"We want THAT ONE, we want THAT ONE!"

(title is from one of the many things chanted by the crowds)

Outta bed at 5:15 a.m. I'm only selectively a morning person, and yesterday was one of those special times. I was gonna go wait in line in downtown Richmond in the freezing cold to get a chance to see the Barock concert. An Obama rally. I've been to plenty of arena concerts but this was crazier than any arena event I've been to.

6:00 I picked a friend of a friend up to accompany me. (Yeah there's no way I would get through a delirious downtown Richmond CROWD alone.) I never met her before but we bonded quite fast. She was a native Moroccan, but now also a very spirited American who knows her political stuff as if she's been here all her life. I loved that.

6:30ish we got amazing parking right across from the Richmond Colesium and followed the bright media lights. The harsh flourescent lights against the dark morning sky made things seem hardly real. We hoped that the lines were not already extending out all the way to Broad Street. It was early and it was dark but we could feel the excitement building moment by moment. We were lucky to run into a mutual friend who is a dedicated activist and journalist; and one who is familiar with political rallies. He helped us navigate through the crowd throughout the morning and afternoon.

Then the long, long wait began. For over 2 hours we waited in "lines" (the lines seemed as wide as they were long) when all of a sudden, one of the crowd controllers (not sure who exactly he worked with) screamed "move over people! The lines are shifting to your left!" Ok, you don't do that to an anxious and freezing Richmond crowd, duh. All of a sudden, there was a mad rush for the other side of the arena; something that could have become a stampede. Even my friends and I ran, hand in hand, as fast as our literally numb toes could carry us. When we reached the other side, angry complaints flew: "We were waiting there since 3 a.m.!" and "We were in line since last night, how could you be so disorganized!?"

For another hour and a half we waited behind metal barricades several yards ahead of the doors in pseudo-lines (ok, really it was just a giant crowd, security totally screwed the lines up.) My hands were white and blue. Toes...gone. While packed in the crowd as a hopeless sardine, I heard a woman say we had to now fill out an admission ticket to have a chance-but no guarantee-to get inside. I filled the form out with my useless, nearly dead fingers just so it looked like there was some sort of print on the lines. We waited for directions from Obama volunteers, colesium security, or secret service...anyone at all to give us direction to file into the hall. Secret service kept joking around and laughing, that made me kinda hate them at that point.

I wasn't sure why I wanted to get into the colesium more; to see Obama or to escape the cold. Probably to escape the cold and I knew that it'd be impossible to turn around and leave since thousands of people were packed behind me. Finally, a lanky young fellow in a shirt and tie said "Ok, we're going to let you in. Please go in lines as I open the barricade." HA. As he started to open it, people behind me pushed forward nearly flipping the barricades and overtaking my spot. I joined them. The skinny guy screamed "Stop! Stop!" Yeah. My friend and I raced to the doors with everyone. Our journalist friend magically appeared again and helped us regain our spot in the front. There were also many random nice people that protected us as we tried to move through the crowd. For about a minute I could hardly breathe as people pushed and pushed to get closer to security clearance. Another nice person helped ease that and we got to security.

Then it was finally over. Oh wait. The speech didn't even begin yet. So...Obama finally got in stage about 4 hours later. Before that the crowd was incredible. The feeling of camaraderie with over 12,000 strangers was energizing. Everyone sang, some danced (an Obama volunteer was even breaking in happiness on the floor) and chanted and cheered together. After a long time, I felt so proud to be American again. This is the feeling I was searching for for years; one that I knew was lost somewhere, but I knew still existed. That was a feeling I would get as a fourth-grader, thinking "I'm so lucky to be American." I got that feeling again.

Obama rocked it; sticking to substance and not insults. He did mention though that Sen.McCain "likes to talk about 'Joe the Plumber' but he's in cahoots with 'Joe the CEO.'" He asked, by a show of hands, how many made less than a quarter of a million dollars. Almost everyone raised their hands. He promised to lower their taxes, and "give relief to the nurse, teacher, bus driver and the janitor,” all while increasing his own. When it was all over, I completely agree with what one crowd member mentioned to me and other strangers around her: "God, I just want this election to be over. I'm just tired of it. I'm tired. Be over now." Whatever the outcome, I know this for sure: Obama accomplished something that I wasn't sure could be done in my lifetime: inspired millions to recapture the definition of what it should feel like to be American. I just hope we use that feeling now to generate fruitful, real, good deeds.




xoxo


1 - b&w photo credit to Farrukh Hussain (stole from his facebook page)
2 - Photo #2: of part of the crowd behind me.
3 - Photo #3 "Where''s Hanan Abed?" Can you spot her!?
4 - a few seconds of footage

Walkin in Memphis

This is something I wrote a while ago, but thought I would post because I really miss Memphis sometimes. I don't know if I'll ever go there again, but I'll never forget it. Here's to the gritty southern jewel!
On what may have been the final spring break of my life, I chose to fly down south to Memphis, TN. My sister-in-law attends dental school there, just minutes away from Beale Street and Sun Studio. My brother made his way up north from the even deeper south, Birmingham, AL, to rendezvous with us.

I have a crush on Memphis. It is the most charming partially run-down U.S. town I have been to yet. I like the city-it’s laid back and gritty but it’s real. During the day, we traversed the streets and ended up at Huey’s, regarded by locals as the best hamburger joint in town. The burger was pretty good. The restaurant itself was more interesting than the food. Tradition encourages guests to shoot toothpicks into the ceiling through straws and to carve or write on the walls, literally. We took advantage of both practices. We then passed through the location where Martin Luther King, Jr. was gunned down. The area was eerily desolate at the time. A wreath hangs on the railing of the second floor of the hotel where he was shot. I was madly looking forward to visiting the Gibson Guitar Factory…but due to a fire incident, it was closed precisely on the days I was fated to be in Memphis. Lucky me. That was pretty depressing, but their store was open at least, so we went in and “tried on” several guitars. It was like being in a candy store, even though I am a Fender girl. The guitars were gorgeous and shiny and ready to be ripped into.

Downtown is dense and dripping with culture and history. Without music, Memphis wouldn’t be Memphis. Beale street nights are unforgettable. The blues scream through walls of bars and clubs, you find bands that play in alleys, and people dance in the street. The energy absolutely infects you. Bouncers say “Hi there, how are you?” as you pass by. Lights sparkle against the dark of night. You might not necessarily feel like dancing like no one’s watching, but you feel like dancing like you don’t give a damn people are watching.


The night began to get chilly as we hopped into a horse carriage to ride around the town. It actually looked like the kind Cinderella rode in, except it was Disney-fied with starry blue lights, a colored disco ball and blankets. The driver was quite erudite in his knowledge of the city; he shared the history of buildings and streets as we rode. We drove beside the Mississippi River and past the Wolf River Harbor, where singer-songwriter Jeff Buckley was swept away. So, I couldn’t help but have “Lover, You Should Have Come Over” echo through my mind for the remainder of the ride.



The next day was for Mr. Presley. Graceland is much smaller in size than I anticipated, but that did not diminish its intrigue. Upon entering, you get a taste of the enigmatic shadow the singer left behind because a heavy curtain covers the top of the staircase, barring entry to the second floor. From what I know, no fan has ever been up there (Bill Clinton was even denied entry) other than Nick Cage (and that is because he was married to Lisa Marie.) This is supposedly due to Elvis’s wish to keep the second floor private, and has purportedly remained almost entirely unaltered since he was last there. The house felt like a home. I had expected it to feel more superficial, like a museum, but I was wrong. The most touching part of Graceland is of course the meditation garden where the singer and his immediate family are buried. I was pleasantly surprised to find a row of Spanish stained glass scenes of mosques and women in hijab installed in the wall facing the graves. It highlights Elvis’s interest and appreciation of eastern culture.

Visiting his home also brought some questions to mind. A man who had what appeared to be “everything” – undeniable charisma, handsome looks, money, artistic brilliance, and the love of millions of fans – was depressed near the end of his life and arguably died in large part due to this. It suggests that the fulfillment of dreams may initially bring happiness, but does not necessarily sustain it. So what does? And does having material things in excess give rise to a futile search for a form of happiness that does not exist in reality? It seems that perhaps dependency on ever-increasing and virtually endless luxury transforms one’s position from being the dream chaser to being chased down by a nightmare of dissatisfaction.

Driving across the state of Tennessee and Virginia was…entertaining. Against the gorgeous backdrop of mountains were Cracker Barrels every few miles – like 7/11’s at every corner. Yeah. In fact, we ate there for breakfast…and well…again for lunch. Seemed like we had no other choice. But hey, it was great southern cooking. And then there was the interesting bathroom break in the Smokies: we somehow ended up at the “World’s Largest Knife Showplace” and I wouldn’t be surprised if it truly is. It had multiple floors with everything from swords, Lord of the Rings’ weapons, spears, steak knives, and all kinds of quirky country home and garden decs. I made sure to get myself a souvenir, and felt an awkward sense of southern pride. It ended up taking us about 15 hours to get back to Richmond. But it was fun since my brother and I were interchangeably DJ as the other drove. We flipped through music from the 60’s and into every other decade, from Motown to Country to Pop, belting out made-up lyrics like idiots and truly getting into the hick spirit. I must admit, my brother is an amazing friend: a 31-year old doctor who acts 15. Life should be like that.



Then, my final spring break ended. And with it comes a view to post-graduation future. It is both exciting and scary; filled with hopes but almost equally filled with fears. I thought I would be more of a realist than an idealist by the end of law school, but I remain a semi-reluctant idealist. I am, however, more grounded in the reality that dreams don’t always come true the way that you plan them—and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. The Elvis song “If I Can Dream” captures how I would like to sing my way into the “real world”, and beyond.
xoxo

Photos top to bottom: 1. At Huey's with Hira 2. Beale Street at night 3. Carriage ride through the city 4. Presleys' kitchen in Graceland 5. Room where Elvis played the piano on the left, hours before passing away 6. Smokey Mountain Knife Showplace !! im'a git me some knives, mama.

The Line b/w Culture and Madnesss

I am, in part, the product of a long list of regulations my parents have expected me to abide by. Family has been numero uno, and all major decisions my brother and I have made have pretty much been after the concurrence of mom and pops. Or at least the absence of their disdain. Old timey? I guess, but I think that's what family is for. But what happens when what is right for one person is wrong for another...or vice versa?

I have respect for eastern-desi-influenced "muslim" values, or whatever it is you want to label them. Indeed, I want to raise my own children one day in a similar fashion. But there are certain lines that cultural expectations cross that can stifle a soul to the point of absurdity.

Some things have no deeper significance than being there for a "show off" factor. This would make a good question on Family Feud:

"What things do moderate to extremely show-offy eastern families desire?"

"A wise son who longs to save the world."

Survey sayssssss........[errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!]

What are you, stupid?

Here is what the survey actually says:
[Son who is a doctor]
[A big house next to a lake, that's bigger than your friends' homes]
[Kids with Fair complexion]
[Kids went straight from high school to college to professional school, NO GAPS!!!]
[Daughter is quiet, but does part time modeling for desi clothing, but also attending med/dental/law school]
[Religious on the outside, who cares about the inside]

Everything else...waste of time, people. You do public interest stuff? WHAT is wrong with you?! You married a good man [and a real man] who...makes...films!? You sad failure of a child! You quit dental school to "soul search" for a while? Your poor parents! Your family must be cursed by a jealous relative.

Not my thoughts, ok, but unfortunately, those of many families that surround us.

How does our soul survive if we don't want to cram ourselves into said box built by some sadist, spiritually anemic, bland dude just for the sake of fitting into it? It is a tough question, whether we like to admit it or not, especially when we love our parents dearly, and when their opinion matters a lot to us. So what do we do?

I don't know exactly. But what I do know is that at the end of the day, do what spiritually uplifts you. I never really wanted to go to medical school; I actually wanted to go to art school. So, my parents gave up on me early on - so I am lucky!! (muhahah!) But seriously, I think that if you, like me, love your parents dearly but also have some ideas which differ from theirs, it can be really confusing and heartwrenching, right?

Parents cannot help but be happy for you --in time-- if you reach a state of contentment eventually. If they are not (there are indeed some parents that hold a grudge for years and years) you have to swallow that jagged pill unfortunately. I said it's jagged, which means it will be tremendously hard to deal with, but if you are fulfilling your true God-given function through this decision, you will find peace at the end no matter what.

At the end of the day, we cannot blame our parents, even if they emotionally hold a gun to our heads because we have been gifted with the ability to make decisions, unlike other forms of creation like rocks, trees, fish? :P He never promised this would be easy. I have heard far too many people say that they are jaded as hell because they did what their parents expected them to do without considering whether or not it was also what would fulfill them, long-term. We all know people like that who end up pretty negative and angry, and then end up unknowingly treating people around them like crap. Don't do that to yourself.

The path that leads to the best stuff is usually pretty treacherous. But it makes us better, more thankful humans in the end.

There are 2 choices for our generation:
Grow a backbone
or
Live on your knees.

So we make that choice, and the rest eventually flows from it.


xoxo

Reverse Discrimination: Plight of the Pretty

It's hard to feel sorry for someone because they were born with stunning good looks. Sure, you can draw some arguments... but whatevvvvvvver ...come ON. :P

Anyway, I've realized that sometimes those who are very beautiful get pre-judged in certain ways and don't deserve it. Perhaps women do this more to men than vice versa, but it seems that many times, before even speaking to a very good-looking male, a woman will label him as..."he's probably a jerk," or "I bet he talks to 10 girls at once," or "even if I went for him, his eyes will wander and he'll be gone. Stupid jerk!" or "She thinks she's so pretty, she's probably a bitch." We've all silently, or not so silently, thought this at one time or another (even those who are very good-looking themselves.)

But through the years, I have found that Jerkism transcends all colors, body shapes, sizes, religions, intelligence levels, and overall purty-ness. I'm not solely talking about guy-girl "relationship" stuff...but just jerkness as a whole. I have encountered plain-to-bad looking men that have been rude and full of themselves. Some really think they are Adonis... um... in the form...of, well...NOT Adonis.

On the other hand, there are true Adonises who are kind, secure, and faithful. There's some women who look amazing that I sometimes think might be mean or annoying. But they end up being wayy kind and fun. Meanwhile, the girl that's not as much of a looker turns out to be kind of psycho and super critical.

In my experience, for some reason, those that are more attractive seem to more freely and happily compliment others' appearances; but those that are less attractive whisper about the flaws of this girl or that dude...and they either rarely compliment or are often clearly faking it.

So why is this even relevant? I think that if we can't judge a book by it's cover...we really can't. Just because the cover is bright and cool doesn't mean the pages are filled with dumbass stuff. And just because it's tattered and somewhat worn doesn't mean there's quality writing inside either. And of course the opposite is true as well. There are beautiful yet modest people all around...as there are unattractive yet self-absorbed individuals as well. I guess it's all in how we see ourselves, rather than what really is there.


We've gotta turn a few more pages, get more information.
The pages are all there, we just have to get more information to make a better assessment.

xoxo
nadia


About the Photos:
Top: Jeff Buckley
Middle: Duhh! (She's sooo cute there)
Bottom: I had to include Tom Welling. (Really cute but dorky nice-guy...can't get much better! awww)

Can Art Kill?

While millions anxiously awaited the results of toxicology reports regarding the death of Heath Ledger, twisters reeked hell through the southeast, people were being blown up in Mogadishu, and babies were being thrown out of windows of burning buildings. Indeed, it seems silly that one of the top stories for the past 2 weeks has been the death of just one handsome, well-off artist in the wake of worldwide turmoil. But it begs the questions of why we become magnetized to such stories. I would not just write it off as the habit of a shallow, celebrity gossip-obsessed culture; I think there is something more. Something that is forgiveable. When we see someone who embodies “living the dream,” and then a seemingly drastic, disturbing turn cuts it short, we wonder whether the wishes we have been making have been falling into the right wells or not too. We see parts of ourselves in these celebrities, who become people after they have had something happen to them that could foreseeably happen to any of us, or those close to us.

I remember the first time I saw a performance by Heath – he played a disturbed son in Monster’s Ball. I didn't like the film much, but really, it was his performance that stood out even though his role was minor. I remember thinking to myself that I could never watch it again because of the sheer intensity that he projected from his time and space, through the camera, and into the mind and heart of the viewer. There was an honesty and a vulnerability that was nearly too difficult to watch. The rare and unabashed display of raw emotion can cut right through the paper armor we often wear.

He was an incredible artist. Although I never had a personal encounter with him, his gentleness and naivety were so apparent, seeming almost out of place in a world that mostly views the arts as fun and trivial – not infused with meaning and energy as it does for many artists. For the artist, regardless of the craft, there is a constant pull to create, to produce, to reach inside and then extend what he finds outwardly. The preoccupation is to translate the language of the heart and soul through some form of physical media. Ledger was that kind of artist. Method acting is a scary place to venture, because getting lost in one’s art is a high possibility. A constant battle for an artist can involve deciding how much to let the artistic energy control, and how much to control IT. Some may feel that it is ok to die for one’s art - an ideal I would never advocate. I have utmost respect for those who dedicate themselves to creating art that is truthful and helpful either to themselves or to others. But I think that once it becomes more of selfish endeavor for self-gratification, it can have a detrimental impact on others. In other words, artists like Heath Ledger risk dying for their craft at the expense of others that they owe a responsibility to. Was his role as Joker, however amazing as it likely will be, worth putting himself into such a fragile state that his daughter will cry over the memories of a personal hero she hardly got to know? I really don’t think so. Did he owe it to himself and his forever-shattered parents to take care of his anxiety and sleeplessness even if that meant taking a hiatus? I really do not think maintaining a “Joker Diary” and drowning oneself in his art is heroic. I just think it’s sad.

Sad because it’s understandable. He, like many other dedicated creatives, handed the reigns to the high-speed, runway artist in an effort to realize his full creative potential. The problem is that we live in a world of consequences where logic must be inserted and limits must be set at the proper moments in order to survive. The world is not all clouds and imaginary characters where emotions are king and creative expression of it is queen. Oh, I do wish it was. But it involves moderation, and without moderation in any endeavor, unintended destruction is often the final destination.

Something universally beautiful is truth; when we see it manifest itself through someone who is genuine, it captures and inspires us. That was something else that an artist like Heath Ledger offered to many. Perhaps he was suffering a great deal from anxiety and chronic pain among other things. If you have seen anyone going through that, you know that it can lead to irrational and reckless behavior – like concocting a lethal drug cocktail. Maybe it was something else altogether. Whatever the case, there still must have been a better alternative, even if it was more difficult to undertake. Taking a faster, more dangerous route to relief is simply not a risk worth taking in the end.

Love art, but please, don’t becomes its slave.