godhood is girlhood is performance
and every molecule in my being is begging you – forgive me, forgive me, forgive me
I know there is controversy over the whole concept that God’s love is unconditional, but as a Muslim girl, I cannot say the love I feel is the same as the one felt by those of other faiths. The love I feel isn’t so much about how much I serve, but simply something I feel daily. I feel it when I am driving home from the grocery store and the air smells like mountain laurel and pine. I feel it when I wake up to the sun leaking into my room at 6 a.m. I feel it when I finish a book and look up at the skylight in the family room. I feel it more often than not. I don’t know if I’m meant to sometimes. Don’t know if I deserve it.
Frank Bidart, in “The War of Vaslav Nijinsky,” writes:
God said: GOD MADE YOU. GOD DOES NOT CARE IF YOU ARE “GUILTY” OR NOT. I said: I CARE IF I AM GUILTY! I CARE IF I AM GUILTY!… God was silent. Everything was SILENT.
Bidart perfectly encapsulates what it is to be queer and Muslim— I am forgiven, but I feel guilty. I am not guilty, but I am not holy. I exist as a sad little paradox of myself. I can never be forgiven but I already am and I am confused! I am always fucking confused. I am loved but sometimes I wish I wasn’t— maybe then I could let it go. I think the reason it is so much easier for queer WASPs to give up their families and their religion is that… there’s no life there. It’s utterly incomparable to the experience of a queer first or second-generation child in America. Your family is your whole life— your parents did everything to bring you here. They sacrificed, and sacrificed, and sacrificed. To let them go is the worst thing you could do. To disappoint them is the worst thing you could do. And so, you become the ultimate paradox— the saint and the sinner. Both Judas and Christ. Both holy and sacrilegious. Both Madonna and the whore. I am always asking myself: Can I ever be holy?
The word holy comes from the Old English word “halig,” meaning “holy, consecrated, sacred; godly; ecclesiastical”. While the word predates Christianity, it is hard to say what it means. The closest definition we have is “that must be preserved whole or intact, that cannot be transgressed or violated.” I do not think I am holy not because I am a so-called sinner but because how can someone who hides so much be whole? I am hiding from everyone I love. I pick and choose which parts are palatable and lovely enough for my audience. There is nothing quite as deceitful as having to perform for the audience you are given, but it has always been my simple way of existence.
If such is the definition of sainthood, then god, what am I? I am begging to be looked at, begging to be believed. I am the saint! I am the performer! Watch me on the stage and look at the way I will spin for you. I can be anything you want me to be if you ask. If you ask nothing of me I am not sure what to give you. Do you understand me? Do you understand that if you are watching, I am never truly me? Mitski once wrote, “I am the fire, and I am the forest, and I am a witness watching it,” and I suppose that is sainthood. I am the destroyer, the destroyed, and the bystander. And no matter what, I won’t take my eyes away. You won’t either. It’s impossible for us to look away from the car crash. We relish in the relief, the knowledge that at least it wasn’t us. Even if a small part of us hurts, through the grief we are always thinking at least it wasn’t me. But to be a saint is to be a car crash. In an art history course titled “Apocalypse” we read various stories about Christian saints, and the martyrdom they all faced to become saints. Women would have their breasts cut off, and men were roasted alive— and they were praised for it. Why does sacrifice always require pain? Can love not just be? Why does ultimate love have to be painful?
One of my favorite stories from the Quran is the story of Prophet Ibrahim, which is the basis for the celebration of Eid al Adha. The Prophet was asked to sacrifice his son to God, and right before he struck down his child, his son was replaced by a goat. That’s why we sacrifice goats every year. God tested both the Prophet and his son, and rather than having either of them suffer, simply needs the intention of sacrifice. Is there not something beautiful about that? I think I much prefer a God who does not ask for suffering, who asks for very little in return for loving.
If there were a church of girlhood, I imagine it would be quite painful. Girlhood is something that takes and takes and takes— it is a constant state of denial. Something is always being taken away from us, one way or another. And if it truly did exist, would there be any followers? When has a woman, or a group of women, ever been truly believed in? Ever since reading the above words from Chang, I have been turning them over and over in my head. There is nothing quite as holy as being a girl because to be a girl is to be the ultimate mimicry of God. It is the ultimate act of sacrifice. They say hell hath no fury as a woman scorned, but perhaps heaven hath no holiness as a girl born. I cannot hold onto that type of anger anymore, not when the scorning is constant.
TLDR: I am just trying to be holy. I don’t know if I will ever stop.
things i have been loving recently
I watched BlacKkKlansman (dir. Spike Lee) on one of my flights home and it was so good. Laura Harrier and John David Washington were astounding in it, The ending scene had chills running down my spine. And the costuming! I was genuinely in love with almost all of Ron’s outfits.
I’ve been listening to “Bad Habit” by Steve Lacy on repeat this flight that I am currently on, and I can thank no one for it but one Nyah. If you are reading this dear I promise to listen to his album because I know you are obsessed.
I have been playing… a lot of Subway Surfers. Listen, my ten-year-old cousin and I spent a lot of time together this trip due to us being the only two out of my whole family without COVID symptoms, and we played a lot of Subway Surfers. Like, got the thirty times multiplier. I am very serious about my subway surfing.
Spraying myself with all of the perfumes when walking through Duty-Free has become a certified hobby of mine this trip. I’m sorry, but if I see a Replica or Atelier Cologne display in the airport I simply am going to run up and douse myself in perfume. Because there is just nothing more important than being the best smelling person on the plane. (Side note: I sprayed myself with the Clémentine California from Atelier before this flight and still smell amazing. I think I might have to invest.)
Lastly, my birthday is coming up very soon, and I need some help. I cannot decide between asking for two things from my family to all jointly get for me, so vote below and help me decide.
this was spectacular, i relate soo much to it