I only recently turned around and noticed the contrast between myself and the Iran I was thrown against. Somehow, when I was younger my legs were longer, or the middle space between the two circles of the venn diagram was smaller, and I managed to barely stretch across the pervasive gap. Now, I struggle to engage intellectually and socially with Iran — the actual one, not my own construction — because I’m left grasping at language and culture from which I’ve fallen behind.
I’m boycotting Klarman hall, or so I tell people angrily whenever people mention Klarman in conversation. I understand this statement is (A) ridiculous considering my presence at Klarman is effectively meaningless, and (B) barely even true because I refuse to miss cauliflower curry day. Alas, I’m supposedly boycotting Klarman. I have some sort of good reasons: The entire “I’m so, uhh weird … I’m interested in, uhh, art” aesthetic feels utterly disingenuous, and the fact that so many people are wearing the same glasses is creepy.
Today at noon, many of you will head out to Ho Plaza and protest Donald Trump’s immigration ban and border wall. Many of you will Snapchat it. Many of you will take photos, and many of you will Instagram them. I mean, that’s exactly what I did in November, when thousands of us walked out of class and marched across campus in solidarity and in protest. There were thousands of bodies standing, hugging, resisting; but above them were countless wriggling hands tightly wrapped around iPhones.
Here I am, on a charter bus to New York City, trying not to let the stranger next to me see me cry. I’ve already totally embarrassed myself thanks to the aggressive screams erupting from my stomach. I’m leaning against the window, stifling my sniffles. Anderson .Paak’s “The Dreamer” comes on, which is a dope song but makes it impossible for me to keep my cool. On my way to the city, there are two stops at Metro stations in northern Virginia.
Nothing reminds me how disgusting I am like the common cold. When I get sick, both my entire body and everything I touch become covered in a thin layer of mucus in some really twisted and slimy version of the Midas Touch. I get breakouts from cold sweats. I put what little hair I have into what can only be described as a “man bun.” I am physically repulsed by the thought of putting on pants that are not pajamas. When my nose is runny, I have to carry around an entire box of Kleenex and a plastic bag.
I recently mentioned Facebook-unfriending a Trump supporter from my high school in a tweet (Can you imagine a bigger millennial stereotype?). One of my former classmates tweeted back, “you unfriended someone just because they had a different political opinion than you?”
His statement reminds me a lot of those sappy social media posts about unity in the face of division. You’ve seen them, or something like them: a Facebook photo of a car that has both a Trump and a Clinton sticker captioned, “My husband and I don’t always agree, but we don’t let politics get in the way of our impassioned lovemaking! Don’t let the media fool you!! We can disagree as a nation and still all be intimately in love with one another.
“My mother taught me this trick. If you repeat something over and over again, it loses its meaning. For example, homework. Homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework, homework…See? Nothing.” — Phil Kaye, “Repetition”
After a comedy show, my friend tells me which jokes were “problematic.” Problematic.
There’s so much sex on TV. Like, so much. Think: Game of Thrones, Sex and the City, Orange is the New Black, Masters of Sex, Skins. The list goes on. Sex is so ubiquitous on TV that you’d think the new Netflix series, Easy, is just another title to add to the list of sex-themed programs, with nothing quite fresh or new to add besides the shock value of obscenity.
I started straightening my own hair when I was in the seventh grade. Before then, I would ask my mother to do it for me. We started when I was just six, sitting cross-legged on our out-of-place Tabriz rugs in our quaint little Boise home. My mother would plug in a thick, two-inch ironing wand. While we waited for it to warm, she would pull my hair out from its elastic prison and begin to torture away its tangles.