City of music and magic
Longing to hear her song
Whispering in my ears
Song of songs, singing Nola Lily.

Adorning our lives,
Our hearts, our hopes,
Shimmering in our souls,
Jewel of jewels, darling Nola Lily

Welcoming this life
Carry our light with you
Glowing in my heart
Light of lights, precious Nola Lily.

Flower of New Orleans
Soft, sweet newness,
Springing upon us,
Dearest of dears, our Nola Lily.

***

This past week, MBTD and my dear friend, Traci, who happens to be married to him welcomed a beautiful baby into this world.

May she grow to be wise, strong and good.

May the world and its people praise the day she came to them.

May she always know that she is loved and cherished.

May we, her family, always remain worthy of her love and respect.

Insh’Allah, Ameen.

The notion exists that, in some way, every person who leaves their nation to settle in the United States is running away from something bad and towards something good.

Frankly, nothing could be further from the truth for a great deal of the immigrants that I know.  The truth is that in this nation there are many foreign born individuals who were neither tired nor hungry when they arrived on our shores.

The leaving of one’s homeland is a concept that is more than familiar to me.  I’ve often referred to my family as jet setter bedouins of the modern era.  In my head, of course.

Nearly sixty years ago, both of my grandfathers left their ancestral homes in India and crossed a man made border and became Pakistanis.  Twenty years after that, their children left Pakistan and magically became Americans.

I am a woman who is quite aware of the artificial aspects of the construct we call “nationality.”.

Still, nearly two weeks ago when we received a letter from INS instructing my husband to report to his oath ceremony I reacted with a considerable amount of glee.  “Daddy is going to be an American,” I cried to our daughter, “Isn’t that wonderful? Congratulations Daddy, isn’t this exciting?!”

My husband smiled an odd smile, not the kind of smile that I expected.  It was not the usual smile, the one that can brighten any room or get us free tickets to Disney while we’re standing at the gates with our wallet out (yes, that happened, twice).

It was… a sad smile.

The kind of smile that you force onto your face when you know that you are leaving something precious and meaningful behind.  The kind of smile that you must put on your face, so that others are unaware of the pain that lives behind it.

You see, like so many immigrants in this country, my husband has nothing to run from.

If he lived in India, his life would be beautiful and amazing.  He would fit in all the time.  He wouldn’t have to bend his mind around the most simple cultural nuances that we take for granted here.  He would never have to mow a lawn, do the dishes, or clean the pool.  Because, back home, they have people for that.

In all ways, his life would most likely have been easier in India.

These things didn’t occur to me until I saw that sad smile on his face.

That smile told me that being the native born American child of immigrants is not the same thing as being a naturalized American.

We, the children, are the beneficiaries.  We do not feel the pain as acutely of turning over the old passport for the new one.  We do not feel the sensations in our hearts that make us feel that we are somehow betraying who we are and those we have left behind.

I have no words for my husband on this day that will quiet those thoughts.  They may very well be true, I don’t know.

I do know this, though.

I can recognize that he did not decide to become American because India is a bad place or that the people were bad there.

I can recognize that opening one door means closing another, and that it is alright and completely understandable to feel ambivalent and even a little sad about that.

I can recognize that he, like my parents, did this for me and for his children.

I can recognize that as our children get older and he tells them that he became an American for them, they will grow up, as I did, with a deep feeling of importance and a sense of destiny because of his actions today.

I can recognize the incredible strength it takes to forgo one set of emotional attachments for another.

I can recognize the wisdom that we live in a world where international alliances are precarious at best, and the borders and hearts of every nation become less welcoming with every year that passes.  At the very least, having matching passports would offer us the perceived comfort of knowing that we will always be together.

I can recognize that like my parents, more than the word, “Congratulations” from me on this slightly bittersweet day, he needs to hear the words “Thank you.”

Thank you, Tariq, for becoming an American today for our family.

May this day open the doors before you to all sorts of joys, prosperity and goodness that will quiet the sad feeling that there may be some that are slowly closing behind you.

In a house not so far from this one, right over that hill, a peculiar little daisy lived in a small, but tidy garden.

This peculiar little daisy, whose name was Upsy, lived in a bed of roses.

The flowers to her right and to the left and even behind her had dark, tough stalks and velvety petals.  Petals of red, pink, yellow and even some pretty oranges enveloped Upsy’s life.

These were the kind of colors that made you think of love, passion, and heartache.

Upsy, on the other hand, had a soft stem and bright white cottony petals that would bend and shiver when the wind blew too hard.  If you were to look at Upsy, you would only feel what most people feel when they look at a daisy: very happy.

And because she was a daisy, Upsy was very happy.  Mostly.

You see, since most daisies live in fields or gardens surrounded by other daisies, they are always thinking happy daisy thoughts and living happy daisy lives.  And because of this, most daisies never think the thoughts that Upsy thought.  But Upsy was special because she was a lone daisy in a bed of roses.

Sometimes, when the day waned, and the pinks, reds and oranges of the roses blended with the colors of the evening sun, Upsy would notice the white of her petals, the brightness of her face and the green of her stem.

She would wonder why she was different than all the flowers she had ever known.

She would wonder why the sky was blue and why the grass was green.

She would look at the House where The People lived and wonder what was inside.

She wondered quite a bit while the roses slept and since the roses never seemed to care about any of these things, Upsy would feel a little lonely when she wondered.  Yet wonder she did.

Still, Upsy was loved.

The roses around Upsy would whisper softly to her, We love you Upsy, you are our special daisy, we are so happy to have you here. This made Upsy feel happy and special.  In fact, she felt happier than most daisies ever feel because feeling special can make you very happy.

But many of you know that even feeling special will not make a daisy stop wondering when roses are asleep.

One day, Upsy heard a voice, “Since it’s my tea party,” a tinkling voice said, “I want to make the flower arrangement.”

Upsy was excited.  She knew this pretty dark eyed girl, she was one of The People.  If this girl took her into the House, Upsy might find out about what was inside, what made the grass green, or even why the sky was blue.

With all the might that any daisy has ever mustered, Upsy leaned forward eagerly, towards what she hoped would be answers and to what she knew was sure to be an adventure.

What are you doing, some of the roses whispered excitedly.  Don’t lean forward so much, she’ll pick you.

I want her to pick me.  I want to go, Upsy chirped.

Some of the roses were angry and thought Upsy was being silly.  Others thought that this must be some strange thing that daisies do and just watched.

Ignoring them all, Upsy leaned as much as she could.  And it worked.  The little girl’s dark eyes fell right on her.

“This one.  Only this one”  She said gently.

“Are you sure you want just the daisy,” the older woman asked, “it doesn’t really match the table setting, and I’m not sure it will fill the vase…”

“Yes, I’m sure,” her voice stated resolutely as she clasped Upsy’s stem and tugged gently.

Then, Upsy felt the most curious thing happen.

Some of the roses who were angry with Upsy for wanting to leave clawed with their thorns in an attempt to keep her with them, Why aren’t you staying, they said, why don’t you like us?

But the ones who really loved her, the ones who wanted her to be happy more than anything, pushed her some more and they whispered, We never wondered about those things because maybe they are simply the things that daisies wonder about, but go and find your answers … we trust you… we love you…

Those words made Upsy feel brave, so she pushed away from the ground as hard as she could.

Upsy quickly told the angry roses that she did like them, more than that she loved them, but she wanted to know, she needed to know why the sky was blue, why the grass was green and what exactly was inside that house.

Some of the angry roses stopped pulling and said they understood, others just gave up and a stubborn few continued to  pull.

But by that time, any pulling was simply too late, for even if Upsy had wanted to stay, she had already leaned forward towards the girl and the girl had already chosen her.

So, Upsy, clasped tightly in the hands of a pretty little dark eyed girl bounced away from her bed of roses towards new adventures and maybe even some answers.  And while she felt a little sad for the home she left behind, she knew that this felt right, too.

She felt happy and proud.

Proud because when her chance came, she had leaned forward.

Eagerly.

It’s within the domain of those that are older, I think, to shake their head at the young.  To cluck tongues at their inexperience, their lack of wisdom, and their complete disregard for good taste and decorum.

I am young, make no mistake.  Nevertheless, as my years increase, I catch myself clucking and sighing at those that are younger more and more.

Just the other day, for example, I was driving in my car all alone, listening to the radio at a volume too loud to be considered remotely appropriate and only as a mother who stays at home full time can do when she feels the absolute freedom to drive very fast and curse very loudly at idiot drivers.

I felt free.  I felt young.  And then, I heard it.

Mum mum mum mah
Mum mum mum mah

I wanna hold em’ like they do in Texas Plays
Fold em’ let em’ hit me raise it baby stay with me (I love it)
Luck and intuition play the cards with Spades to start
And after he’s been hooked I’ll play the one that’s on his heart

(Poker Face, Lady Gaga)

Are you kidding me?  These are lyrics.  I clucked my tongue.  I shook my head.  Kids today.

I actually thought that.  Kids today.

Obviously, for that brief moment I forgot that there was a time when I actually paid real American dollars for a cassette in which a young white suburban kid calling himself “Vanilla Ice” boasted about the false street cred he possessed while rollin’ in his 5.0.

Oh, hypocrisy, thou art a bitter pill.

The truth is that it’s the bane of each new generation to have to endure the narrow judgment of the preceding generations when it comes to music.  In my day, the older ones say, music was better.  It meant something.  Nowadays, they say, it’s all just… well, crap.

Actually, it’s not.  Music, specifically popular music, has always been the poetry of the young.  The fact that the previous generations refuse to understand or cannot understand it speaks more about the ebbing of the poetry within us as we age than it does of the taste of those that are younger.

Additionally, it seems to me that there’s an unwritten rule that if something sells and if it is popular, that it can’t be real, true or poetic.  That is just… well, crap.

For centuries, poetry has been a distraction.

For those that could not read, they would sit and listen to recitation.  For those who could, they would sit in a comfortable chair and pore over the words of someone who was not quite great at the time, but was destined to be someday.

Us modern humans, we have a plethora of distractions.  Glowing boxes recite their version of the truth, comfortable chairs face those boxes and we find comfort and escape from the perils of goods acquisition in those hours spent.  Yet, we still need our poetry.  Because, inside each of us, there is a poet.

Sometimes, it’s a bad poet with not very good taste.  But, a poet nonetheless.

Pop music is the modern human’s poetry.  Delivered to us on the radio or via an mp3 player, it communicates the simple truths that we already know and take for granted in clever and refreshing ways.  It takes us back to a simpler time or moves us forward to a more hopeful future.  Or it simply distracts us long enough to help us realize that whatever we needed distracting from in the first place may not be so bad after all.

I remember my poetry and the sighs of the older generation that would punctuate each meaningful and wonderfully deep stanza of it.

***
Do you remember when we used to dance
And incidence arose from circumstance
One thing lead to another we were young
And we would scream together songs unsung

***
The cities a flood
And our love turns to rust
We’re beaten and blown by the wind
Trampled into dust

***
All the vampires walkin’ through the valley
Move west down Ventura Boulevard
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
All the good girls are home with broken hearts

***

With that in mind, it becomes a little easier for me to ease up on the likes of Lady Gaga and those crazy kids who are jamming to it.

Do people even say jamming anymore?

P.S. If you’re into deep and meaningful discussions about pop music, you really need to stop by my friend Shane’s Blog. I’ve been reading it for a while and enjoy it quite a bit.  It sort of inspired this post.

P.P.S. Major props to the folks at home who can guess the wielders of the mighty pens who penned these phrases I offered in this post.  Or at least the guys that sang them.

And, yes, I’m recycling a (very slightly modified) post from before anybody read my blog.  You got a problem with that?  I figure that people with real jobs (ha, ha) get six weeks maternity leave.  As of Wednesday, I will only be at week four, so expect a few more recycled posts.  This one is about feminism… as the title indicates.  I apologize for the length, but, I was not the succinct and polished blogger that I am today when I wrote the following post (ha ha, again).

**************

I was sitting in the ninth circle of hell yesterday, or what some people call a “training session.”

Just as I was going to try to muster up my long forgotten high school talent of sleeping with my eyes open, our moderator, an unnaturally chipper young woman in her 20s, said, “So, we have such and such speaker coming next month who will be discussing the evolution of the feminist movement over the past few decades in this and that room.”  Then she rolled her eyes and said, “I mean, I’m not a feminist or anything, but, if that’s your thing, you should come.”

After much deliberation I have decided that this young woman simply does not know what feminism really is and that is the only logical explanation why such a bright person would be so negative about feminism.

So, I asked around to find out how other people define feminists. Apparently, people think that feminists are almost always lesbians with an aversion to depilatory procedures who hate men and think the world would be a better place without them.

This is not only untrue, it is just stupid.  I know that’s harsh, but facing up to our stupidity is perhaps the ugliest of all human burdens.

Believing that a feminist is always the above described person (who by the way is a perfectly acceptable sample of a human being) is as stupid as believing that one particular race of people are inferior due to the color of their skin or believing that Lindsay Lohan is never going to rehab again.

So, let’s discuss the American feminist movement as painlessly and quickly as possible.  (Dear College Freshman, do not base your paper on modern feminism on this post, you will get a “C.”)

Feminist movements of the 19th and 20th century centered upon suffrage, or the right to vote.

The feminist movements of the 60s centered upon social issues, such as women’s right to equal access to education, equality in the workplace and reproductive choices (this includes but is not limited to the issue of abortion).  A few feminists in this era burned some bras, but the majority of them, contrary to popular belief, did not.

These days, feminism builds upon these past concepts, but also recognizes that Western women should not be dictating feminist agendas to the world’s diverse populations (or even the diverse populations within their own countries.)

The Oxford American Dictionary defines feminism as “the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social and economic equality to men.”  If you live in the United States of America, you really should not have a problem with that.

In fact, you should be for that.

If you live outside of the United States, well, according to most new generation feminists, also called “post feminists,” we might not agree with how women are treated in your country, but we believe that they should be the ones who set the agenda for those changes, not us.  (This is a particularly complicated issue, so I’m not going to delve too deeply here.)

I find it ironic that many Americans will roll their eyes at the mention of feminism, but quickly jump on the “Saudi’s need to let their women drive” bandwagon.  Interestingly, we decry feminism at home, but champion its cause as we attempt to denigrate cultures and value systems outside our own with the intent of, at least culturally, subjugating them.

Let me wrap this up by telling you what I believe American feminism is not.

American feminism is not an excuse to point out the flaws of men.  As a matter of fact, many men are feminists, too.  Not because they are afraid their “butch” wives are going to beat them up, but because they believe women are their social, political and economic equals.

Feminism is not a platform aimed at disintegrating motherhood, staying at home or family values.

Feminism is not the reason kids in our society seem to be from another planet (I personally believe this one can be attributed to Nicole Ritchie and Paris Hilton who are, in fact, from another planet).

When someone brings up the movement for racial equality in the United States, do you go out of your way to distance yourself from it?

Do you roll your eyes or get a stupid grin on your face like someone has just said something very funny?

No, you don’t.

Unless of course your white hood and robe are drying on a gentle setting and you’re running a few minutes late for your weekly cross burning.

So, why do Americans do this when the feminist movement is brought up?

I’ll end with the following correspondence, which I have no intention of sending:

Dear Ms. 20-something,

American feminism has a long history, over 130 years in its making.

You don’t have to be feminist if you don’t want to, I don’t mind if it’s not your thing.
However, since you are a woman living in America, I respectfully ask that you appreciate what these women did for you and treat them with more respect by refraining from acting like they are crazy PETA members who throw red paint on celebrities wearing fur.

They gave you choices and opportunities that women in other parts of the world are literally dying to have.

They fought for your right to vote, your right to be educated in any field of your choosing, your right to work in any field of your choice, your right to make decisions regarding your reproductive system, your right to have legal recourse if someone says or does sexually inappropriate things to you in your workplace and many other rights that you now take for granted.

No, feminism may not be your thing, but, Ms. 20-something, feminism is your blessing.

P.S. Please stop calling other women your age “girls.”  Girls play with Barbies and Little Ponies.  You are a woman, as are other women your age.

P.P.S. And stop saying “like” every two minutes.

P.P.P.S.  And don’t bounce when you talk.  It’s distracting.