A small journal entry I wrote the other night. Sort of Palestine related, BUT more about how I was feeling at the moment. So it's here instead of in the other blog.
I feel sick, like I have a cold. My head aches. My nose has been stuffy and runny. I can't really breathe. I'm having a good time, yes, BUT I'm feeling sick.
I'm at a place called Adios. Stone walls, soft candles, flowing alcohol and Spanish Music. Reminds me of Mexico. But this is not Mexico. This is Palestine.
This is a very relaxed Wednesday night in an Arab Community. Some Muslim. Some Christian. Some don't care. I needed some time away. To myself. The family worries. They don't want me out alone or with friends they don't know. Really? Hm.
They know me, but they don't really know me. My arabic isn't good enough for them to know my struggles. To know what I've done my entire life and what I've been through. They don't know me. And even when my Arabic gets better, they still won't.
The pain, torment, depression, addiction through out my life and in the family. How do I explain?
Abuse, self-destruction, complex sexuality. How? And why?
They knew where I was all this time. Why was it my job to seek them all out? Why was I the one who had to pursue them when they were the older aunts and uncles and family? They were the adults. It's their job to take care of me. Maybe that's why they want to do all these things for me.
Of course obligation in Arab and muslim culture make it so, but also guilt. They didn't know I had been sick this whole time. Or that I struggled to do schoo and worka t the same time. They still don't know the financial struggles I had and we had at home. Of course they didn't. How could they know? Was my uncle in NY going to tell them? Was my mom?
The more I think about it, the more my head feels the pressure. The more my head aches with this feeling of, "if I never wrote to them, would they have bpthered to look for me, to want me to be part of them?"
Maybe they did try and were unsuccessful. Maybe things were too busy and life was too hard. Maybe they forgot about me. Maybe. Maybe.
I sit in this place, watching Arabic music videos. The women who sing are clearly not Muslim Arabs. Or not very religious Muslims. All the songs ooz sexuality without showing too much skin or sexual contact between them and the men. It's sexual without being tasteless, like American videos. They all have very thin eyebrows. Very dark eye make up that brings out the color and almond shape of their eyes. Light skin. Long wavy or curled hair. Very beautiful. Syrian. Turkish. Lebonese. Egyptian. Not sure if any of them are Palestinian. Maybe there are and I don't know. Maybe I should do more research. My little cousin knows. She's about 12 or 13. Of course she knows all the Arab singers.
She thinks my life is like on TV because I'm in Amreeka. They thought NY was a different country from America. They think we're all like Bush. How can I blame them for thinking that? The US shows the world its ass. And we suffer for it.
I sit with my wine. Men come in here slowly but surely for beer. It's now 8pm. I write. Eat carrots with vinegar and nuts. Drink red wine. Maybe I look out of place here. The man who runs this place talked to me about the hotel for a while. The Grand Park is above Adios. I read about it in my travel book and decided to check it out. It's different from what the book says because they renovated the previous year. I was looking forward to the pool table, but it's gone. They're going for a more classy, membership based type feel. Thats what he says at least.
The man changed the music from Spanish to Russin. Now to John Lee Hooker.
I have this JL Hooker album at home.
All the men sit at the end of the bar. They drink tall glasses of beer, chain smoking their cigarettes, looking at me.
I wear my hair straight back out of my face in a bun. I've heard I look so different when my hair is straight back instead of curling all around my face. I wore my new green and silver coined earrings and necklace. I bought them in Jerusalem and the coins are older than my great grand father. Dark green scarf wrapped around my shoulders. A long sleeved black shirt I borrowed from my cousin. Olive green pants my aunt bought me. Black flip flops.
My hands fliding over my notebook. My pen and paper the guide. Arabic tongue surrounded by African American blues. How poetic. How me. The manager tells me he feels connected to southern blues. He feels the words. The music. The message. Rhythm and guitar vibrating softly against the stone walls. The softness of the candles. The light from the television glowing on the faces of the men.
I continue to eat peanuts and carrots.
The men look down. They want to be up again. The manager asks me if I mind if we listen to Arabic music. I tell him I love Arabic music. One of the men hand him a cd. John Lee Hooker and his blues is paused.
The music starts.
A man sings about a woman named Leila. Drums and flute. Accordian and guitar. His voice vibrates, moves me. Is smooth like this wine. The music gives me chills. The hairs stand up on my arms and legs. I feel the need, desire to dance. But I am immoble. I feel bashful. The men here are much older. Different. The atmosphere isn't that of other bars whether in NY or Palestine. It is what it is.
They change the music again. A southern country blues. Black man singing. Music sounds from around Alabama or somewhere down there. A video that played 30 mins ago is playing again.
It's 8:35pm. Almost time to go. I ask for my check. The manager tells me to bring my friends here and we'll have a good time. Tells me if I want a membership, I can get one. I tell him sure, I'll tell people. I pay. I spend $20 on 3 glasses of wine and me time. I'm sated. I leave. Time to go back. I still feel sick. But I am having a good time. Yes, I am having a good time.
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