resolve, untap centuries old rage, n annihilate everything that would destroy me within n without. As Toni Morrison says, "There is presence in anger." Only once I excavate the pain, only once I fully touch n tap inta my anger n rage which r my power n source-strength, my way out of damnation, will I find the energy ta move forward. So much hidden from me, untapped and useless, until I open myself ta it, fully welcome it back inta b-ing.
I have always been afraid that if I tapped inta my true power, my true rage, I would obliterate everything in my path, loved ones included, myself also included. Where I came from rage n anger were violent n destructive. It/they killed people. We had no channels thru which ta properly funnel it inta transformation n radical/revolutionary change. I wuz taught in every conceivable way ta fear my power, ta silence my rage n anger. This is what the white man wanted n still wants, me ta b useless ta my nations, for me ta live in fear of myself, ta c my own body n beauty n brilliance as a danger/dagger, not only ta others, but ta myself as well. We have always been warriors. We have always fought in different ways for the nation. This is why they fill our communities with alcohol n drugs. They want ta make us slow n stupid, aim the bullets n knives at each other rather than at them. We only need ta look at L.A. n 1992 ta know this ta b true.
This is much longer, larger than I expected, this missive, this missile aimed not at u, but right over yr shoulder, at whiteness, at white man standing behind us all, controlling our actions, us, the puppets in his game. Where I come from, knowing my father n my family, knowing we were n r of the streets, the gangs, the police, the military, I wuz taught multiple ways ta kill a person, as well as multiple ways ta defend myself n my own. I rejected this knowledge, saw it as evil. This is what they wanted, this is what they always want, for us to reject our training. This is the white man's dream. I knew that at any moment I might need ta duck, no questions asked, bcuz for my survival my father, or my mother who carried a gun, might have ta off someone at any minute. I also knew that if I wuz ta stand still, I wuz ta do so immediately, not breathe or move even slightly, bcuz a bullet or a knife or a two-by-four might b rushing by my head, n if I moved I would b hit. I wuz trained from a very young age ta live in n survive a war, ta survive the war still b-ing waged around us.
I am not aiming at u. I am aiming at the man over yr shoulder. I am telling u, not asking u, not ta move. I do not want ta hit u. we r at war, n there is someone behind u with a gun. N I need ta take him out before he get ta u, us. I am not shooting at u. I want u ta live. I want us all ta live- fully. May we find a way out of the maze, may we cut the strings, may we obliterate them with our fierce love n dark-warrior-bullet-rage. The fear of loss is great, but we r at war. There will be casualties. I hope n pray u r not among them.
In honor, love, n rage,
Ahimsa.
L and I had completely different reactions and responses to Ahimsa's e-mail.
L wrote:
Ahim,
I read the full text of the letter after I sent you the note about the reading. That letter was really fucked up. You might have chosen to ask a simple question, "why did you cancel?" before launching a full-scale attack. Not only did I find the entire read offensive, but the end felt violent and threatening. Not o.k. You owe me, and I would venture to say Emil as well, a big-assed apology.
L
I wrote:
The time and effort you put aside for us is simply the best thing anyone has done for me in a long time. Thank you, Ahimsa!
But Amy must have misunderstood. I never cancelled with her, and have been meditating on what I will read.
I would not cancel. How often have I longed for an Assyrian voice out there, for Assyrian visibility? No longer shall I wait for someone else to bring that to fruition. I will be the one to give this gift to myself as well as to others.
Ahimsa, I am there!
Fear not.
We will be heard.
Thank you.
E.
Johnny writes:
Hi Emil,
I read your story and was very touched. You are a very strong person. You went through all that pain and hard life. I know I would not have made it if I was in your place. I wish I was your friend at the time to give you advice and support. I want just to let you know that I am here for you. We are Assyrian and we will help each other. I hope I will get the chance to meet you in person soon.
Your Assyrian brother,
Johnny.
A certain "Seikopath" writes:
You should be ashamed of yourselves, you are all a bunch of low life scum of earth bastard and will never be Assyrians, NEVER, I will do everything in my power to flood your Email with hate and anti gay mail from all Assyrians around the world!!!!
I hope you all rot in hell you fake ass LOW LIFE SCUM!!!! I'm a real Assyrian, I know who and what we are and what we have contributed to this EARTH!!!! All you do is give us a bad name and make people look down on us!!!
I pray that GOD punishes you all for the rest of your Fagot and dike lives!!! Challenge me assholes and I show you what a true ASSYRIAN is!!! I will distribute a copy of your web address to all Assyrians I know like a chain letter. I hope you get bashed from all the true ASSYRIANS!!!!! You can't hide forever! Like little cowards you hide behind the web!! If you are proud, come on out and let us see you!! You won't last a day!!!
Shammi writes:
Emil,
Thank you so much for your sweet e-mail. You are so wise sometimes that you blow me away. You also set me free somehow. I like what you have to say about obligation. I like that you acknowledge liking to write but do not expect me to respond right away. Thank you. I would love to talk, cry, laugh, drink, and maybe even Karaoke with you some time soon. I will need all the love, laughter, and understanding I can possibly get in the present and near future.
Laura and I broke up last night. It's over. Our one-and-a-half-year love affair is over and I need to let go. Letting go is one of the most challenging things for me and I think for many others, but I will try to do it well and in an honest way. I am going home to Turlock tomorrow. I need to be in a totally safe place this weekend because I am afraid of what will come out of me. I need to be in a place that can contain whatever pours out and I want to feel safe enough to not have to repress what needs to be expressed. For me this is my parents' home. My sister Dina and her partner Ester are also amazing in helping me refuel and get a different perspective from the one I naturally move into. You also look at things in ways that I don't instinctively move towards, so I will call on you too. I am afraid to ask for help sometimes because I am afraid of burdening people and I'm afraid to trust people with my pain and vulnerabilities. I am going to try and get past that this time and really ask for the help that I need. Emil, your presence in my life is precious and so valued. I hope we get a chance to get closer and build some intimacy/trust with each other. I move very slow with that usually. But although I am slow I am steady. I will keep your spirit with me as I move through all the stages of this. I love you, Emil. Thank you for your support and understanding, khouna.
With straight-up-assyrian-love,
Shamiran.
Also from Shammi:
I just got your most recent e-mail about seeing your diary on Linda's website, "All Out There". First, let me say that you are one deep dude and that you are now officially on Shammi's list of top 3 favorite writers. I love reading your stuff, Emil. So my little Emil is going public and it's freaking him out and putting him in a state of panic, forcing him to rethink. Not to sound like a bad therapist. But it's understandable. I mean, I'd be a little tripped out, too. You're really putting your gay penis out there for all interested Assyrians to see. Wow, Emil, it's like history repeating itself. Once again, another close Emil friend of mine has exposed himself! But let me reassure you that even if my parents tell me I can't play with you, I will!
Now seriously…
Emil, what you're doing is a brave thing and you do have shelter from the injustice of people's ignorance should it be hurled at you. I am your shelter, Nadia, Linda, Laura, Paul, Tracy, so many of us. You can hide out in us when you are afraid. If anyone does a single thing to threaten you just tell your big sister Shammi and god help me I'll get my whole posse together and kick all their fucking asses! And if no one will stand with me I will stand for you alone against ignorant Assyrian motherfuckers who dare tell us not to express our beauty. Fuck them! And fuck all that stupid Assyrian "Greatness". We need to step into our fabulous greatness the way you are doing by putting your stuff up online and not cowering in a ball of fear and shame. But Emil, do not take any steps you are not ready to take. Don't feel you owe anyone anything. Don't let your steps forward be motivated by guilt and obligation. Let them be motivated by the intense human need to speak/live the Truth that is our only path to Liberation Emil, ask for help, advice, protection from the rest of us. Know where your family is and ask them to nourish you. Nadia had gone through a pretty public outing with Assyrians and would also be a good person to bounce ideas off of. We'll be here for you.
Your khata gourta is watching over you,
Shamiran.
When I met up with Shammi on Saturday night in the Castro I had not expected to be reunited with Amahl, Paul, and Tracy. Amahl, whose consuming eyes have a tendency to sink with unexpected demureness, with artistic sadness, sank her face into my neck and breathed. She likes the way I smell. And she liked the colors I was wearing.
As we walked to the restaurant, Amahl and I talked about my short story, "The Necrophile". She called me "The Prince of Goth". It seemed that she had read beyond the shadowy phrases and glimpsed a deeper layer, and I very much enjoyed her flattering interpretation. She admitted that she had had to read certain sentences over and over because her instinct had told her that there was more hidden there. She loved the ending, she said.
I thanked her, unable to fully meet her glass eyes.
All night she towered awkwardly over me. I felt protected as we walked along the sidewalk with her arm intertwined in mine.
Over dinner the six of us had paired off in disparate conversations and at times it was one person who held our attention. Amahl announced the good news that she had just received a grant for a film she's wanted to make. She talked of her dream to study acting in London. Shammi revealed her plan to travel to Iraq in October. Wael still searched for a residence in the East Bay.
He sat to my right where I enjoyed his closeness.
Again Amahl brought up "The Necrophile", saying she had been most struck by the antiquated language of it. She looked up into the night and compared it to Poe. She could not overcome the darkness of the story, which enveloped the pages, she said.
Darkness I had neither intended, nor noticed. But I suppose there is an endless night that exists in all of us no matter who we are, or what we claim we are, that needs expression. The food was wonderful, the wine, and we looked across at one another and seemed to glow. Paul laughed heartily at the funny things I said.
Afterward, we were joined by others- Nadia, Heba, Ahoo, Odessa, Nadre- for the queer Turkish film "Lola and Billy the Kid" at the Castro Theater. The film was shot in Berlin, was colorful, but dark, textured and rich. In it German and Turkish blended and overlapped, while humor saved the film from being utterly devastating. I was moved and saw in each character the reality of all our lives, memories, and experiences. There were moments when I was paralyzed in my seat by dialogue that fell like dominoes, moving the scenes along, clearing space for the next take.
And in the end when the mother stormed out of the tenement apartment, which reminded me of our first-floor slum in Chicago, and stepped for the very first time onto the German street, the very middle of it, ripping the veil off her head and letting it flutter to the pavement without breaking stride, my heart broke into a million perfectly even pieces.
When wael and I parted our kiss was this time more tender, and I feel that my attraction for him grows. And yet, I would not want desire to kick in. I fear desire.
This morning Jackie stormed into my room in a panic. She could not find her car keys and worried that she would miss her third doctor's appointment. The night before I had offered to accompany her, but she had proudly and vehemently refused. And now she was forced to let me along, and apologetically got into the passenger seat of my car. But still, no revelations, but more tests, more appointments for the right arm that is almost completely numb, with the exception of a nerve-wracking tingling. I hold my breath that it is nothing serious and lasting, nor degenerative. We don't know. We just don't. So, I help Jackie button her blouse, which is delicate, almost as delicate as she; I carry her laundry basket into the garage where the machines are; and I help her fill out the deposit forms at the bank. And we wait…
Jackie never left her bed yesterday. Of course, this worried the women in the household. Mom-Suzie came to the house from Casa De Maria, while mother watched over the elderly. But Mom-Suzie could not talk Jackie out of bed. Later, mother placed a small plate of perfectly cut squares of a fragrant watermelon on the table next to Jackie's bed. When we checked we found that she had not touched them. We leaned over her gingerly, the room a pitch black in the middle of the day. I whispered if she wanted to watch a film with me. She whimpered that she did not.