A Very Personal Statement

Photos from my early childhood in Japan, thanks to my momma.

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Okay, I’m going through the tedious task of writing a personal statement for [redacted]. I have been working on this thing for weeks. I thought I had it, and then I realized that I wasn’t writing for [redacted], but for myself. I’ve gotten into the habit of journaling and blogging. I’m a horrible blogger, in the sense that I don’t think of my audience when I write these things. So, this could be an admittance that I’m narcissistic. Yikes.

But here I am, sharing my very personal statement. Why? Because I’m a narcissist, and I'm also procrastinating on writing my next draft of my (professional) personal statement. Jokes aside, I’m sharing, because I think this provides a historical background on who I am and why I am this way. Please be kind.

I speak about this a lot, but I have spent my entire life trying to fit in. I was born in Japan, while my parents were born and raised in Bangladesh. I moved to another foreign country (the United States) when I was five years old. I began the process of assimilation in a kindergarten classroom. I am a third-culture kid in every sense of the phrase. I don’t quite belong, wherever I am.

My parents moved us to the United States, in pursuit of the American dream. I’ve spent the last two decades in pursuit of the American bargain. I often think of this statement Hillary Clinton made in her 2015 campaign announcement, “If you do your part you ought to be able to get ahead. And when everybody does their part, America gets ahead too.” It seems too simple. Work hard, do your part, and you’ll get ahead.

And so, I embarked on this mission, except I didn’t know how to choose a college or what major would be a good fit for me. I didn’t understand the workings of financial aid, or taxes, for that matter. I figured it out along the way and tried to piece my future together. It turns out, that I picked the wrong major and career path at 17. It only took two years to realize that mistake and change my major to political science. 

After I changed my major, everything fell into place. An elective course led me to Washington, D.C., where I learned about the issue of childhood hunger. I never experienced food insecurity as a child, but the same cannot be said for my parents.

There is a theme about immigrant identity writing, we commodify our pain and hardship for the white gaze. We can exploit our stories to garner sympathy, knowing that trauma sells - our collective trauma sells. But, I don’t have a right to sell you my (or my parents’) pain and you shouldn’t want to buy it.

Although this story is personal to me, it feels like any other immigrant story. We came to this country, thinking that we had come to the land of opportunity. It never occurred to me that some opportunities were going to be harder for me to achieve because of the color of my skin, my socioeconomic status, or my sex. It seems simple, but I really believe that if you work hard, you should get a fair chance to get ahead. I now spend my time envisioning what radical inclusion could look like, what it would mean for everyone to belong in the systems they’re in.

My pain and oppression don’t drive me, my dreams do.

I Hate It Here

“I hate it here.” I have uttered these fateful words at least once a day since July. I picked up the phrase from a colleague, who picked it up from a tweet or a meme. Thus, confirming that I am nothing but an amalgamation of things I’ve seen or heard. That doesn’t make this statement less true. I hate it here.

“Here” is all encompassing. It describes every part of my being. I go to sleep, struggling to quiet the racing thoughts. I have vivid dreams - my brain attempting to process the stress. I wake up with a knot in the pit of my stomach, feeling the weight of the anxiety. I sit in silence, hoping it will subside. When it doesn’t, I carry it with me, until it’s time to sleep again.

My cycle of subtle agony is punctuated by attempts to be social. I go on social media, hoping to find community - to see someone else like me. I hope to gather some insight, some understanding of how others are dealing with any of it. I see nothing but the trappings of my echo chamber. Maybe I can find a clever phrase or meme to garnish my struggle with humor.

You know what I hate? It here.

Every foray into social media leaves me with a sense of doom - another thing to be angry about, another knot in my stomach, another reason to hate it here. I attempt to compile my thoughts into an aesthetic post, arranging words with a superficial font, convincing myself that I have something to say that others haven’t already said. Upon posting, I convince myself that I do not care what others think. I delete the app.

I download the app again.

I could delete my accounts. I could delete my social presence. But, how will people know what I have to say? Why should people care? Why do I want people to care? What has convinced me to believe that I have enough social clout to garner any interest? How did I become so dependent?

Social media has convinced me that my words have no meaning if they aren’t shared. I feel like I’ve been manipulated into thinking I need something I don’t. It’s a toxic cycle.

I hate it here.

Harpers Ferry

I told myself that I would visit all 50 states before I turned 30. I don’t know where I got the idea, but I like attainable goals, so I’m sure that had something to do with it. Pre-pandemic, I had planned to cross off at least seven more states this year. The pandemic put an obvious wrench in my plans, and I assumed that I wouldn’t be traveling for a really, really long time.

I guess the pandemic changed my outlook on a lot of things, and I just expected that I wouldn’t be able to do anything I planned to do before the pandemic. I’m starting to accept the new normal, and understand that I’m not in a holding pattern - this is my life now (and for the foreseeable future). This is all a very long-winded way of saying that I’m surprised to have crossed another state off of my list this week. My goal wasn’t as unattainable as I thought it was.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in nature. I don’t feel balanced unless I’ve had a chance to walk in the woods or felt the wind in my hair (I know, I’m becoming that girl). Luckily, I have like-minded friends. Christine, Kaitlin, and I planned to hike in Shenandoah. I fantasized about bringing my Patagonia Better Sweater out for the season (seriously, I’d be great at sponsored content). I was ready. Instead of heading to Shenandoah, we decided to head to Harpers Ferry at the very last minute - literally, we made the decision in the car.

The spontaneous decision worked in my favor - I had never been to West Virginia. We still experienced some crowds, and way too many cyclists without masks - don’t worry, I heckled the heck out of them. The further we walked, the more people we left behind, the closer we got to undisrupted peace. It was a perfect day.

The weather was cool, but not cold. The sun was warm, but not hot. We walked with no constraints, no limits (once we extended our parking). We walked onto some rocks that took us to the river bank, and we listened to the water. The sounds of the river washed away my “Sunday scaries.” The river was louder than my intrusive thoughts. I think we could have walked forever - if we didn’t forget our snacks in the car.

Harpers Ferry was exactly what I needed - what I wanted, without knowing what was waiting for me. Even so, I’m glad the country road took us home.

Can I Sit at Your Table?

I have spent my entire life trying to fit in. I was born in a country that was not my mother’s land. I moved to another foreign country (the United States) when I was five years old. I began the process of assimilation in a kindergarten classroom. At the time, I didn’t know enough English to ask for a seat at the table. I still felt the sting of rejection - even when I didn’t have the words to describe what I was feeling. Over the years, the tables, settings, and individuals have changed. One thing remained consistent - I was always asking “can I sit at your table?”

I’m finally realizing that I’ve been trying to fit in spaces that weren’t built for me (or other BIPOC). All this time, I thought it was my fault. I kept telling myself, “if you tried harder” or “if you did more” or “if you just prove yourself,” you’ll fit in. I kept trying to make myself smaller and smaller to fit in, and it still didn’t work - it still doesn’t work. The more I reflect, the more I realize the importance and burden of representation. I didn’t have anyone else that looked like me, no clear path to follow, to learn how to belong. I’m tired of trying.

Representation burnout refers to the exhaustion and isolation that comes from being the only person of a particular identity in an environment.

When I talk about representation burnout, it will be specific to my own experience - in context to my work, or rather, the system I operate in because of my job. I cannot give the false pretense that my experience can speak for anyone else’s. Black, Indigenous, people of color are not a monolith - not all experiences are the same, even if some are shared.

For those that know me, you’ll know that I am deeply connected to my work. My passion and my values drove me to work in a specific field - towards a specific mission. I love my work, but I hate my job. I’ll say more. My values and my commitment to social justice fuel my passion for my work. My work demands a lot of me, but I don’t want to be in a field that would require less - my work is personal and I love it. My job, on the other hand, requires me to interact in a white dominant system. In said system, I represent a demographic that is often overlooked, while managing responsibilities with people who are older than me, have worked at the organization longer than me, and are mostly whiter than me.

I’ve sat at various tables throughout the course of my career. In most cases, I have been the youngest at the table. Sometimes, I have been the only woman at the table. More often than not, I have been the only person of color at the table. Sometimes, all of the above happen, and that’s what I like to call “an oppressive trifecta.” The worst part is, one thing remained consistent at every table - I spent all or most of my energy trying to prove (to myself and others) that I belonged there.

In order to prove that I belong, I’ve been sacrificing and compromising a lot of myself - always trying to prove my value, my worth. I put in extra hours, so people knew I was dedicated. I said yes to every project, so people knew I was committed. I learned to walk, talk and dress like they did. I let others take credit for my ideas or my work, so they knew I was a team player. I learned to laugh off microaggressions or rely on humor to hide my discomfort. I learned to cry on my way home, so no one could see how I felt at work. I learned that I couldn’t be my whole self and professional at the same time. There wasn’t anyone else to tell me any different. I learned to internalize my oppression.

With each day and each action, I chipped away at my self. Instead of being rewarded with a secure place at the table, I was met with more demands, more responsibilities, and less support. In some cases, I was offered a seat at the table, only to be paralyzed by fear that I would lose it.

I didn’t have anyone else to share the burden of representation. Despite what it seems, not all BIPOC experiences are the same. A person of color in leadership may not experience the same things I have, or they may be experiencing their own unique set of challenges. This is why diversity is not enough. Diversity without inclusion means that you’re bringing more people of color in oppressive and unsafe environments. The work does not start or end with diversity. Representation and inclusion are not synonymous.

I didn’t see anyone who looked like me, thriving in the system I was a part of. I didn’t have anyone who truly understood - anyone to fight the oppression with me. So, I took it on myself. After all, I didn’t have much to lose - I’d given all I had and still didn’t belong. I tried to advocate for myself and others. I called out biased behavior. I shared my experiences. I asked for respect. I tried to be patient - only to be ignored or dismissed. In all that trying, I was burning out. My work product wasn’t affected, so I don’t think anyone noticed or cared.

The more problems I brought to light, the more I felt like I was the problem. In fighting to be seen and heard, I was seen as “difficult to work with.” In all my years, the only thing I’ve dismantled is the desire to sit at a table that doesn’t want me. I’m exhausted. I’m burnt out. But, I’m still trying, I still go to bat - not just for me, but for every person that comes after me.

None of this is a criticism of my employer or the people I work with. I think I would have a similar experience in any white-dominated field. My representation burnout is the result of my interactions in a white dominant system, not the individual parts. We don’t live in a post-racial society, and don’t have anything to compare it to. There’s no perfect example of an inclusive and equitable system to model after - that doesn’t mean we get to stop trying.

I still love my work - I still love to work. The experiences I mentioned get in the way of the work I love so much. I wish I had an answer or solution to representation burnout (if you have one, let a girl know). I just have a coping mechanism and a constant fear that I’ll have to give up my work because I don’t fit in the space that wasn’t built with me (or people like me) in mind.

The Woods Don’t Judge

I’ve been trying to write. I have started and stopped writing a dozen times in the last few weeks - about heavy feelings and hard experiences. I think I know what I want to say, but it doesn’t translate onto the page. I know what’s wrong. I’m burnt out. I don’t realize that I’m burning out until it’s too late. I’ll talk about the cause later, but I’ll share how I manage the effects.

When I’m burnt out, I can think of one thing and one thing only - escape. I focus on the idea of dropping everything, going off the grid, and starting a new life with a new name in a new location. I’m angry and insufferable until I find a release. Since I can’t escape to a new life every time I’m burnt out (yes, it happens more often than I’d like), I escape to nature.

This would be surprising to anyone that’s known me for longer than the last three years. I used to hate nature. I hated the outdoors, because that’s where bugs are. I hated dirt. I hated sand. I never sat on grass and mostly avoided walking on it. I was a suburban city slicker and I liked my brand… until my life started to change.

I started to change. I started to wear down, and eventually fall apart. I was lost in obligations and expectations, none of them my own. I was pouring from an empty cup, even when the cup broke in multiple places - I kept ignoring it. I wouldn’t stop until my body physically shut down. I couldn’t do anything I’d normally do. That’s when I thought about a phrase I heard from a mentor and former colleague, “the woods don’t judge.”

I tested the theory by taking to the woods. I walked without a destination. I walked without purpose. I focused on the feeling of the ground beneath my feet. I felt the protective cover of the trees. I remember feeling like I could just disappear into the woods and that I was completely alone - until I felt the warmth of the sun. The light found me through the trees and stayed with me the rest of the way. If it sounds like a dream, it’s because it felt like one. I found solace in nature, and felt like myself again.

And so I expanded my brand - I’m now a mildly granola suburban city slicker. I go on long walks in the woods. I find trails on weekends. I go to new states to hike new trails and spend time around mountains and trees. I own Patagonia gear. I like spending time in REI. I went camping and peed outside (a plot twist like no other in my complicated narrative).

Why does this matter? Woods and water are the only things that pulled me out of the worst times of my life. When I felt like I couldn’t move, my feet managed to find a path and take me through a trail - literally grounding me. The woods don’t judge when I’m at my worst. The woods don’t judge when I cry from being overwhelmed. The woods don’t judge as I find my way back in my body. The woods don’t judge.

There’s so much more I want to say, but I think you should experience it for yourself. Get a little lost in the woods, let nature guide you. And let’s give back to nature when we can - combat climate change and help those affected by forest fires in California and Oregon.

I Don’t Want to be Your Friend

Months have passed since this country’s racial reckoning. I have watched as my friends and I posted black tiles, promising to listen. I have watched as some of my friends did not post at all. I promised myself that I would be relentless in my pursuit of racial equity and justice. I promised to challenge white dominance in my personal relationships. Racial justice is all I can think about. It’s all I can read about. It’s all I want to talk about, and it’s starting to affect my personal relationships, specifically, my friendships.

I have been noticing the various systems in which I exist or operate in. After some reflection, I realized that most of my friends are white. To be clear, there is nothing wrong with being white. There is nothing wrong with having white friends. There is also nothing wrong with my white friends. White dominance is the issue, not any one individual in my life.

I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the white dominant culture in which we are socialized. I grew up in a Texas suburb, where I went to school where white people were in the majority. For college, I went to a private Baptist university where white people were in the majority. I went into a nonprofit career, working with staff where white people were/are in the majority. One could argue that I’m comfortable with white people, because I have extensive experience operating in their spaces.

So, why did the realization that most of my friends are white, surprise me?

It wasn’t as much my friends, as it was the realization that I don’t have a lot of safe spaces. Let me explain. Depending on the friend (and their level of “woke-ness”), I realized that I change to fit into their dynamic. I roughly equate the experience to code-switching, except I’m alternating between versions of myself and not just language. The point is, I never feel safe enough to be my complete self. In detail, here are some trends I’ve noticed when going to white friends to discuss racial equity issues:

• Sympathy without Empathy: BIPOC are witness to many inequities or injustices, and after repeated experiences, it’s enough to make us consider if race is/was a factor in those inequities or injustices. When I try to share my experiences with white friends, I’m met with apologies rather than understanding of how these things could happen. There’s been countless times when a (white) friend has said something’s “too bad” without understanding the emotional toll the experience had on me. To have someone feel sorry for you without being able to feel what you feel, creates another emotional toll for the person who was feeling the emotion in the first place.

• White Saviorism: Have you ever gone to a friend about an experience, and they have told you how you should handle it or tried to jump to the rescue without having all of the context? I have had white friends try to save me from a racially charged situation or tell me that I handled something incorrectly. I’ve even had a friend tell me that they could act as a “gut check” for how I handle issues around race and gender, as if they know more or better than I do and could protect me from making a misstep. You can be an ally without centering yourself or co-opting the BIPOC experience to demonstrate expertise over an issue.

• Comparison: Sometimes, I’ll confide in a friend and they’ll try to equate their dissimilar experience to mine. I can talk about a microaggression or the burden of representation (in regards to race and identity), and have my experience compared to being the only liberal at the table on Thanksgiving. I don’t want to dismiss that experience, but it’s hard to center race in conversation when others are so quick to compare their nonracial experiences. For example, if it’s Black Women’s Equal Pay Day, don’t try to compare that experience with “well, I’m a woman and I’m underpaid too, so I get it.” No. White women are not equal to white men by any means, but they also don’t experience the same discrimination and injustice that Black women do. You are not the same. (Fellow POC, we are not the same either.)

• Questioning or Dismissal: Nothing is worse than confiding in a friend and having them question or challenge your experience. “Are you sure they meant…” “Maybe you misread the situation…” “You might be making this more than it is…” These questions put BIPOC in a position to defend their perspective or experience, which requires the emotional labor of reliving the experience to explain why or how something is affecting them. They have to justify their emotions for a white person to understand (so they can have some sympathy, without even getting close to empathy). Or maybe they feel dismissed and give up trying to explain, entirely.

None of these things contribute to a safe space to be oneself. In my own experience, I feel like I have to do double the work to talk to my white friends about my non-white experience. Even then, they may not be able to get to where I am and understand where I’m coming from. Sometimes, I feel like I have to be less of myself to operate in white spaces, even my white friendships. I always have to have my guard up, and protect myself from the emotional toll it takes to do the work to maintain friendships with white people that won’t pull their weight. BIPOC shouldn’t have to do emotional labor to continue friendships with white people.

I can see how this may seem like a harsh and damning position to take, but I’m tired. I know white people can’t help their whiteness - that’s not the point. It’s how you recognize your whiteness and the privileges that come with that whiteness, that makes all the difference.

Here’s what I would ask of my white friends:

• When a friend (regardless of race) comes to you to talk about something, ask “do you want to vent while I listen or do you want me to listen and offer my perspective/advice?” The key is to listen first.

• When offering sympathy related to racial experiences, racialize your own voice: “as a white person, I understand that I will never experience what you’re going through, and I’m sorry…”

• Always ask: “what do you need right now?” “Can I do anything to help?” Don’t jump to a conclusion about what someone needs. Don’t jump to the rescue if they don’t want or need to be rescued.

• Take constructive feedback and do the work yourself. If a friend says that something you’ve done is hurtful (especially when race is at the center of that experience), don’t try to justify your behavior. Acknowledge the consequences of your actions (regardless of intentions) and make the commitment to change - and don’t rely on your BIPOC friends to help you change.

• Respect space. Maybe your Black friends don’t want to talk to you right now. Maybe there are somethings that your friends don’t want to share or discuss - respect that they have their reasons and spend the extra time away trying to figure out how to be a better friend and ally to your friends.

I’m really lucky for the friends I have, but I will acknowledge that some friendships aren’t forever. No one should ever feel like they are friends with someone so said friend can learn more about themselves. Your diverse and complex friends are not here to make you better, nor are they a “white man’s burden” to bear.

I guess I’m saying all of this, because I need to know that it’s okay if I don’t want to be your friend.

I’d rather just be myself, and I’m okay with being by myself in order to do that.

The Origins of Riya On the Road

Photos by Channing Johnson

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Summer is usually the season in which Riya is on the road. As I reminisce on summers past, I thought I’d take some time to unpack the origins behind this blog.

I chose to work at a nonprofit with a very specific mission. I’ve been at my organization for almost four years, and I’ve had so many opportunities in that time. A few years ago, I was given the opportunity to travel on a storytelling trip, and help capture content for the organization. This was my first time being a production assistant, and I had the responsibility of conducting interviews on camera (well, behind the camera, but you get it).

I had never conducted interviews for video content before. I was nervous (like, really nervous). And then, I started conducting interviews. With each interview, I gained confidence. The interviews were no longer interviews, but conversations in which I was completely engrossed. I remember that it felt so natural, that I felt so natural. It was easy, and my love for storytelling was born. At the time, I felt like I found my calling or purpose (dramatic, I know).

I shared my experience with colleagues, with an email titled “Riya On the Road…” That’s how this got started, an office email series. I can’t guarantee that anyone really read my emails, but it doesn’t matter. These emails were mostly for me, to unpack my trips and what I learned and remember the people who taught me. I get lost in each story. I feel connected to each person I’ve interviewed, and I carry a part of their stories with me. I think a lot of trust goes into sharing a personal story, and I feel an obligation to those people that trusted me with theirs.

I’ve been on more storytelling trips since then, and even went from production assistant to producer on some trips. Regardless of my responsibilities, my favorite part is still conducting interviews. I get lost in each story. It’s not abnormal for me to become invested in the people I meet. I’ve lost count as to how many times I’ve been moved to tears. These interviews never feel like work - and I know it’s a privilege. There’s nothing more human than one person connecting with another.

This pandemic robbed so many people of so many things, so I feel selfish in missing these opportunities to be on the road and connect with new people. I feel like I’m missing a part of myself. There’s nothing like touching down in a new place, meeting new people, living a few days in their lives and routines, listening to everything they want to share, and then having the chance to ask them anything else that’s on your mind. Those experiences changed me, and those emails changed the way I reflected and wrote about those experiences.

I’m grateful to have written accounts of those experiences along with photos (and video) that I’ll cherish forever. I’ll cherish them until I can be on the road again.

John Lewis

Photo by Derek Smith for Magnolia Pictures

Of all the places to get my news, I found out about John Lewis’ passing on Twitter. My morning routine starts with some kind of scrolling and accelerated synthesis of news and information. I grew up with information at my fingertips, and I’ve spent the better part of my life consuming information as quickly as possible, so I can move on to the next thing and the next thing and the next thing after that. When I read about John Lewis’ death, I couldn’t move on to the next thing.

I carried this information with me for the rest of the day, unaware as to the emotions that came with this package deal. Everyone in my personal life can tell you that I’m no good at processing my emotions. I tend to push them aside and ignore them until it get’s to be too much. It got to be too much. I can tell you this, I was sad. I was sad that we lost such an important figure of the civil rights movement. I was sad that he died in a year when we had already lost so much. I was sad, because I didn’t know enough about him or the legacy he left behind. I was sad, because I didn’t think I had the right to be sad about this loss. I spent the rest of my weekend trying to justify the sadness away. Spoiler - it didn’t work.

I think my sadness was underlined with a little bit of guilt. My resolve for fighting for social justice was wearing thin, and here was a man who (literally) devoted his life to racial justice, and only one of us now lives to tell the tale. I could never compare myself to him or anyone like him - and that’s based on the little bits of information I do know.

Every story about John Lewis describes him as a legend, a giant, a model that was out of reach. But, the more I learned, the more I realized that his legacy wasn’t in grand demonstrations of action, but in the small and individual acts of justice. He was exactly like us, like me. He didn’t have extraordinary powers that made him such a powerful civil rights activist, he was one person that dared to dream of a better world and acted to achieve it. His actions were not outrageous or complicated, but ordinary acts of civil service.

The legend of John Lewis, is that he left a tangible legacy for us to follow. He was a testament to an unwavering commitment to justice, a commitment that lasted a lifetime. President Obama’s statement on the passing of John Lewis moved me to tears and reignited my commitment when I was beginning to waver. During a period of time when the civil rights movement continues to grow, and injustice is still rampant, John Lewis is a reminder that one person can make an impact. I hope he finds peace and rest, knowing that this country is changing each day due to his efforts.

Thank you, John Lewis, for imagining a better world, and for your relentless pursuit of justice - from Selma through the steps of Congress.

Do not get lost in a sea of despair. Be hopeful, be optimistic. Our struggle is not the struggle of a day, a week, a month, or a year, it is the struggle of a lifetime. Never, ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.

After all, this is the struggle of a lifetime, and I have the privilege and opportunity to get into good trouble too (especially on November 3).

Waking Up to Systemic Racism

I’ve often heard 2020 described as “unprecedented.” The “novel” coronavirus. The “record-breaking” rates of unemployment. A “surge” of the civil rights movement. People are waking up to a number of problems. But the truth is, most of these problems have always existed. They don’t exist in a vacuum, but a system built on oppression and inequity.

In light of the brutal murders of George Floyd, Brionna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and so many others - I know many of us are realizing the harsh realities of systemic racism for Black people in this country. The fact that Black Lives Matter is viewed as a political issue (rather than a moral one), is a clear example of how Black people are dehumanized. I’m not an expert on this subject, and I know I never will be. I will never know what it’s like to be Black in this country, and I am approaching this topic with humility. I’m learning and unlearning every day. I’m going to attempt to be candid about my education in racial equity, my unlearning of anti-blackness, and my personal experiences in a white dominant society.

This work is personal, and requires personal dedication and commitment. This has been said over and over again, but it’s not enough to not be racist. It’s not enough to be anti-racist when convenient, or to participate in random acts of ally-ship. Anti-racism requires sacrifice, and constant due diligence. What does it mean to make sacrifices for anti-racism? For this answer, we’ll need to unpack systemic racism.

What is a system? A system is made up of interrelated parts, and a system is not simply the sum of it’s parts, but the product of their interaction. Here’s a moment for self reflection: what systems are we a part of? What kind of systems exist inside of us? If we don’t see ourselves as part of the system, we are not going to be able to shift it. It’s important to note that systems take a lot of work to build, but once built they are often impervious (but not immune) to change. Systems are comfortable, whether we realize it or not. We all operate in a white dominant culture, and we are all part of systems that reinforce white dominance in some way or another. In some ways, our systems are familiar, which is what makes them comfortable. Discomfort occurs in disruption.

To be anti-racist, we need to sacrifice our comfort. This culture won’t be disrupted by one diversity, equity and inclusion (DEI) training or the posting of a black tile on social media (I know, I posted one too). Anti-racism requires persistence, not performance.

This is where I struggle. I want to be relentless in my pursuit of racial equity and justice. I can’t think of anything else. The more I learn, the more angry I get. The more angry I get, the more tired I am. I frequently hit points of exhaustion, and become convinced that I’ll never be able to disrupt the system and make an impact. The final stages of my spiral end in guilt and shame. I feel guilty for not being able to do more, and then I feel shame for making it about myself. This is larger than me and my feelings. And yet, my feelings and I determine my actions. Was this system built to burn out people trying to dismantle it? It feels that way. I’m thinking out loud here. Where are all of the other people who are struggling and making mistakes? How are you learning from those mistakes?

Here’s what I know - I need to focus. I’m choosing to center race in all of my actions, because Black Lives Matter. Black lives have to matter, and I plan to start by disrupting the cultural and institutional values that tell us that they don’t matter enough.

Here are some actions I’m taking in my day-to-day:

1. Learning, and learning constantly: I’m choosing to read books by Black authors - because only Black people can be experts on the Black experience in this country. I’m currently reading “The Skin that We Speak” and “Hood Feminism.”

2. Supporting the Black Lives Matter Movement: I’m advocating for defunding the police, signing every petition, sending letters, and making donations to organizations led by Black, Indigenous, Latino, and other underrepresented racial identities in this country. Consider making a donation to the Equal Justice Initiative.

3. Challenging White Dominant Culture in the workplace: I’ve been speaking up more than ever, and sharing resources to identify white dominant culture, and challenge it. This resource is one of the best.

4. Challenging White Dominant behavior in my personal relationships: I’m having a lot of hard conversations, and listening when I’m given feedback and offering feedback when I see examples of white dominance show up in my relationships.

I know that we’re all at different parts of our anti-racist journey, and this is what’s working for me right now. There isn’t a right way to disrupt systemic racism - there isn’t a perfect way either. The only way to really fail, is by not trying at all.

What is it about Normal People?

I’ve been thinking about Sally Rooney’s “Normal People” for months. I read the novel a lifetime ago (March of this year). Everyone in my life is probably (read: definitely) tired of hearing me talk about it. This story stuck with me, and I hope you’ll do the same as I try to get to the root of what it is about Normal People that lends itself to obsession. For those that haven’t read it yet, here’s the premise:

Connell and Marianne grew up in the same small town in Ireland. The book picks up with them in school, where their relationship starts. We follow them through their years at Trinity College as they gravitate towards each other through various degrees of love and friendship.

Simple enough, right? Wrong.

The book jumps right into Marianne and Connell’s lives, and doesn’t provide frivolous context. Rooney trusts the reader to catch on quickly, and why wouldn’t you? The story is all too familiar to anyone who’s endured the trials and tribulations of youthful infatuation and general adolescence. Time moves quickly in the novel, which may explain why the book is so hard to put down. By switching perspectives between Marianne and Connell, Rooney let’s the reader in on what the other can’t see. It’s a frustrating experience. The reader has to stand by as Marianne and Connell fall victim to miscommunication, as both of them struggle to express their true feelings.

It’s brilliant. You can’t help but be invested when you’re in both of their heads. You don’t even have to like Marianne or Connell to feel for them. Their story feels personal and universal at the same time. Both characters are flawed and transitioning through an important phase of life. They make mistakes. They handle things poorly. They are susceptible to peer pressure. They are learning. They are growing - together and apart. Although Marianne and Connell are the focus of the story, their relationships with peripheral characters are telling. Both of them find themselves trapped in friendships of convenience, making decisions that they wouldn’t have made otherwise - Connell in high school, and Marianne in college. I don’t know about you, but I’ve been there, done that, and had similar regrets.

You see Marianne and Connell change as time passes. Marianne is simultaneously intimidating and insecure. You watch as physical and emotional abuse wear her down over time, changing her from a defiant girl to a submissive young woman. Connell is brilliant, but painstakingly shy. He represents the classic aspiration of fitting in and belonging somewhere. He is crippled by his desire to be liked by everyone and his fear of being judged by everyone. He straddles between the identities he has tried on for everyone else, but himself and Marianne. I could be projecting, but I think they both just want to be liked for who they are.

This book gnawed at feelings that I’ve been repressing since my own years in school. There were multiple times when I felt like I could be both Marianne and Connell. It’s a testament to Rooney’s writing that the story feels so personal. It means something when a stranger describes feelings you couldn’t find the words for. Rooney manages to create a collective outlet for individual feelings and experiences. If I can find myself relating to two small-town Irish students, maybe my experiences are more common than my anxiety makes me think. Maybe Marianne and Connell are just as normal as I am.

Photo by Enda Bowe

After I finished the book for the first time, I felt unsettled. I needed more. There had to be more. Luckily, we get more in the form of a TV adaptation. The show is a seamless adaptation, and we see Marianne and Connell come to life through Daisy Edgar Jones and Paul Mescal. They are the perfect embodiment of these characters, portraying every emotion authentically and honestly. It didn’t feel like a performance. The show only added to the depth of the story - a visual translation that made everything more real.

There is no internal monologue to support scenes in the show. There is just Marianne, Connell, and the dynamic that exists between them (a character in itself). The intimacy between them is tangible, the chemistry is palpable (I’ve basically said the same thing twice, let’s see who notices). I found my anxiety building while watching the show. There were moments when I felt like something was off. I only realized after, that it felt wrong when Marianne and Connell weren’t in scenes together. It’s subtle, but it’s there and it’s a little devastating. The whole experience is painful and beautiful.

Both the novel and the adaptation give a full representation of young love. You don’t need one to enjoy the other. They can stand alone as works of art, but I think they’re better together - similar to Marianne and Connell.

I sobbed multiple times while watching the show. I had so many feelings. I have so many feelings. Sometimes, I feel embarrassed by how much the story has affected me. How could I let fictional characters hurt me so much? The answer came from the novel itself:

It feels intellectually unserious to concern himself with fictional people marrying one another. But there it is: literature moves him.

It’s that simple. I was moved by Normal People. Isn’t that the point of great art? To make people feel something? I won’t apologize for feeling so much. It’s normal.

In the meantime, you can find me following Connell’s Chain on instagram and listening to Hide and Seek on repeat.

Dear Riya

I’ve been subscribing to Suleika Jaouad’s Isolation Journals. Every day, you get a creative writing prompt in your inbox, open to your own interpretation and expression. Although I haven’t been following the prompts each day, it’s helped surface new ideas and feelings and makes me want to write. Today, I’m sharing the prompt from Day 14: “In the voice of someone who loves you.”

Write a love note to yourself. Start with the line: Dear [your name], If you could see what I see, you’d see that you are...

Dear Riya,

If you could see what I see, you would see that you are a force of nature. You are grounded in your values and relentless in your pursuit of what’s fair. Your definition of what’s fair is constantly evolving, as you grow and learn more about yourself and the world around you.

You are reactive and adapt to your environment. I can see you struggling to find balance between being self-less and losing yourself entirely. I don’t want you to lose yourself completely.

It’s okay to get lost in someone else’s story and feel what they feel. I’m glad to see you stand up for what you believe is right, regardless of the consequences. I love that you can’t hide your expressions to save your life. Every emotion is translated on your face, and it reads like a map to those who are paying attention. I love that you try to build community everywhere you go, and that you genuinely love people.

I know you’re more guarded these days, but I hope you don’t close yourself off and become jaded. Stick to your convictions and remember that you are a force of nature - one that’s still uncovering her purpose.

With love,

Riya

I’m Mad as Hell

I took this photo the day before we started social distancing. On my last day in the office, I remember thinking that this was temporary. I remember finding comfort in the thought of seeing my colleagues in April. I remember thinking that things would go back to normal soon. It’s April now, and I don’t have those expectations anymore.

Every day, my resolve wears thinner. I find another ramification of this global pandemic. I get angrier. I get more frustrated. Throughout all of it, I keep coming back to the same conclusion: it’s not fair.

I know the conclusion seems simple and naive in reference to a pandemic, but I don’t know how else to put it. As schools closed, many people realized that 22 million students rely on schools for reliable access to meals. As students moved to online learning, we started questioning access to internet and computers for everyone to complete their work. We deemed hourly workers as essential during a crisis, but denied them a living wage. We rely on medical professionals to treat and deal with the virus, but can’t provide adequate protection. We tied insurance to employment, and now there are millions that are unemployed and uninsured during a public health crisis.

At first, I felt helpless. I was frustrated, because I felt like I couldn’t do anything to help anyone - not even myself. But here’s the truth, I can only control myself and my own actions. I can’t change systems of oppression and inequity overnight, and definitely not by myself. This doesn’t mean I’m helpless. So I did what anyone with too much time on their hands would do, I created a to do list.

Here are my calls to action:

1. First, stick your head out the window and yell “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.”

2. Continue to social distance, to protect those around you and to help flatten the curve.

3. Advocate for a living wage to your elected officials, to support hourly workers on the front lines.

4. Advocate for an increase in SNAP and WIC benefits for families, so no one has to go hungry.

5. Donate to organizations working to support vulnerable populations, like your local foodbank, Meals on Wheels, and No Kid Hungry (shameless plug).

6. Look out for your pregnant friends, and see if you can help advocate for a support person to be allowed in the delivery room. No one should have to give birth alone.

7. Hold this administration accountable for their pandemic response, and tell them to do better.  

8. Don’t panic buy products and leave stores empty for those who don’t have the ability to purchase in bulk.

In the meantime, I’ll also prioritize my own mental and physical health, while using this blog as a creative outlet during isolation. I hope you’ll stick with me.

Philadelphia

A couple of weeks ago, Emily and Mena invited me to join their Philly weekend. It didn’t take much to convince me. I’m actually a big fan of the critically-acclaimed film, National Treasure. I was more than happy to take the same pilgrimage as Nicholas Cage after he stole the Declaration of Independence. Although we did not find treasure under an old church, my experience felt similarly priceless.

Mena (Philly resident), Emily and I began our gastrointestinal tour with Charlie was a Sinner - we sometimes refer to it as “Jack was a Ginger” or “Jeremiah was a Bullfrog.” I loved everything we tried, and felt that we had started the trip off right - even if we were eating dinner at 11pm. The next morning, we rescued Emily’s car from being towed. We made it out of Philly with only one parking ticket, which feels par for the course. After our brunch at Indebleu, we made our way to Boathouse Row.

Before I go on, you should know something about Emily. This girl has never met a stranger. She befriends everyone, everywhere and I’m constantly surprised that she hasn’t let the world jade her into changing. She inspires me to be kinder to strangers and to be present with them, until they are strangers no longer. This was my experience in Philadelphia, and we had perfectly delightful conversations with many people we came across.

Although I did not recreate the famous scene from Rocky on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, I did get moderately winded climbing up the steps and felt a similar sense of euphoria at the top. Our next stop was a hunt for coffee (you know me at this point, right?). We went to the flagship La Colombe in Fishtown, and I loved it. I felt like I had designed the location, because it fit me perfectly. What I would have given to grab my journal and spend the rest of the day at a table in the corner - watching people and writing about nothing and everything. The draft latte at La Colombe is in my top three list of favorite coffee beverages, which doesn’t hurt either. After coffee, we wandered around Fishtown, where we found an antique shop with magic light. We put our name on the two-hour waitlist for Pizzeria Beddia, and made our way to Evil Genius Beer Company. We got lost in conversation and ended up sprinting to the pizza place so we didn’t lose our table. I’m glad that I decided to wear my running shoes instead of something less practical.

After pizza, we took a power nap with the intention of going out. We ended up staying in, and I’m happy to officially announce my retirement from going out past 11pm. Thank you to everyone who has supported my journey thus far. I’m really looking forward to this next stage of my life. In all honesty, I was happy to stay at home and talk to Mena and Emily, and laugh about silly things over a pint of ice cream. It felt like something out of nineties movie. I’ll remember thinking that conversation has never felt so easy.

The first thing Emily told me when she met me, was that I reminded her of her friend Mena. After meeting her for the first time last summer, I couldn’t help but agree. Our lives seemed to be on parallel tracks, and I can’t help but feel grateful that our lives have crossed. Mena, thank you for creating space in your life (and home) for our friendship. Thank you for guiding us through your city. Specifically, thank you for taking us to my new favorite place on earth - Cafe La Maude.

I’m going to spend too much time talking about this restaurant. Take a deep, centering breath, and don’t leave me just yet. It might just seem like a restaurant to most people, but we happened upon the most interesting man in Philadelphia. Gabi, part-owner, was the man who put our name on the list for a table. He was also the man who brought out our food, and the same man who walked along the restaurant with a baby while the family ate. I could have watched this man interact with the world for countless hours. While we were waiting for our table, we watched him greet people and dogs on the street. He seemed to know everyone by name - even the pups. He engaged us in conversation by exclaiming, “in my next life, I want to come back as a dog in Northern Liberties. They get treated so well here.” And honestly? Same.

I watched him greet a family in Arabic. Although I could only pick out a few words, he spoke with such fondness and affection that I found myself wishing I could dust off my rusty Arabic and join the conversation. I think I was inspired by Gabi, because he was so present in the space around him. He seemed so comfortable as himself. He was loud and expressive, and the space seemed to enclose around him to protect his spirit and energy. He radiated authenticity and joy.

I hope I can radiate authenticity and joy in the spaces I occupy, and that I could brighten every space by being myself - whoever that may be. If that doesn’t work out, I hope I’ll live my next life as a dog in Northern Liberties. I hear they get treated very well.

I’m sure I’ll be back to Philadelphia, we still have treasure to find.

Love you, Sister

As long as I’ve known Lindsey, she’s brought people together. Last weekend, she brought us together again - this time, to witness the beginning of her married life with Alec.

Here’s what you need to know about Lindsey - she is pure light. She shares this light with everyone around her, and people are drawn to her like moths to a flame. I’m convinced that her heart takes up most of her 4’11” frame. She’s small, but mighty. She always has room to love more people, and I wish I was more like her in that regard.

We met in college, on a mission trip. I don’t know why I was on a mission trip (I’m still a Muslim, lol), but I credit that trip for a lot of great things in my life. Lindsey befriended me when I was going through a lot of change and found myself a bit lost. She completed my college experience. She supported me as I found a career and a cause I believed in. She taught me about football and stood with me in the stands until I loved the sport. She introduced me to Hannah. She introduced me to her other friends, and she never let me feel like an outsider.

One night, Lindsey decided that Hannah and I were her sisters. In one fell swoop, Lindsey became part of my family. If you could choose your sisters, I think you would choose Lindsey and Hannah too. This weekend, our family got bigger, and Hannah and I got our BIL (Brother-in-law a.k.a. Alec).

Alec is a rare gem. He balances Lindsey in every way. He nurtures her light and finds a way to make her brighter than she ever was. At first, I was surprised by how quiet he was, and then I found it to be the magic of Alec. He’s quiet, but thoughtful and observant. He will wait for his moment, and he’ll say the perfect thing at the perfect time. When Alec and Lindsey came to visit DC, I remember working hard to make Alec laugh and feeling triumphant when I succeeded. Alec is genuine in everything he does, and especially in how he loves Lindsey. I feel so lucky to have witnessed their love for each other unfold, and to know that my sister has met her match.

Although I didn’t take a lot of photos during their wedding weekend, there were a few moments that I’ll cherish. Only Lindsey can give very serious bridesmaid instructions while holding a festive (and perfectly silly) maraca in her hand. Classic Linds. These are moments that I’ll want to remember forever. Like when we discovered the cheddar and chive scones and passed them between all ten bridesmaids, in a perfect example of “sharing is caring.” Or when Lindsey was literally glowing from highlighter on her nose, and she breathed a sigh of relief when I had come to the rescue with my powder to help tone it down. My personal favorite moment was when we all sprang into action when Lindsey’s dress had some mud on it, and Tide To Go was the ultimate hero (Tide, have your people call our people about sponsorship opportunities).

Thank you Lindsey and Alec, for including me in your day. Thank you for sharing your light with all of us, and making it a little easier to believe in love. I love my sister and my BIL.

It was truly the perfect weekend, and I can’t wait to see the photos that Alex took. It felt right to title this blog the way Lindsey and I end our calls, with a simple “Love you, sister.”

Boston

Last week, I went on my first work trip of the year. In the past, I’ve been known to work too much and spend too much time on my laptop. This year, I’m determined to travel differently. I’m going to be present, and give myself a chance to prioritize people and places. What better place to start, than Boston?

Boston and I have a storied past. Needless to say, it’s complicated. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the city this time around, and especially not in January. I preemptively invested in Patagonia gear - partly because I’m frivolous, and partly because it packs well. On this trip, I tried to give myself as much grace as I could. I didn’t overbook myself with meetings. I didn’t travel in the middle of the night on the first flight in and last flight out. I stayed walking distance from the site of my training. I, under NO circumstances, would rent a car and be forced to experience whatever “rotary” of hell Boston roads belonged in.

On my first day, I dropped off my bags and started with a latte (my love language). I ended up walking through the Boston Commons, and naturally gravitated towards the state house. Fun fact about me, I’m a sucker for a good state house. I didn’t take a lot of photos this trip, but I couldn’t help but grab my camera to grab a photo of the gilded dome in the first image. Something about the sun reflecting off the dome called to me, and I was in no position to decline the call.

Once I was done soaking up the sun and the state house, I walked to the Athenaeum, ready to sit down and respond to some emails. I discovered that it was closed to the public on Mondays. Channing, Boston resident and the recommend-er of the Athenaeum, described it best. “It’s hard to be elite and exclusive when the elite and exclusive are being elite and exclusive.” Poetic, really.

I recently read somewhere that happiness is not getting what you expected, but rather, having things go better than expected.

I didn’t mind missing out on the Athenaeum, because the best thing happened next. I got lost.

I can’t tell you the last time I got lost. I’m the person that relies on google maps more than my right hand. That day, I confidently walked to the wrong destination. Instead of going to the Boston Public Library, I walked to the Boston Public Market (opposite direction). Instead of being disappointed and blaming Boston for being hard to navigate (to add to our complicated narrative), I decided to be present and get even more lost. I put away my phone and google maps, and wandered around the North End. I went from side street to side street, marveling at the freedom of my feet. I had nowhere to go, no direction and no urgency guiding me. I ended up finding another coffee shop (I told you it was my brand). I responded to emails. I read the pre-reads for my training. I was able to write for the first time in a while. I was productive, because I was happy - my day had gone better than expected.

The rest of the trip followed the same theme. Things continued to go better than expected. I met with friends, colleagues, and former students. I met new people in my training, and I was inspired by their stories. I drank a lot of coffee. I learned, constantly - from my training and myself. My feet carried me with confidence. I got lost a couple more times (Boston really is hard to navigate). Don’t worry, I found my way eventually. Poetic, really.

I’m happy to have added this chapter to my Boston story. It almost makes up for all the parallel parking from the trip before.

Tiny Humans

I’m in the stage of life where a lot of my friends are having kids. It’s not uncommon to find me at a play-date on the weekends . Nyira was the first baby that I’ve ever taken photos of, and she continues to be my muse. She has a magical quality about her, where she looks at you with such intensity that the rest of the world melts away. My camera and I were there when Cora and Eliza learned how to blow bubbles for the first time. Cora’s face is one of pure joy when she realizes that she can blow as many bubbles as she wants. Eliza is more reserved, and you can see the intensity in her eyes as she eats her cupcake. I didn’t know what to expect at first, but I came to love these tiny humans as much as I love my friendships with their parents. As they grow up, I can see them learn new skills and how they grow into their personalities. These tiny humans have so much of my heart, and they have taught me to be present and enjoy every moment.