Into Enemy Territory: My Trip to Iran

Let me start off by saying I never thought I would go to Iran.

When my Iranian boyfriend first put the idea into my head last summer it sounded like a nice enough idea in the sense that it seemed like such a distant possibility, predicated on a lot of political change, that I felt safe in wondering what it would be like without taking the actual trip seriously. That is until I found myself facing two weeks alone in wintery Istanbul during a school holiday with nothing to do and an itching for travel crawling its way into my skin.

At this point my boyfriend, Hamid, and I had only been dating for a little over three months and were still very much at the stage of getting to know and trust each other. Though I thought I was “in love” I was still unsure—still guarded, afraid that any type of serious commitment would force me to abandon my love for the road and subjugate me to a boring life of domestic gendered expectations.

Getting married has been far off my radar ever since I first stepped foot on an international flight and became honest with myself about my insatiable thirst for travel. And yet, despite rebelling from my religious roots and pressure to marry young, friends and family kept on calling and asking me on skype.

 “Is he the one?” they’d ask all giggly, thinking the “wild” child with the insatiable appetite for travel had finally found the antidote to her addiction and would settle down. Though I imagined their inquiries to ring with more of an “I told you so” tone than any sort of genuine desire for my wedded happiness. Not that I didn’t eventually see myself married, I just never imagined it would happen in some clichéd way.

Usually when girls think of their wedding, they imagine the big white dress, the dark handsome groom, the flowers, the cake, the presents, the romance. So imagine my surprise when I found myself sitting across from my 3 month boyfriend in an Iranian Shia mosque in the shadows of the Hagia Sofia, claiming allegiance to the 12 imams, choosing my new Muslim name, and promising to be faithful to my future temporary husband.

Temporary marriages, or “sigheh,” are actually not that uncommon in the Middle East thanks to Islamic ethical loop holes. Usually used for the sole purpose of being able to copulate without the religious after guilt, the tradition gives a man permission to temporarily take another wife for either a specified period of time, or until they each repeat they do not want to be married anymore three times (beetlejuice, beetlejuice, beetlejuice mentality).

When Hamid first came home and told me he thought we should get married to go to Iran, my heart almost fell out of my ass I was so taken aback.

“Look, it’s simple. We get temporarily married and you don’t have to go through all the bull shit of booking a tour guide and paying all this extra money. You can stay with my family, I can show you around. It will be better this way.” He looked so calm.

Though I was still struggling to find words and create a laid back unassuming air, he continued on.

“This is the way it works in Iran, going around the rules. It seems scary, but it’s not. Trust me.”

Trust. Trust.

                Up until this moment I never realized how hollow my perception of this word actually was.

Though I knew myself enough to know that notions of the “axis of evil” contained more propaganda than truth, something inside me was still afraid to commit. After all, this wasn’t planning a trip to France. This was Iran. A whole new ball park. However slowly, over the next couple of days of research, Hamid’s logic began to seep in. This was my ticket, this was my moment. This was the opportunity of a lifetime. And I was taking it.

Throwing caution to the wind, I was going to trust.

Two weeks later and I’m starting to reconsider my decision. As I’m sitting there, asking the imam again and again to repeat the sound of that word so I can repeat it back to him, I imagine my American Christian mother’s cries to echo that of the wind. Her fists throwing wet punches on the window just outside the room as she yells at me to stop what I’m doing THIS INSTANT and come back home. And for a moment part of my “flight” mentality is tempted. Though we both know it’s far too late for that, my curiosity has taken me too far down the rabbit hole to see any type of outside guiding light. Instead, I drown out the thoughts of her and the life that has lead me up to this with the routine summoning of the call to prayer singing from the minarets above.

“Where was she born?” the imam asks in lethargic Persian, looking up expectedly at my now-husband while filling in the bureaucratic paperwork.

“Long Beach, California” he replies, still trying to suppress a laugh at the serious and unperturbed tone with which I just converted from Christianity to Islam.

An outspoken atheist, I’m afraid any type of mocking smile on his part will “out” us as pretenders, therein putting an end to my trip. It couldn’t happen—I’d already just finished doing the unthinkable. I’d already finished my performance, all that was left was for me to graciously accept my Oscar and join the after party.

Despite several clarifications the imam still writes Long Peach and proceeds to take another painful hour filling out my conversion sheet as a newly minted “Miriam,” the name I’ve chosen like a garment to carry me into this adventurous new life.

It’s in this moment, as my mother’s tapping at the mosque window increases that I’m left to wonder how I begin wondering for the first time how I’m ever going to be able to explain this situation to the one who originally named me. Especially considering for a period it was my mother’s worst fear that I was going to marry an Iranian man and take our babies to visit his family back home, only to find his true colors had changed and I no longer had custody of my children according to Shia law. A random, ridiculous, and unfounded fear to have I told her immediately at the time.

“It could happen Sydney, I read about it in a book once!”

She cautioned me long before I’d ever expressed any interest in travelling to the Middle East. My apprehension in telling her was therefore twofold, as I had to tell her not only was I going into the access of evil but that I was doing so as a married woman.

Luckily for me, about a week after the “deed” was done I got a skype call from my newly independent, unmarried 19-year old sister with a piece of news even more shocking than mine.

“I’m pregnant” she stated simply, “and I’m keeping it.”

Thank God my birth control knocked that third requirement right out of the realm of possibilities, or the third big piece of news in our family that year might have been a heart attack.

While I didn’t plan on my sister’s pregnancy, it did make telling my mom about our marriage pale in comparison. Or made telling her and causing even more stress seem kind of cruel on my part--a justification I decided to cling more to than confession. My mother then, I decided, wouldn’t find out until everyone else when I was safe back at home in Istanbul two weeks later.

Up until 6 months ago, I’d never even met an Iranian and now--here I was. Trustingly adding my signature next to his and planning a trip right into the heart of what I hopes wouldn’t be the future location of my government’s search party. This was either going to be the greatest trip of my life, or the worst. Either way, I’d get my story.

_____

The Islamic Republic of Iran wasn’t always so Islamic. In fact, as most people have come to find out in face of overwhelming media coverage about the Geneva nuclear program talks, it’s only been within the last 40 years that Iran has assumed this “other” extremist mentality. Up until then, they were what we might call in the west as “progressive” and interactive people. My boyfriend is obsessed with the American-Iranian comedian Moz Jobrani and is constantly quoting his barrier breaking sets when we meet Westerners who might still cling to some of those negative Iranian stereotypes.

“We are not scary. We are Persian, like the cat” he winks, “MEOW!”

However even in spite of our relationship and the Iranian culture I found myself slowly being introduced to day-by-day, I was still hesitant to jump full in and commit to immersion. I mean, sure, there had to be some Iranians who loved America. I’d even come to meet and befriend a few of them while living in Istanbul. But they were the minority, right? Overall they hated us, yeah? 

Years of government and media propaganda had lead me to believe that a trip to Iran was basically a free for all death trap. The US State Department’s travel warning website stresses over and over again that the situation in Iran is “hostile” and that “should you decide to travel to Iran despite the travel warning…the US government does not have diplomatic or consular relations with the Islamic Republic of Iran and therefore cannot provide protection or routine consular services o US citizens in Iran.” Basically, should I be stupid enough to disobey the United States’ warning and travel into the heart of one of our biggest enemies, I was alone in a country notorious for hating us. And though I knew the government was far from being above manipulating Middle East stereotypes for political capital, I had also seen Argo. So I thought I knew what was up when I finally stepped off the plane into Imam Khomeini International Airport at 3am, nervously clutching my Iranian visa and preparing for the worst.

My boyfriend, Hamid, was there to pick me up as promised at the passport control. While I stood by like some little helpless puppy being handed off in transit, Hamid explained our situation and they swept us off to another small room for fingerprinting. Here we go, I thought.

The man doing my prints turns to Hamid as he types in my passport information, a blank expression on his face. For sometimes over-expressive Americans, the minute facial expressions and use of body language in Middle Eastern culture takes a bit of getting used to. Though at this moment, I took it at face value—there was a problem.

Hamid laughs and looks reassuringly over at me.

“He is apologizing for taking your fingerprints. He says they only do it because you do it to us when we come to the US.”

I smile and exhale audibly.

Alright, I’m in.

Little tea cup

I'm a cup.

I have no handle,
I have no spout.
I'm far from being
Called little, though
I am often filled with
Thoughts of
Little things

The space between lips,
The time between sips,
The way it feels to
Stand alone after years
Of association with
Kettle, with
Pot, with
Spoon--though
Somedays the fear of
Moon jumping, of moon
Falling
Keeps me grounded
To my shelf of waiting, of
Asking. Which serves a
Purpose all its own.

I'm still learning how to
Shout, how to
Move from objectg to
Subject, how to
Do more than spin
Around in circles for an
Assemblance of "entertainment."
How to wake up each morning
And move from the
Kitchen to the
Salon without shattering
To the floor.

I'm still learning how
To treat myself as more
Than an appetizer. As more
Than a dessert.

And sometimes i burn.
Sometimes, it's because
People try to drink me in
Before i'm ready to
Open up, and
Other times my body
Scalds your hands
To remind you that
I was never meant to
Be consumed by
Your mere wanting of me.

But
When i am tipped over,
When i find myself
Drunk
Up, it only reminds me to
Begin the process of
Re-learning what you can
Give and what
You must keep.
To remember that
My usefulness cones
In my openness,
In the small bur
Consistent promise of
Fullness. Of change.
To remind myself of
What i am capable of
Holding, even if somedays that
Holding is nothing more
Than my fragile china
Backbone.

Scars: a poem

I sit down to write a poem.

It mustn't be a poem about love,
a true poet takes the
love he has and finds it in a
garbageman, takes
the passion he feels
and writes about a girls first
period, makes love to the
storm after the ocean and never
has the time to take a
second glance back as his jeep
pushes on towards the
horizon.

Me,
I like to think of the scar on
my right hand. The one I got
back at the Kern when we were
kids and love came to us
in the form of an open field
and salt rivers. The way the stinging
saline in our eyes echoed the pulsations
of our hearts. How the
butterflies we chased in that field,
shamelessly coveting the tandem dance
of their limitless wings only served to
shed light on our
transformation in that
solitary cocoon. I think of that.

I've learned you can't
speak in specifics. Everyone
has their own color,
own shape,
own smell
that takes them back to the day grandma
baked you a whole bunch of cookies because
you scraped your left knee.
The taste lingers in my mouth
even still as I use this inner oven
pumping blood to remind myself
scars have a way of being healed
with the sweetest medication.

And I'm no doctor,
but if I take all the times
I heard the woman downstairs cry out for him to stop,
or the nights he threw
empty beer bottles at the ground
hoping to cut through to some of the emotion
he prays is still there through the numbness
--it still cant fix the way
your eyes do on me, every time
you hold my hand and

say

The Bluer Shade of Sexism

Obviously there's no way that I, a self-proclaimed feminist (and outspoken one at that) could have possibly traveled to Iran and not have written a post about gender inequality.



Definition is not gender exclusive.

But before you start rolling eyes and clicking out of this tab, this isn't one of those posts.


In the west most of the inequality presented to us is in the realm of female subjugation. We are bombarded with images of 'repressed' women drudging around in burqas or little girls being married off to middle aged men or even more horrific cases of honour killings. And lets be honest, these images and themes around women's role and worth in society is extremely upsetting. And not that I didn't feel the more subtle forms of sexism while in Iran--wearing a compulsory hijab, having to ride in the back of the gender segregated bus, being slightly felt up in the hustle of the Grand Bazaar. But I'm not here to talk about that, projecting my 'White noise' onto an issue that is already heavily loaded with information.


I want to talk about those experiences that affected ones I care about, and that's how sexism and the notions of gender roles and expectations limits men. And I'd like to illustrate this through two stories of men that I came to know in Iran.

For privacy sake, lets call this man Y. Now Y has lived in Iran his entire life, and with the exception of a trip or two to neighboring countries hasn't much left the Middle East. Now recently Y has had some problems with his knee that required him to have surgery, causing a limp and impeding his ability to walk long distances and climb stairs. Now while this problem and recovery may only be interim, the expectations and projections about him as a male continue on. It's finally come the time where he will have to report for duty as a man, and prove his worth in that regard. And now that he was recently denied a petition to drop that commitment due to physical inability, he must face a choice. Stay and serve, or escape into asylum.



The other story is of my friend X. X's story is slightly different in the sense that X has the good fortune of living and studying outside of Iran for the time being and possesses a passport--a step ahead of friend Y who is stuck inside Iran unable to get a passport until he reports for duty. That doesn't necessarily mean that X has more privilege, mind you, for in this distance from Iran he has made a choice, a choice that in multiple conversations I'm not sure if I would be able to make. A choice that because I will never walk a day with his pants, I will never know. Though X will never have to report for military service, after his school finishes he will in turn have to make the sacrifice of never seeing his home again as a trade for those two years of service.

There are countless stories like this, as men come of age in Iran and begin thinking about their future and their forced obligations and patriotism to their country. While Iran is not unique in requiring military service of it's men, the fact still remains that millions of men are expected due to their masculine supposed superior strength and fighter instincts to sacrifice two years of their life--in the prime of their life, for their country. Now with the exception of Israel, this military conscription is a uniquely male problem. We talk about women having equal rights to combat and other positions in the military all the time but often forget about the lack of choice many men have around the World when it comes to joining the military. And I don't think until I met men, scared out of their wits or running away or temporarily postponing and avoiding the question for mental peace that I realized how big of a problem it was.

I'm a person who is big on needing control, nothing new for most people. And bing forced to stop midpoint in your career, family, and LIFE to go and serve a government you probably don't even support--putting yourself in harms way sounds pretty out of control sexist to me. And seeing the way it mentally torments some good men I have come to know makes me believe that this has got to be a bigger problem than a few sad stories about men in Iran. And yes, though women do not have this compulsory service and suffer in other unique ways, the fact still remains that this is a problem that derives from the fact that we still support ridiculous gender stereotypes and expectations that manifest themselves in limiting people's choices, whether or not that is a man or a woman. And a problem that, because we often focus on the subjugation of women and in my opinion often lack when it comes to talking about gender equality in terms of  improving men's gender expectations, continues to go on. 


My heart breaks for these boys, whose hearts turn more and more to stone everyday as they force themselves into a kind of numbness to cope with the fact that they may very well have to escape. They may very well never return back to theır home, their family, their culture. That they will learn new languages by necessity, not force. That they may be thrown around various refugee countries camps' until they finally find one sympathetic enough to let them in for good. Or even worse, that they may have to report for duty and face the danger therein. As if avoiding military service was the only reason to leave, and many more leave for a myriad of reasons. But regardless of the choice they make they will have to live with the weight of this burden and these choices for the rest of their lives.

This is the bluer side to oppression I got to see in Iran that keeps its mouth shut but it's guns up, it's eyes open, it's mind aware. That is forced to be tough or get out. And I don't think  until we start acknowledging these uniquely male challenges can we create enough trust and have enough men around to help us fight for women's rights as well--especially in the Middle East as more and more good men like X and Y flee their country.

They are men's rights. They are women's rights. They are human rights.

We have to care.

Iran

Former US Embassy Mural

Let me start by saying I never thought I'd actually find myself in Iran. When Hamid first put the idea into my head last summer it sounded like a nice enough idea in the sense that it seemed like such a distant possibility predicated on a lot of political change that I felt safe in wondering what it would be like without taking the actual trip seriously. That was until I found myself two weeks ago on a plane to Tehran taking deep breaths and trying to convınce myself that my visit would be slightly less hospitable than the scenes I had seen in Argo a few months previous. *Ignorant American alert*

To be fair though, Iran is still not a big vacation spot for most countries (except oddly the Japanese I found). Something like 2000 Americans go to Iran a year, a figure Hamid estimated to be much much less. The truth is, its somewhere inbetween governmental isolation and some kind of prejudiced memories and stereotypes about how Iranians all hate 'bıg devil' Americans and want us dead that keeps this seperation in existence today. And I feel like the first thing I had to do was to let go--to try and put aside those narratives I have been taught about Iran subtley and not so subtley in order to give the country and its people a fair shot. Which wasn't necessarily easy, but made for a much more open ended and enjoyable trip.

I decided to stay two weeks in Iran (a long time for a brief traveling whisper that I usually am) for two reasons: 1) I had the time off school and 2) It was a once in a lifetime trip I never thought I would be able to take. I stayed with the bf Hamid at his family's place in West of Tehran for the most authentic of experiences though planned a trip to the North to also get a rural view of how the country is. I set off a week after Hamid and my friend Farhad, nervous but excited to be proved wrong about the country I had been taught to fear second only to North Korea.

Airport security was breeze, and despite some disorganization we were in and out with no trouble at all. In fact as he was taking my fingerprints the guard himself  was appologiging to Hamid for all the bureaucratic red tape, pointing to me and sayıng 'we only do it because they do.' After meeting Hamid's younger sister Helia and best friend Meysam at baggage claim we set off into the Iranian morning all the way to an overhang look out spot on Tehran known as the 'baum.' (You can imagine the irony when I get in a care of Iranians in Tehran and they tell me they are taking me to the 'bomb') *cue laugh track

The best food

My first day in Iran was pretty chill, lounging around the house with the family and trying to remember the bits of Farsi Hamid had been having me repeat after him for the past few months. That night Hamid's family took us out for a great kebap dinner, the night that first alerted me to how fat I was going to get for the next two weeks. After dinner Meysam our loyal taxi driver came to pick us up to hang out with some friends. We went, sat around, talked, basked in the love of their persian cat and watched a lot of persian music videos. Since most interesting tv isn't shown on public television people take to satellite channels and HDMI hook ups to get some type of cultural fun. My favorite just happened to be this random gem. 

Saturday we woke up and set out to explore Tehran. Hamid started off the day by taking us to one of his favorite bakery shops which, no matter where you go in the world have to be some of the greatest most homey buildings ever constructed. It was here that I got my first taste of privilege in Iran as the shopkeeprs kept on passing me free samples of a lot of their delicious goods. Filled up on pure bliss we headed out to work off the sugar.

Saie Park with my love

One of the things I miss most about living in a city is green space which, luckily for me, Tehran has a lot of. Walking around Saie park was lovely with a crisp Spring air blowing and birds everywhere on display making you feel like you had taken a little trip outside of the crowded congestion of city smog and noise. I didn't even mind wearing the mandatory hijab that much, though hadn't yet calmed down enough so every time it fell down to reveal my hair I wasn't scanning the bushes for snipers (paranoid). Being a tall, big bodied, blonde, and very foreign looking I was trying not to draw so much attention to myself--very aware of my lack of embassy in this new country. I wasn't taking any chances--nothing could go wrong. 

That night we met up with Hamid's other best friend Soheil at Hamid's favorite cafe which had a very cozy quaint feel as only local neighborhood joints can have. Soheil was lovely, and being able to communicate with someone other than Hamid was like taking a breath of fresh air. We sat around for a while, drinking warm coffee and getting to know one another before going back for another night at Mona's accompanied by some homemade iranian vodka and whiskey. Add in some persian kitten cuddles and it was a lovely night.

Tochal

Tuesday Meysam came and picked us up for an adventure up in the Alborz mountians above Tehran to a skiing point called Tochal. It was like going through all 4 seasons as we passed above the snow crusted mountains in our little box. Being more of a winer person and horribly deprived of snow this winter season I was so happy once we stepped out and I could take a fistful of snow in my hand. Hamid brought some coffee and tea from home and we sat there on the edge of the mountain looking at all of the other snowy mountains bundled in our warm clothes and fat on the delicious and traditional 'ash' food Iranians eat up ont he mountain (I can only correlate its tradition to something like chili in the US). It was delicious, with the stereotypical sour lemon taste that permeates all Iranian food. After filling our stomachs and our soul with the beautiful sight we headed back down the mountian for an afternoon nap. Only 5 days into my trip and I had already become accustomed to sleeping in, not prepared for the early morning trip up the mountain.

Ridiculous bowling outfits!

That night Hamid's 4 cousins from the city his family comes from (Zanjan) came to visit and within moments I could see that all families, despite lanugage and cultural differences have the same problems: trying to get a group to decide on doing something. Finally after a lot of what sounded like arguing (I can never really tell when they are) I voiced up and said we should go bowling. And that was that. And that was incredibly fun. Apparantly there are only a few bowling places that allow men and women to bowl together so obviously we went so we could all be together. At the alley they make you (women) wear these silly almost black trashbag looking things that come down to halfway between your butt and knees so as to make sure nothing is short when you bend over to bowl, as well as a visor to help your hijab stay in place. I felt completely ridiculous and bulky which sometimes I used as justification for my bad start, though in the end I ended up kicking everyone's ass. Bringing home gold for team 'murica.

Most nights in Tehran can be summed up as Meysam coming to pick us up, driving us around Tehran, eating, and blasting Shahin Najafi. So much so that by the end of the trip I couldn't necessarily sing along with the songs but I knew all of the tunes and some phrases within them. I'm sure in the next few months Hamid will set out to change all of that. I'm telling you, want to learn a foreign language? Dont bother taking classes, just date someone from there.

The Grand Bazaar, Tehran

Because Hamid's mom is all but a professional shopper/bargainer it was only obvious that she and Hamids cousins from Zanjan would be the ones to take me to the Grand Bazaar. We took the metro there which was interesting as public transport is segregated in IRan so we stood in an "all women" car. At first it was really overwhelming--SO much busier and crowded than the one I came to know in Istanbul but with WAY better deals. Istanbul is a tourist trap, but Tehran is actually still used meaning that that's the place you want to go to buy bulk or cheap stuff. Picked up some gifts, got molested a little bit in a crowded alley, but also was never let go of by Hamid's mom and cousins. Its lıke they were my bodyguards, surrounding me and always holding my hand or arm or waste--sometimes simulteanously. It might have felt overwhelming but it never felt unsafe.

Best Friends Forever

That night Soheil's cousin was having his birthday party so we headed out for my first persian house party, and let me just say, america sucks in this regard I feel. Pathetic, filled with bros--bleh. But in Iran since they dont have clubs and drinkıng is illegal its like house partıies have replaced the classiness of going out for a night on the town, meaning everyone is dressed to the nines and there is a real dj and delicious actual food an yes. It was really great. Finally got reunited with the bff Farhad too so it was nice to all be back together again. 

Maman Roya's Birthday Party

Hamid's mom's birthday also happened to be during the time I was there meaning that I got to attend her birthday party and meet a whole slew of new people Friday. As with anyone yo learn more about yourself and your preferences in social situations as you age and ı have come to find that I feel really awkward and anxious in groups of large people. So naturally ı found myself way out of my comfort zone when I was thrown into the middle of the living room to dance with Hamids mother while 50 other people stood around watching, but it was still a fun time. And the food, per usual, was top notch. That night we hung around with some of Hamid's primary school friends at their office.

Our finished project

That next week we had planned to go to the North of Iran to relax at Hamid's villa and take in the nature of Iran, but sadly we got a random burst of snow that kept us trapped in Tehran for the last week. While I was sad that I didnt get to see outside of Tehran, I had really missed having snow in winter and so it was nice to just wake up and go to make a snowman with Helia and Hamid on the roof. Throwing down snowballs onto unsuspecting cars and running away when they stopped only made the day better. After using almost every last bit of snow on the roof we headed back to sleep in the fort we had made earlier that morning, though when I say "we" I mean I--despite nbeing driven around everywhere and eating copious amounts of food I had gotten used to the life of leisure and so everything tired me. Obviously to Hamid and Helia this meant that it was perfectly acceptable to cover my face with beanie babies and take selfies next to my pathetic looking corpse. Regardless, the nap was glorious and it gave me the needed rest to go forth and continue eating and being lazy.

Some other highlights of that last week included going to the National Treasure museum and seeing my first foreign blonde western looking person since entering Iran, visiting Azadi Tower, and climbing Milad Tower. Fill in the blanks with lots and lots of delicious persian food (I only repeated a meal once) and you get an idea of how purely relaxing Iran was. In fact, towards the end I started to get so comfortable that I often said to Hamid "I should probably be more concerned...no?" when it came to wearing my hijab more conservatively or not wandering off a bit.

Dooset daram, Tehran.

Overall, my trip to Iran was a major success as well as a big learning experience. I loved learning how to cook rice and saffron from Hamid's mom, or practicing farsi with Meysam, or learning the various secret locations one can brew alcohol in during prohibition. I also know it also wouldn't have been the same experience staying in a hotel--getting to know the people and be proved wrong about the image we are shown in America of the angry, hateful, Iranian is completely false. Everyone was so welcoming and inviting, in some ways it really was a culture shock coming back to Turkey and not hearing Farsi anymore. Or wearing a hijab. Or having to use public transport. I missed having a support system, even if it was in some ways complicated through language barriers. It was a fantastic trip and I really hope to go back someday and see more of the country and feel how this great culture and people will progress and peace marches slowly on between our two countries.

Hurting the Ones You Loved

this is what I know.

that hurting those you love is like missing that bottom step on a staircase,

like riding shotgun on the rollercoaster

lungs filled with sand, weighed down by the eternal promises of stones we could never keep
but whose shadows forever leave scars only our broken hearts
can fınd the vein paths towards.

like a handful of chilis being plunged into the recesses of your rib cage

and swallowed up whole before sprouting wings and learning how to fly,

flying higher than that kite your father never bought you because of the way you said

you’d rather create worlds than live within them.

you could’ve sworn you knew how the caged bird sang

as your bones folded inward around that sacred heat.

My Honest Poem

I wrote this poem a while ago after being inspired during a hard night of self reflection by one of my favorite poets, Rudy Francisco, and his 'Honest Poem.' I loved the confessional nature of his words and sat down right then and there to think about what my similar poem would be. And since its the first month of the year I felt like it was a rather appropriate 'first poem' post as well, setting the mood (hopefully) for more self-exploration and growth this year. Now normally I hate imitation, but since some people still believe it is a form of flattery I'll rely on that to say that despite the copied structure, this poem has been one of the most constructive ones emotionally that I have written lately, so I will take artistic credit. I had hoped to record me reading the poem for a more powerful performance but alas, in the end it was not to be. So...lets get to it then.


My Honest Poem


I was conceived in Sydney, Australia. Until I was 8, I didn't really know what that meant.

I'm 5'10" or 180cm, 200 pounds or 14 stone. I don't know when to use who and "whom" but I've got a thing for boys who read dictionaries...especially in different languages.

I'm still learning how to write other peoples names. I often write 'u' when I should be writing 'i', I graduated high school at 17 and I've been trying to finish early ever since.

I like pickle juice...a lot. I've been told that I have a really really hard time paying attention. Some people say its because I don't care. Sometimes, it's because it's true--but secretly its because I've gotten so used to closed doors that I've learned to turn my back on the past and say goodbye before people even start inviting me in.

I have this weird preoccupation with beards and mustaches, I guess its because I spend my time thinking about things I will never have. That's also why I also tend to fall in love with places and not men and surround myself with people who will only ever exist on the internet, but you see--maybe distance isn't always such a bad thing. And to be honest, I think it's easier that way because in the end relationships reminds me that

I'm not afraid of murder, or dying, but I'm afraid of how I'm going to pick my body up off the floor and resurrect this broken map to choose a place on someone's heart to call home. I'm not actually that clever, yesterday I went to a bar down the road, ordered myself a glass mirror and almost choked on an ice cube in a martini glass filled with someone else's tears and now, I can't even tell if they are mine anymore.

I've never been to North Korea, but I have this communist heart. I got it from too many years of making expensive promises to people who I never asked to make any in return. I know this sounds weird, but sometimes I wonder what my refrigerator says about me when the door closes. What those take out containers would do if they knew about the other things I've thrown away before them. You see, I've got a half empty cup of really loud "what if's" but I'm afraid if I let you go too deep you'll find the real answer and drink it up to fill the wells of your own inner dreams.

Hi, my name is Sydney. I enjoy black cats, gin rummy card games, and trying to beat people to the punch. But I don't always use my backbone to stand as straight as I should sometimes.

I have microwave operated patience, I have a hydroponic soul. My hobbies include carving my imperfections into glass mirrors, auditioning for part as savior, using my keys to open other peoples doors, and trying to convince myself that heaven is just something we made up to pass the time.

I don't know much, but I know this. I know that not everyone gets to watch a sunset. I know that that none of us know when its going to end, and I know how saying goodbye is the hardest thing most of us will ever do. But I also know this. I know that there are millions around the world who prefer to wake up each morning to watch the sunrise. It reminds them that no darkness lasts forever.