Month: August 2012

Masr On the Rocks

“on the rocks” : served neat, on ice

“on the rocks” : in difficulties, with high potential to fail

 

The Fulbright staff have tasked me to reflect on what I know and feel about Egypt before I go.

I know that Cairo (al-Qahira) is 6,150 miles and 7 time zones from Chicago. 83.6 million people live in Egypt, which is half the size of Alaska. 10.9 million live in Cairo. Up to 19 million in the greater metro area.

 

Men in Tahrir 2011

 

Egypt is an old country, with a young population, run by old men. Average age is 24.6. Unemployment rate for young women is a staggering 48%. For young men, 25%.

I know that most Egyptians are Sunni Muslims. Some are Coptic Christian, which is similar to Eastern Orthodox. Fewer are Jewish. Fewer still are multitheist, agnostic or atheist…at least publicly.

 

I know that Egypt is NOT here:

You should know I am not a journalist. I am a dance educator, a manager, a scholar interested in the role of artists in alternative areas of civil society. What I know about Egypt may not be accurate. It may not even be true. But it is my honest understanding, and as such, might be mighty interesting.

I know that Egyptians want freedom. Their freedom to be devout Muslims. Their right to bread. Their right to a functioning constitution, justice, and a vote. Their dignity. Their right to enjoy a Stella on Thursday night. Their rights as contemporary artists and media makers.

The official language in Egypt is Arabic, but a variation of the language quite different from other Arabic-speaking countries, full of slang. Making it even more difficult to learn or to utilize translation apps.

I know that Egyptians are more likely to make stuff up than admit they don’t know something.

They are a proud people.

 

I know that tourism is the piston for this place, known as the Mother of the World; and I know that tourism has dipped dangerously low since Mubarak’s ouster. Visit. Touch the ancient history. Relax on the stellar beaches. Come see the planets align over the Pyramids of Giza for the first time in 2,797 years.

So amazing.

I know that Egyptians, in general, are less comfortable discussing gay rights than people in say, nearby Libya. And I know that Cairo doesn’t represent all of Egypt. Just like Chicago doesn’t represent Illinois.

What I do not know is if there is a Groupon-like service in Egypt…, if they use proton beam therapy at 57357 children’s cancer hospital…, or if I will get fat on take-out koshari.

I have been taught the Arabic version of giving the middle finger and I know that some men in Cairo make me uncomfortable. So to the guys who’ve sent me messages this summer giving the impression they’re interested in only one aspect of who I am, I say two things: Yes, I am single. No, I will not sleep with you. On that note, fellas, please don’t insist on helping me cross the street. I’ve played ‘Frogger.’ I know what to do. Don’t assume I have lots of American money to spend in your cousin’s shop. Don’t assume I will be your “special friend.” Let’s acknowledge the difference between being a woman who walks solo down the street, and a woman who works the streets.

Also, I am not a spy. Never have been.

On a different note, coming from Chicago, the home of improv comedy, I can appreciate the Egyptian sense of humor. Relevant and on your feet. One cannot help but be impressed by the witty revolutionary signage and collective singing and political cartoons. Laugh out loud brilliant. Probably would be even funnier if I got the cultural references and/or read Arabic.

I know that for many Egyptians, the revolution continues. For some, Morsi and his presidential team are making their way toward stability and progress. For others, trash is filling the streets and Masr is on the rocks.

But some days have more hope than others. Fingers wave in purple ink. And every day brings a surprise.

Here ends any of my talk of me and them. Now it’s we. I have decided to join you in Cairo for a little while to experience that goodness. That potential for greatness and personal agency. To feel the pulse of a city that is thousands of years old in an era of mass change. Beautiful. Jamila.

Let’s pour some hope, served neat, on ice.

See you soon.

 

***The views and information presented in my blog are my own and do not represent the U.S. Department of State or the Fulbright Scholar Program.

Don’t Touch Me, Mr. Akin.

If you’ve had the privilege to date me, you know I’m weird, lovely but weird. Not a hand holder.

I’m the survivor of sexual assault. I don’t use the word rape because I feel guilty. Not an innocent victim. Went reluctantly but not-forcibly to the hotel room of a Navy man years ago. Was inebriated enough that I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I got myself into that unsafe bed, and as I was being pushed face-down into that pillow, my body propped into a position I know I didn’t put it into, and my limbs were unable to put up any fight at all, I remembered the PSAs I grew up with. For some reason, I thought if I could only manage to get out the word ‘No’ it all would stop. When that ‘No’ didn’t work, I just laid there and cried.

I walked home from that hotel room alone and quivering around 3am. I recovered quickly. That Navy man must have went back to Florida, unreported. I finally told someone about it three years later. And now I am writing it in public and for the young women and parents out there.

I am guessing what I went through Mr. Akin would consider “illegitimate.” I guess there were other times I should have said no to other men. Should have had the confidence to say no, make them wait.

I should not have walked into that essence shop in Cairo alone last year, where an older gentlemen would proceed to press himself against me.

Speaking of Cairo. That’s also why I’m writing this.

I am headed there next week. And will stay for 5-8 months. This city is known for sexual harassment. Once read that 98% of foreign women report some sort of sexual harassment. Egyptian women are themselves fighting for their rights while also fighting for their freedom. I will join them in my capacity as a foreign woman trying to hold her own independence, strength and worth.

I am sexy. I am an amazing and caring lady.

Costa Rica 2011

 

I am also a dancer who spent her entire childhood looking into a mirror. Was so self-conscious about my fat thighs. Hated much about my appearance. Like most gals I knew.

Last Thanksgiving, I went to Costa Rica. I asked a stranger to take a picture of me in a bikini and I posted it online. Not a huge deal. Others post images of them in less, as performers, as artists, as vacationers. But this was an achievement for me. This was when I felt comfortable with my body. The moment I felt I could be a nice girl and a proud woman at the same time. I didn’t post the picture so that men would react. I posted it for me. To feel strong. It felt good.

It was a long journey after that Navy man; to be able to love and to be able to be left. To understand that my body was mine.

When someone tries to define rape into categories, my guilt pops back up and hounds me. Am I the “illegitimate” one he’s talking about? Should I cover more or less of myself when in Egypt? Does anyone care if I am really proud of shoulders and calves, prefer not to wear sleeves and long skirts all the time? Do I not have a choice? Do I respect their culture, or do I respect myself, or do I have to struggle to find a balance?

If I cover myself every day, will I lose confidence in my body?

My standard of being a decent woman is not a Muslim one. Or a Christian one. My standard of goodness is self-inflicted. As part of humanity. As a teacher and role model for others, of all genders and sexualities. As a dancer.

I will go to Cairo. And I will be amazing.

A little speech about volunteering with children with cancer

Today is my last meeting at Children’s Memorial/Lurie Hospital. I have been asked to prepare a little speech.

Today I am not here to tell Donna’s story. She was a girl who lived a bright but cruelly short life. And she changed my life to its core. I could never do her story justice, and her parents tell it best. Her story continues now as good things are being done in her name. Today, I am only here to explain why I give my time, energy and dollars to the Young Associates Board at Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago.

First of all, cancer brings out the best in people. It is an evil disease. Sickening and dark.

Donna and I in 2009.

But those who face it are superheroes. In and around cancer, you find the most amazing people (even though they say they had no choice but to be amazing). Also, in and around cancer, you learn the most profound lessons. You become better. No doubt. It might sound selfish, but this work does wonder for my own development.

Yet, I don’t volunteer with organizations supporting research/programs for adult cancers. My father faced cancer, my grandmother died from colon cancer, and both of my mother’s sisters battled breast cancer. Yes, cancer can suck it. But I volunteer to support those facing childhood cancers because I know it is an area so desperately underfunded and so very different than adult cancers. I know the American Cancer Society is the “sponsor of birthdays” and uses kids’ images in their ads while only giving $0.01 (penny) from every dollar they raise on childhood cancer research. I also know that the Susan G. Komen Foundation has spent millions to sue small organizations that use “for the cure.” I know that the National Cancer Institute (NCI) which is our public tax dollars at work decreased funding every year 2003-2008. The current funding is $26.4 million (or 4% of the NCI budget). By comparison, public funding for AIDS research is near $254 million; funding for breast cancer is near $584 million. We simply don’t have the numbers.

But pediatric brain tumors are the deadliest type of childhood cancer. And killed my dance student, my friend Donna when she was 4 ¼ years old.

A list of those outstanding organizations directing at least $0.80 of every dollar to childhood cancer include St. Baldrick’s, Alex’s Lemonade Stands, The Rally Foundation, Bear Necessities, and the Young Associates Board. I volunteer here because Dr. Stew, Dr. Jason, the nurses and the whole team go above and beyond the work they do saving lives; they also save the quality of lives. Once I learned from Dr. Stew that finding cures and lifesaving were just two of the goals, I saw my place in this work much deeper. Many of the kids you will meet on the oncology ward may die or may struggle. It’s true. But I think that is no reason to look away.

Yes, you will meet parents who grieve for their child, but know they did everything they could and gave their kid a beautiful life. Bereaving families are as much a part of this cancer community as those currently fighting and those who survived. We’re all together in this. When you meet survivors of childhood cancer please understand they face side effects for the rest of their days, including permanent organ damage, infertility, dental decay from having to imbed oral chemo in the sweetest of treats, delayed development (walking, talking, learning, social), swelling, nerve damage, and second cancers. Many will struggle in college. Many will always have the fear that cancer will come back.

So as you go into this year with the families on the 17th and 18th floors of Lurie Children’s Hospital of Chicago, please…

  • Offer joy.
  • Bear witness.
  • Share stories and legacies, including those from 4W of Children’s Memorial, as the move to the new hospital is both thrilling and painful.
  • Remember that working and volunteering in the world of childhood cancer may be like constantly having PMS. Emotions will sway you. That’s ok. Donna taught me to experience pain and fear fully, then move on.
  • Find balance. Maybe you can only give 10% of your energy to the YAB throughout the year, maybe you can give 100% but only for three or four months at a time.
  • Sometimes these patients grow up way too fast and are mature beyond their years, to an extreme level. Go with it. Follow their lead, just as their parents do. Also sometimes they are 18 years old and just want a puppy and time to watch Finding Nemo. Don’t assume you know what they want. Ask them. But also surprise them. You don’t have to work for Make-A-Wish to make wishes come true. A baseball game, a superhero cape, a dance class, an electronic gadget can mean the world to someone.
  • September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. The color is gold. Do something.

And as you walk about the race site and museum during the 10th Annual Run for Gus this Thursday…

  • Look people in the eye.
  • Rather than offering advice, just ask questions. For example, if you see someone with a Team Tyler t-shirt, simply pleasantly open with, “Tell me about Tyler.”
  • Smile genuinely and proudly at Rosie, Connor, Jake, Beckett and all the superheroes you have the honor of meeting.

Those who currently battle, those who grieve, and those who survive all share battle scars and bold joy you are unlikely to see anywhere else. I would like you to now watch this video from last year’s Run for Gus and see if you can spot the joy. http://youtu.be/UUd_VRwEFDM It’s amazing to see.

Thanks for allowing me to be a part of the YAB these past 3 ½ years. I am a better person for it.

Read Donna’s Cancer Story as told by her momma.

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