I mean, who *isn't* sometimes overwhelmed by the thought of how little they've accomplished?
I went to Flint back in February to report on the impact of poisoned water on the lives of the people for whom this was just... life. The piece, more than 8,000 words, was published towards the end of May. I am proud of the work, and grateful to all the people who spoke to me and let me ask them probing questions before thinking and giving me thoughtful responses. I love asking questions of people — but why? what do you mean? how, exactly? — but as I get older I realise how little I like answering questions. Perhaps it is because I am, most of the time, leading an unextraordinary life. Why would you want to know anything about me, a 34-year-old who spends too much at Trader Joe's and is sometimes overwhelmed by the weight of the knowledge of how little she has accomplished in life?
haha lol omg what? who said that? shut up. i'm fine.
A reiteration: I'm proud of this feature, incidentally the longest piece of journalism I have ever produced, and which consumed so much of me, for so long. I am now trying to figure out and boil down what I want to cover next in such a big, overarching way, but I am also very happy to let my brain quiet for a moment, and to read books and watch unremarkable telly again. The questions never stop needing to be asked, so I'll get back to it shortly.
Ramadan began a few days ago and I was just getting into the swing of things when my period turned up. Look, I understand its purpose. And I know all about the needless shame of periods girls and women are forced to carry, all over the world. I understand that accepting all the things my body does is a fundamental step to take in the journey of a human life. But let me tell you this: periods (essential! completely normal!) are trash. They're rubbish. You know those horrible beauty product ads? The ones that tell you how ~beautiful~ you are? I hate them. It's not that I'm so icked out by the blatant capitalism (we're all #complicit, sis) and I even know the somewhat good intentions behind them — reclamation! affirmation! solidarity and community! — but you know what? Not everyone has to be beautiful! It's nice or whatever, but no. That's how I feel about periods.
Yay, ovaries etc but fuck you, uterus. I hate my period. I wish it would die in a five-alarm fire in an abandoned warehouse in the bad part of town. It is a villain — my personal nemesis — and I will not rest until it is ultimately vanquished, and can terrorise me no more. Sometimes I imagine facing my period on a panel, at something like a literary festival, a panel with a name like Can Menstruation Survive In Trump's America? In this scenario, I am wearing a paisley shawl, draped over my shoulders just like I've seen middle-aged white women do, and I am also wearing a secret smile because I know I have the tools, on a purely intellectual level, to fucking eliminate periods, and I am just waiting — almost vibrating with readiness! — for the moderator to bring me into the discussion. I'm gonna end you, period, I'm thinking. I hate you so much and I am going to end you.
Yes, my interior life is vast and full of riches.
If you're fasting this month, I hope you are finding meaning and a measure of peace, and that you are happy and looked after. My hope is to use the month to be more thoughtful about what I give my time and labour to. I want to streamline my zakat and continue to push myself in the direction of (unqualified) kindness. This is my favourite time of year to be a Muslim, when so many of us are more willing to be better. The ummah is global and that means that at any one time, an absolutely staggering number of people are quietly involved in acts of religious dedication. Together. All of us. Isn't that beautiful. Man, I might cry.
Think of it this way: Ramadan is the only time of the year I willingly allow myself to eat dates (is it the worst fruit? our survey says "yes"). Now that's some divine shit, fam.
You should read Karen Onojaife's short story, Here Be Monsters. She sends it in instalments, via TinyLetter, and each new entry does one of two things: 1. breaks me apart or 2. puts me back together. Sometimes, I get both those things in the course of reading a single update. Something tells me this story is almost at an end, so I'd urge you to get in there quick: subscribe, and read her archive to catch up.
It's a belter.