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.

Privilege

Lately, I feel like I've been talking a lot with people about privilege.

It's rarely blatant, mind you. That's always what makes it the most frustrating of conversations to have, trying to see and articulate into a worldview only really internalized through experience. What makes it even more complicated is the fact that privilege can often be invisible in the blurr of daily life, which of course by its very nature of being invisible unveils the 'privileged' nature of these social interactions with regards to access and power. But still, as painful and hard to find as it can be sometimes, these conversations are by far some of the most important we can have when it comes to improving relationships and trying to create some type of peaceful cohesion.

But I don't want this to be one of those blogposts with jargon meant to sound uppity and self righteous. I want it to be simple. I want there to be an 'oh yeah' moment. I want it to be poignant, yet brief.

The other day I found myself in a conversation with Hamid in which we were talking about different cultural practices and ideologies around 'coming of age' and 'adulthood responsibility.' It was a great conversation, very logical points made on both sides of how to (theoretically, as we are both not parents) best help to nurture and take care kids to help them get ahead and how to not be stifling and overbearing to their growth and independence as adults.

Hamid comes from a more collectivist culture, kids stay with their parents until marriage--through school, work, dating. There are the odd exceptions of wealthy parents spoiling kids with a different flat or kids going abroad to study and therefore not being physically with their parents but the idea is still there--your parents are going to support you. I've seen this same trend in Europe, also with the same lack of taboo of twenty-somethings living with their parents and being able to negotiate close family tıes and yet a sense of budding adult independence.

I, however, come from a different cultural viewpoint--not to mention personal experience. It' hopefully no news to anyone that the US is a highly individualistic country that places a high degree of pride and social taaboo on being able to make it on your own and 'prove yourself.' As such, our culture supports the idea of children going out and gaining independence at various benchmarks--16, driving. 18--moving out. While not everyone may be able to or want to do these things, the cultural assumption and norm is still there that you are supposed to want to stand alone. That you look forward to it. That a degree of your worth and 'success' as a young growing adult is the degree to which you are able to prove that--yes, I did it. 'Alone.'

Now let me make my case. Individualism gets a lot of bad wrap I feel. It is implicitly associated with ideas about selfishness and pride and vanity and competitiveness. But when it comes to raising children, from what I've seen around me and what Ive experienced myself--I thinl it is one of the greatest lessons we can help our children to learn--as early as possible.

Which immediately started raising red flags for Hamid.

'But I have been working since I was 14!' exclaimed Hamid. And he's right. I don't want to demean at ALL how hard Hamid has worked to get where he is, or imply that he isnt an 'adult' or doesnt 'deserve family help.' I only want to say this: The only difference of making money and living a seperate life as opposed to having that much financial help is what the money means and what it teaches you about yourself, your potential, and the world around you. While Hamid works very hard at school and on the off time with work, he has never had to pay for his own place entirely off of his own paycheck. He has never had to stress about how he was going to make a loaf of bread and an aging apple work for dinner with lack of resources. He knows that at the end of the day, if he can't make ends meet-- his parents will put more money in his accounts. It's a privilege I can't quite identify with and one that was incredibly hard to explain without sounding condescending or accusatory, or even playing my most favorite 'victim' role.

So lets open it up to generalities.

I think there is nothing as irreplaceable and important of an experience as having your kids work for what they want. Not only does it teach them work ethic, but it teaches them to value the things they spend their time and money on. I cant say that I would be nearly as appreciative of my travels if my mom had merely paid for my internship in Paris, or if I would have been as passionate and defensive about my major if someone else had been footing the bill (well, kınd of were. thanks government). But I feel like I learned so much about responsibility by living out of the house at 18 and having to cook, clean, and wash for myself and gained confidence in my ability to not only just make life 'happen' but fill it with meaning that I wouldn't have been able to do if I dıdn't have that space indepence afforded me. And I know even in a lot of ways I am still so naiive and privileged in comparison to friends and others who have had to work so much harder for what they wanted and where they wanted to be. When I was in the States, my mom still paid my phone bill and she still sent me care packages monthly. But I really feel, in some ways, better prepared for the future because of this early start into adulthood and kind of grateful to my mom who kind of encouraged my already present independence so I could learn even more about myself in relation to the world.

And this is a kind of conversation that's hard to have because I dont want to accuse. I dont want to assume absolutes about the way that we raise kids to become adults. I dont want to say that individualism makes for more successful people, or that collectivist cultures care more about their families. And I'm not even sure about what real 'adulthood' is supposed to look like or mean because there is such a wide variety of people and interests and lifestyles that who am I to say that one is 'real' and the other is 'freeloading?' And how much of my critique of supportive families like this and collectivist mındsets stems from a jealousy, or even some kınd of sick cyclical desire to see my children suffer with all this stress because  had to? Because at the end of the day it really depends on the family and how these things are worked out as well as the cultural values and expectations that are put on coming of age. And at the end of the day, my opinion is still just one of many.

Our conversation raised some interesting questions and really made me question why I think in certain ways and if they really are the best way. I find myself appologizing less and less for my values and culture every day and really starting to appreciate the good things we do, alongside praising other cultures for the values they bring into the human experience. I think its really only then that you can have these kind of talks about privilege in an atmosphere of respect, though their might be conflicts and disagreement. Plus it's always good to own up to privilege and vent when we feel injustice so we can create positive dialogue and change, if just not plain old understanding.