I'll tell you about value!

I just got back from attempting to sell my textbooks back to the SMU bookstore and was shot down repeatedly with the following phrase, "Sorry - these books no longer have any value.  We just got new editions."  That is simply the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.  Not only was I upset that I wasn't getting money back for some pretty expensive books (luckily, I'm not a chump and I bought my books off of Amazon), but what the salesperson said really got to me.  No value?  I've always been taught by my family that knowledge is the most valuable thing you can ever have; An education is the one thing no one can take away from you.  And yet, here, this young lady looked at me (while quite obnoxiously smacking her gum at me) and told me my books had no value.  I know, I know - it's not her fault.  She only told me what the computer dictated to her, but I will tell you one thing, I will not sell my books to anyone/anywhere that does not find value in them.

There's a Penguin On My Window!

My roommate and I have a problem - we love to decorate.  Call it our mother instinct to nest, but our entire room is covered in pictures of friends and family, magazine cutouts, and fun memorabilia from the semester.  An outsider might walk in and think it looks like a cluttered chaos, but to Katy and I, it's home.  She recently received a "Christmas" package from her mama and we each were surprised with penguins (among other things) for our windows!  Maybe not so exciting to you, but to Katy and I, it was like Christmahanukwanzaakah.  I know our obsession with decorating may seem obsessive and eclectic, at times, but it's such a wonderful feeling - making a foreign place feel like home.  You call it a quirk - I call it a gift.  

Happy Holidays - May you spend it with loved ones in a place

you, too, can call "home".

Sandimation

My cousin showed me this link (I have an awesome family - I know) and it really touched me - not in the way that the rest of the Ukrainians were touched, but rather, I was touched (I really should stop using that word) by the beauty.  This Russian young woman has a talent like nothing I’ve ever seen before - it isn't like singing, dancing, or acting...it's rapid sand art. The images she creates are beautiful and her technique is amazing.  It just got me thinking - talent is not always what we initially think about. Nor is art.  And yet, there is no denying that the woman is talented and that her creations are, indeed, art.  It is everywhere.  And it is beautiful.

America - Salad Bowl?

Yesterday, Best Buy released a "Black Friday" advertisement that had, in absolute small lettering, a message stating "Happy Eid Al-Adha".  Eid Al-Adha is primarily considered a Muslim holiday, however, it is in fact a universally monotheistic holiday.  The day commemorates the revelation from God to Abraham to sacrifice the thing most important to him to God.  Abraham, in sadness but absolute devotion, decides he must sacrifice his son.  At the last moment, God replaces Abraham's son with a sheep - showing God's mercy and His appreciation for Abraham's loyalty.  If one knows the Old Testement well, they will realize that this story is consistent with the story within the Qu'ran (with the exception of a few minor details).  Today, Muslims celebrate this holiday by eating only 1/3 of their meal and donating the rest (or the equivalent).

So why, then, were there 57 pages of comments on the Best Buy Community Forum complaining about supporting a "Muslim" holiday?  What is so wrong about that in a nation that prides itself on being diverse and open and FREE?  I saw comments on there about how the Muslims should stop trying to take over this country and go back to their "pig of Middle Eastern countries".  I am not only shocked, but extremely hurt.  In all honesty, even if I was not Muslim (which I am), I would be deeply disappointed in America.  I was born in this country and think of it as my home - it is just as much MY America as it is others'.  And yet, it's ok to have stores say "Merry Christmas" or "Happy Hannukah", but once we progress past the familiar and old ways, it's un-American?

To say the least, I am fuming.  So much so, in fact, that I find myself wanting to block the page of comments so I will stop reading them and angering myself.  I have always been taught not to judge by small indicators - such as this relatively small group of people commenting on such a trivial matter.  However, it is ignorant people who are close-minded and hypocritical that make me wish (at times) America would live up to it's name of "The Salad Bowl".  Until then, I suppose.

Pie-ty.

As a child, I had a pie-phobia.  Confused?  I don't blame you.  I was...an odd child - picky, to say the least.  Pie was (along with meat during my vegetarian phase) one of those things that I did not understand.  It's like a caged cake!  At any rate, I refused to eat any kind of pie - apple, pumpkin, blueberry, you name it.  As I grew out of my silly childish reasoning, I continued to steer clear of pie - not by refusal, but because the opportunity never happened to cease me.  As Thanksgiving rolled around, this week, I found that my cousin was an amazing chef and wanted to bake some pies (apple and pumpkin, to be exact).  What a dilemma - pies?  Me?  Naturally, I wanted to help - to pass up this opportunity to play "cook" for the day would be crazy of me.  And so, I baked.  I baked and I learned.  And you know what?  It was fun.  Absurd, I know.  Now, I've never been a fan of pumpkin, but this pie...well, I probably shouldn't talk about it.  Don't want you salivating all over your keyboard.  So, I abandoned my silly childish pie-phobia for family and for...well...pie.  What perfect timing.

Dreams

Close my eyes

Float away to a distant land

Thoughts encompass my every being

Deep breaths to keep from drowning

I can feel it now –

The breeze so subtly graces my hair

And nibbles at my face

I can feel it now –

His warmth lights my face

His fingers interlace with my own

I can feel it now –

His eyes look deep into mine

Giving me reason to see

I can feel it now –

His lips kissing my cold cheek

Turning them from icy white to rosy pink

I wince and my eyes begin to flutter

I can feel it now –

The wind cruelly turns on me

And bites harshly at my face

I can feel it now –

The light slowly disappearing

Leaving me in fearful thought

I can feel it now –

Slipping away slowly

Taking away every once existing trace

I can feel it now –

The happiness he’s brought

Leaving my very being

My eyes are pulled open

And I come back to reality

Thoughts encompassing my every being

Shallow breathing serving only as indication –

Dreaming should be left to dreamers.

© Nureen Gulamali

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We all have dreams that take over us - engulf our being.  I wrote this after experiencing a dream involving a friend who passed away in my childhood.  The poem is not written based on the actual events that occurred in the dream, but rather the feelings.  It only seemed fitting considering we base much in our lives off of feelings.

Psst - Pass the Note!

A good friend of mine that I have been fortunate to have since middle school, recently reminded me of something I have oddly enough forgotten.  The art of note-writing.  Ok, so, in middle school it wasn't so artful.  But it certainly was a thrill!  There were about a thousand different ways to fold those things - I think the folding was almost as much fun as the writing.  And ohhhh the thrill of trying to get it to your friend without getting caught - exhilarating!  But what now with these little kids having cell phones in 5th grade?  Do they just sit across the room texting the whole time?  You can't fold a text.  You can't pass a text from Mary to Sally to Andrew to Paul (well, ok, I suppose you could but you'd be stupid to).  Where's the fun in that?  Come on!

Move With the Music

My senior year of high school, I was rewarded with a great responsibility - a car.  Well, sort of.  I did not get a car of my own, but I was allowed to drive my father's car to school and back (he had a home office) and let me tell you, it was the greatest feeling on earth.  Even if it meant sitting in traffic to get someplace that should only have taken me ten minutes to get to (but, in fact, took me thirty), I reveled in every last minute of it.  I like to think that the thing that I loved most about driving the old Camry to school was the music.  It gave me an opportunity to get whatever stresses and frustrations I might have had out with the music.  If I was feeling excited, Snow Patrol was excited with me.  If I was feeling angry, Three Days Grace was banging their heads with me.  It was exhilarating.  I even found myself tearing up to the lyrics of a song that especially connected with my present-self, several times.    I don't think much else can move me in such ways (perhaps a really good book or movie).  And so, my dad's 2001 Camry and I bonded over one common friend - music.

Black Memories

They continued along the path of the shimmering lake – his every three tiny footsteps matching her one.  And yet, he kept pace.  His heart-beat, his breath, his tiny feet quickening – all to keep pace.

His arm stretched upward as it linked with hers.  His tiny hand, tiny fingers, remained engulfed in the sea that was her large palm. 

            He won’t let go this time.

He looked into the lake, mesmerized by his reflection.  Her eyes looked into his own through the reflection on the black water – her eyes warm, loving, inviting.

            He stirs in his bed – tossing and turning.

They noticed a baby turtle – overturned, its tiny limbs squirming and wriggling in the air.  He tugged on her long swaying dress with a look of sadness.  Save it.  Save it.  Her eyes looked down at him and she smiled.  She signaled at him to stay put.  He would not move.  He felt her grasp loosen until, finally, his tiny hand lacked protection.  He was alone.

A sharp pain shoots through his body.  His eyelids flutter in madness – wincing in deep pain.  Wake up.  Wake up.  He cannot awaken.  He is stuck in this hell indefinitely.

She approached the edge of the lake – crossing the fence and the sign that warned against her next move.  All for him.  Carefully, she stepped on an unstable rock, attempting to flip the flailing turtle over.

Black.  All he can see is black.  The movie playing in his head nears the end and all he can feel is fear, agony, and black.

The black water stirred below her pale feet.  Her arms moved about like those of the turtle.  Somewhere in the near distance, a little boy screamed in pain – a pain that would forever be embedded in his mind.  Her face quickly changed to a pallid color – her smile wiped away and replaced with a look of distress.  Slowly, as if in a film, she fell, her now tiny and frail body engulfed in the black monster.

Gasp.  He awakes, heaving.  He finds himself breathing one hundred miles per hour.  His body is drenched in sweat.  His ashen face is stained with tears of anguish.  His agony forces him to wish his exhausted eyelids to never again close, again.  Because, in the end, he can’t let go.  He can never let go.

© Nureen Gulamali

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I really can't say where this story popped out from - a very muddled mind, indeed.  I suppose I was feeling a sense of living with one's regrets - even those that we are not directly responsible for.

Make a Wish

It's November 11th - otherwise seen as 11/11.  I'm quickly reminded of my friend Emma who, even when in deep conversation, will snap and tell everyone to make a wish at 11:11(am or pm).  Naturally, she's adorable.  Her beahvior really brings into light an important issue in my life, though.  I am (for the most part) the person that will chuckle and refuse to make a wish because I know it won't work.  Debbie Downer, right?  I could really care less if i'm a party pooper in that sense, to be honest, but it has brought light to the fact that I'm not as hopeful as I want to be.  No, there is no "11:11" god out there that will grant my wish - and there's nothing you can say to convince me otherwise.  But what's the harm in making a wish, anyways?  It's not likely that it'll come true (at least for the sole reason of wishing for it), but what's wrong with hoping?  There is so much I want in my life and I know I must work for it, but what good will the work do in the absence of hope?