Princess of North Sudan: “Why are you people so offended? It’s just a daddy’s love!”

Heaton-Sudan-FacebookSo an American (who else) dad’s little 7-year old girl turned to him and – probably fresh from a heavy diet of Disney princess movies – asked him if she’d ever be a real princess. Naturally. We consume the world. We are entitled to whatever our hearts desire, no? So 38-year old Jeremiah Heaton was, apparently, “faced with a dilemma.” Is she going to be a princess? No. Dammit. That’s going to screw up her life entirely. If she can’t be a princess and rule a country, that’s going to break her precious heart. What shall I do? I’ll make her a princess and serve her up some land to rule and own.

So he did some research. Unfortunately he can’t own Antarctica because of a treaty. So he found Bir Tawil between Egypt and Africa, and decided it was his because he said so. Princess Emily gets the worst birthday present ever: “officially the most undesired territory in the world.”

Jeremiah Heaton is not some ignorant racist, he protests: “What I am doing is the exact opposite of colonialism,” he says. “The dictionary defines colonialism as one country taking control of another to exploit its resources or people. Bir Tawil is not a country, it does not have a population, and I don’t represent the United States or a corporation. I’m an individual, and I’m not going to dig for diamonds or drill for oil or build a pipeline. What we’re doing is designed to improve people’s lives.”

sex-and-the-city-2-desktop-wallpapers030Right. Because the East India Company went in to India announcing: ‘Listen up, Hindoos. We’re here now. We’re going to grab all your pepper and sandalwood, and leave you with nothing because, as bandits, that’s what we do.”

Heaton says his endeavor has been actually completely misinterpreted. He’s not trying to grab a land and make his daughter a princess. No, not really. “I’m not trying to entitle them [my children]. I’m trying to teach them about how to help others, and work in the service of others. If anything, I believe it will help them to be more humble.”

You’re going to hear it soon enough from those who really get Heaton’s burning love. So hear it from me. “Why does the Princess of North Sudan get y’all so riled up? It’s just a symbolic act of love. Isn’t a daddy’s love for his little princess universal? Wouldn’t all of y’all want to offer up a real tiara to your little princesses? Why does it have to be so goddam political? Why don’t you all just calm down and wipe a tear for little Emily and her love-crazed dad?”

cruiseWell, here’s a question for you: why does all of your human drama have to use our lands as backdrop? Why does your courage, covert intelligence, adventure, military power, ingenuity, resistance, liberal generosity, romance, all have to play out with a wise black man servilely admiring your fortitude or a mysterious Japanese woman (to be bedded of course) looking on in fascination? If we figure in your narratives, why do we always have to serve your fatherly love? Why are we the land, the backdrop, the sidekick, the servant, the ally, the enemy? Why are you always the subject and why must we always figure as the exotic furniture in your tale? Why must we – most insulting of all – serve as a means to bring out your “altruism” and “humility”? How about practicing your altruism and your passion for humanity in Baltimore? How about feeding the 20% of American children who live in poverty? California needs your help, Heaton: take your plans to the 23.5% of Californians who live in poverty. Take your plans and your crowdfunding home. The world has had enough of serving as a stage for your claims, your flags, and your human-interest drama.

Empathy Cards for cancer survivors

150506_EYE_EmpathyCards4.jpg.CROP.original-originalEmily McDowell, cancer survivor, designed a “series of Empathy Cards—emotionally direct greeting cards that say the things she wanted to hear when she was ill.”

Cancer terrifies people. A cancer patient terrifies others. The sight of a bald, pale, hairless person strikes fear into others’ hearts. Worse, friends and loved ones struggle to deal with the cancer patient.

So, as a cancer survivor, let me suggest a few more cards a cancer survivor could get:

  •  “I just don’t have the energy to care for you right now. I still love you.” 
  • “While you are throwing up and struggling to get through the night, I won’t judge you for not being a perfect mother, homemaker, professional …
  • “I will try not to grudge you for being in need, and I won’t keep count of how I support you.”
  • “When you are better, I won’t remind you and your friends how I supported you. I won’t evaluate how you managed the full-time Job of Receiving Support.” 
  • “I will not give you advice about what you should read, do, eat, exercise, say, pray, etc etc etc.”
  • “As your colleague, I won’t make claims about supporting you through your illness and then stab you fatally in the back as soon as your hair has grown back.”
  • “I won’t make you responsible for taking care of my feelings. It’s ok if you need to be alone with your breast prosthetic and bald eyebrows.” 

The dangers of joint appointments

One thing that this article, How Joint Appointments Stall the Careers of Ethnic Studies Professors, does not comment on is that tenure track faculty with joint appointments aren’t always seen as traditional faculty. As marginal insiders, foreigners, so to speak, they are at risk of not having the usual department protections.

Though I was in jointAnthropology/Sociology and Global Studies and not Ethnic Studies as such, I experienced this at Millikin University. I do ethnic studies, and I am ethnic, so in a heavily-white faculty, I’m practically Ethnic Studies.

Since I was escaping a situation where I had felt incredibly vulnerable to vipers and suchlike, I desperately desired safety. I had thought that being part-General Education Coordinator and part-faculty would mean additional layers of protection. Instead, Arts & Sciences appeared miffed that “their” position was “taken” by Academic Affairs. The Dean refused to properly process my annual evaluation paperwork until the Faculty Council pressured him to do so – after a year of me asking politely and wondering what was happening.

Joint appointments can work but, given academic politics, they follow Murphy’s law.

#JePorteMaJupeCommeJeVeux

frenchI awoke to the hashtag  #JePorteMaJupeCommeJeVeux because a 15-year old French Muslim student was sent home for her long black skirt. Apparently her skirt proclaimed her religious affiliation too “loudly.”

The Twittersphere wants to know if Elsa is Muslim and why do Cinderella and Ariel get away with their long skirts, when a Muslim girl infects a long skirt with Muslimness? Since when does feminist empowerment demand controlling female bodies and their clothes?

At the end of the day, France – as in the Charlie Hebdo affair – falls prey to racism. They think we can’t see the silhouette of Islamophobia through their sheer laicite, but everyone else knows the emperor is naked.

Oh, France! we all cry out.

But Americans need not jump to judgement too fast. In Muslim American Women on Campus, I discuss how even non-hijab-wearing U.S. Muslim college women were othered for such attempts at modest clothing as long sleeves and long skirts. See below: 

 


An excerpt from Chapter 4: “You Can’t Really Look Normal and Dress Modestly: Muslim Women and Their Clothes on Campus” follows:  

Religiously observant non-hijabis typically seek a midpoint between normal American and Muslim dress: this usually involves wearing no hijab; modest necklines, long sleeves, and long pants to cover skin; and clothes of a loose fit to cover one’s bodily contours. Stylish layers such as jackets were in common usage to cover the chest and buttocks, but also to counteract the single baggy layer appearance. Hijab certainly is not the measure of modesty or dowdiness. As the trends of “hijab chic” and “sexy hijab” have grown in popularity, I have observed, on the one hand, hijabis wearing daringly skin-tight jeans and shirts, even low-cut necklines, coupled with minimalist headscarves, and non-hijabis, on the other hand, wearing loose clothes and bulky hoodies.

But even non-hijabis who wore modest “American” dress could not escape othering. It was no surprise that for Heather, a recent convert, “the biggest thing”—the greatest challenge—was her Muslim wardrobe.

Heather: Because you can’t really look normal and dress modestly. . . . You can pull it off to some degree. But you’ll never—[trails off]. . . . There are definite barriers between being religious and being normal in society. And you can make up to a certain degree with personality or knowledge of popular culture—or being interested in having a fun time that’s not necessarily haraam or something, but—[trails off].

[…]

On a summer day, Heather stood among her peers in their short skirts and lacy tank tops. In a woven long-sleeved shirt and an ankle-length Gap denim skirt, Heather’s skin was conspicuous by its absence.

[…]

Heather tried to prevent such encounters by strategically planning outfits, though she remained dissatisfied with the partial conformity that resulted.

peasantHeather: And so, definitely this summer I’m a lot more inclined to wear, like, light-looking things or things that might fit in a little more—like, skirts that don’t look like they’re hot, or pants that just look like khakis. Because you can sort of get away with wearing khakis in the summer and nobody’s going to ask you “Are you hot?” for the most part. Because at least you’re like–you know, it’s a legitimate thing to wear. The problem is when people wear long skirts or long pants they normally wear, like, a tank top on top.

Heather could “get away with” khakis and long skirts but when not paired with tank tops, this alternative to skin-baring summer fashion marked her as hot, weird, and oppressed. With her modest attire, Heather would never be perfectly normal or free from the pressure to defend her clothing choices.

Florida spring break gang rape: hedonism, misogyny, and objectification

The gang rape of a young woman on a crowded Florida beach within feet of hundreds of spring breakers should be a surprise only to those who are completely out of touch with a) the misogyny and sexism in our culture and b) the rampant hedonism of youth culture. While we hold the perpetrators responsible, let us hold ourselves responsible, too, for marketing and for consuming wanton misogyny and for perpetuating the same. Let us also hold responsible the hedonism market that freely and viciously exploits youthful appetites and objectifies women’s bodies for the sole purpose of making profits.

Since the late 1960s, when universities relinquished the in loco parentis role, sociability and hedonism have grown ubiquitous in higher education … Sociability and hedonism, which play central roles in the marketing of college brands, are manufactured and indulged in by college undergraduates.

In American popular culture, college—at the corner of adolescence and adulthood—represents a selective mimicry of “adult” hedonistic behaviors combined with youthful imprudence. Undergraduates are customarily described as being frivolous, “‘drowning’ in a campus sea of secularism, hedonism, and materialism” (Magolda and Gross 2009: 315), and immersed in an “anti-intellectual student ethos” (Renn and Arnold 2003: 263). Getting trashed, flirting with abandon, (aspiring to) wild promiscuity, cutting classes—these are all familiar tropes that popularly represent the college years in the popular imagination (CoEd Staff 2008).

Peer culture constitutes marginality for many who are ugly, uncool, frumpy, unpopular, nonwhite, foreign, or poor. With important regional and rural-urban variations, “cool” students are (or seem) mellow or blasé in relation to, well, everything: academic work, sex, religion, morality, politics, and regulations—everything except having a good time. Nothing is supposed to faze normal youth, and certainly not a judicious measure of debauchery. If you were significantly disengaged from such “normal” youth behaviors, you would be marked as “different.”  

-Excerpt from Muslim American Women on Campus: Undergraduate Social Life & Identitychapter 2.

Pakistani ghost story

800px-Basement_of_Lawang_Sewu_2011 This blog has become too serious. How about an authentic little ghost story?

One of my cherished memories from Pakistan is the scary story-tellings at night. “Jinnon ki kahaniyan.” Friends, relatives, family, – we’d be sitting together and chilling out, and suddenly someone would start telling a scary story. That would remind the other person of another scary story, and they just kept pouring out. Eventually, everyone was so terrified out of their wits that they didn’t even want to go pee by themselves. And each of these scary stories bore the mark of undeniable authenticity because ‘my uncle’ or ‘my mother-in-law’ or ‘my Qur’an teacher’ told me.

My mother reassured me that jinns lived in remote, desolate areas. And then she reminisced about the jinn who pestered her father, my maternal grandfather, a hakim (a doctor of Unani medicine). This jinn was mischievous, and had a tendency to pour out big sacks of cardamom and clove in long, neat lines. But that’s another story.

We were always being warned not to wear perfume at night or the jinns “stick to you” or fall in love with you. “When I grew up,” my Urdu teacher Mrs. Wasti said with a chuckle, “I discovered who those jinns were.” Also, don’t walk under a tree with your hair loose at night: jinns will definitely attach themselves to you. Years later, I met a Bosnian woman in London: her son’s eye was damaged by jinns, she claimed, because he urinated under a tree where this jinn happened to reside.
There was the tale of the maulvi saheb who used to teach in a madrassah. and one day, he asked his student to bring him a glass of water — and the student stretched out his hand — aaaaaaaaall the waaaay to the kitchen. So it turns out he was a jinn.
Abbu told us a story like that once. But this was not a jinn story. It was a ghost story.

Abbu was the eldest boy of his brothers and sisters. His father was a high-ranking civil servant, a gold medallist in Engineering in the days when Muslim boys did not get gold medals very often. He was a lover of literature and culture.

Then, suddenly, my grandfather took a second wife. She was a beautiful and smart woman. From my dad’s stories, I gathered that the elder wife (my grandmother) died soon after that.

My father still hates polygamy. It’s not that he’s a feminist or anything like that. Not by a long shot. He just hated the way his mother ached when another woman came along and took her place. He doesn’t want to see another woman hurt like that.

His mother died. It was probably a home abortion gone terribly wrong, because she did not want to bear any more children for her bigamist husband.

Later, one thing led to another, and abbu ended up in a domestic quarrel, and his father told him to get out of the house.

Abbu loved his father. He adores him to this day. I think some people who never quite attain to their parents – because of soured relations – always love them like children, and cannot transcend that aspiration. They struggle through their parents’ injustices, still trying, like children, to make mummy or daddy love them best.

So abbu left the big house in Mayo Gardens where my grandfather’s large family lived. He spent some nights in the park called Lawrence Garden (or Bagh-e-Jinnah, as it was renamed). “There were snakes this long in Lawrence Gardens in those days,” he’d brag. I don’t know how he eventually got off the streets and back in business, but I know there are sad tales of abandonment in there.

Abbu put himself through medical school. Every summer, Pakistani students go on vacation because the summer is just too hot to do anything. And this was before the days of air-conditioning. So every summer, when abbu could not stay at the Nishtar Medical College hostel anymore, he left to seek shelter. He’d try to crash at a relation’s house, or a friend’s. Sometimes people were kind; other times, they were not.

One summer, with no options, abbu’s only choice was to stay at an abandoned house that belonged to a relation. Abbu tells some tales, so I never quite know for sure. He claims that the house was built on a cemetery. Every night, he says, spirits or jinns appeared to disturb him, and terrified him out of his wits. I will never know whether they were actually jinns or anything other than his fears and loneliness. All I know is that my big abbu, who terrifies a lot of people, does not enjoy being alone at home.

One night, he said, he was sitting, terrified, in the house. Suddenly, he saw his mother. His dead mother.

Only, she was a torso. Head to waist.

She looked at him, and she smiled upon him. It was as if she was saying, “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of you.”
From that day on, there were no more hauntings.

Was it really a ghost? We shall never know. But my abbu, the skeptic, who doesn’t buy superstition, was convinced that his mother had come to drive away the spirits from her son. And it strengthened his heart. That’s all we need to know.