A manual for living life.

Dishes to clean
groceries to be bought.
Homework to be done
Teachers to bedazzle.
Mothers to please
Marinade the steak,
frost the cake
Don't forget to take a bath!
Lie in bed,
and read a book
only to keel over
and sleep.

Unknown Love

I have dreamed of you
but who you are, I don't know.
Let the mist seep away
Let the light keep your shadows at bay.

One day we'll meet
On a busy street
And we'll feel,
Our hearts reel.

But until then, my dear friend
I'll wait, lying in a glen
Watching swirls of golden dust,
Dance 'til they leave with a gust.

Feeling hated.

In case you haven't noticed yet, I'm a Muslim. And no, I don't' have any plans to take over America and "Raise the flag of Islam" over capitol hill as many extreme right wing bloggers obstinately repeat to themselves. Believe me, I have more important things to worry about...like whether my shoes and purse match. This seems like a random post, right? It's just that I'm tired of living in the shadow and not wanting to bring attention to myself. You think it's hard going through adolescent year? Imagine having the added emotional baggage in a post 9/11 world.
Any ways, back to my point, I met a girl named Sarina at my mosque on Friday, and she stressed on the point that she never hears from Muslims in the media. She mentioned that she hasn't heard Muslims condemning honor killings or terrorists. I told her that not many people are interested in hearing what Muslims have to say. I'll give you an example: Promoptly after the collapse of the twin towers, a national Muslim organization released a statement to media outlets saying that they don't condone the attacks. The news didn't publish this statement. But just for the record I ,and Islam, don't condone terrorist attacks, honor killings, abusive husbands, and every other calamity on the face of this planet.
This moves me along to another topic. I would say that not too many people in America have any idea how it's like being a muslim teenager in a post 9/11 world. Not only did I have to deal with my body going through an awkward transitional phase and wearing a headscarf in Florida, but I also had to endure rude comments and pitiying glances. That's not the worst of it. What truly proves to be the hardest part about growing up is the fact that you are held accountable for all the Muslims in the world. This may sound like an exxageration, but it's the truth. Think about it, if a Saudi man beats his wife up you bet your retirement savings that the newspapers are going to headline "MUSLIM MAN BEATS WIFE". But let's say an Italian man beats HIS wife up, you won't see The New York Times headlining THAT story with "ROMAN CATHOLIC BRUTALLY BEATS WIFE". There's a definite double standard going. Think that's just a fluke? Let me give you another example. When extreme right wing Christians bomb abortion centers is it expected of all denominations of Christianity to issue public statements denouncing that? If a drug dealer who gets thrown into jail is a jew, is it expected from National Jewish organizations to issue statements? Do newspapers even bother to mention that drug dealer's religous beliefs if he's not Muslim? As if this apparent double standard isn't enough, but young Muslim teenagers have to live with the fact that that they're expected to "denounce" all negative practices that One billion people all over the world may engage in. Do you think that's fair?
There is no political sensitivity shown towards Muslims whether it's on the news, television shows, or books. You're surrounded by it at all times. When I was sixteen, I spent religions class going through all fo the misinformation printed about Islam. When I got home to watch TV, it was Msulims this and Muslims that. When I googled Topics about Islam I came across websites promoting "Muslim proofing America" and "It's the damn liberal's fault that we have so many Muslims in the world". Even "Muslims are like a bad case of infestation, they need to be extreminated." Reading teen books wasn't a safe place either. As i'd settle myself in for some comic relief from The Princess Diarires" series, I had to endure jibes about the weak and mistreated Muslim women. Basically, I grew up in an atmosphere that made it very clear that I wasn't a welcome presence and with the knowledge that people would have an already cemented opinion of me without even talking to me. Can you imagine living a life like that?

Menopausal woman.

I live in a city.
A very boring city.
In Florida.
You're probably thinking to yourself "Gosh, she lives in Florida? That's aweseome! It's always shining in Florida and they have great oranges and she can go to Disney World anytime she wants to." Well guess what: wrong wrong WRONG. Whoever gave Florida the name of "sunshine state" obviously hasn't visited the panhandle area. It has been raining for a freaking week. I'm probably going to get depression from lack of sunshine. But you know what the worst thing about this whole situation is? My city can't decide "I'm going to be rainy today" or "I think I'm going to be windy". Ohho, she wants to make people's lives so much more difficult. One minute it's sunny, the next rainy, the next windy, and suddenly it's humid. It can’t make up it’s freaking mind! Which is why I characterize my city as a menopausal woman..you never know what you're going to get.

brotha drama. Again.

This blog is about a relatively pleasant brother of mine who is six years old. I tried to hug him today and he PUSHED me away. Excuse me little brother, but I think after six LONG years of suffering and sacrifice that I should be able to hug the little bugger. After all I had to go through torturous experience such as, oh I don't know, POTTY TRAINING. Sheesh. Is that what you really want little bro? FINE. No more hugs and kisses and when u get old and ur all alone in life don't blame me. God, little brothers are such traitors.

My brother is a ...

Why is is that when a younger sibling makes a STUPID mistake like , I don't know, slamming the refrigerator door so hard that it tips a cup full of hibiscus tea all.over. the. clean. refrigerator, the eldest is the one who has to pay the consequence? Huh? Yeah, my idiotic twelve year old brother was in SUCH a hurry today to stuff his little face with food that he tipped over red hibiscus tea that dripped all the way to the bottom of the WHITE refrigerator and onto the floor. Guess who had to stay and help him push the refrigerator around and "show" him how to clean up the mess? ME. guess who had to stay around while his royal highness escaped to the bathroom several times so he wouldn't finish his stupid chore?ME And guess who had to put up with my mom's "inquiries" as to why my lazy bum of a brother still hadn't finished cleaning up? Moi, of course.

Moral of the story: disown your younger siblings. Seriously.

Hillbilly Brian.

Ladies, Ima assume that you are ladies, I give you permission to pelt a certain someone with shoes. There's this...unsavory character in my Women's studies class. I don't know his name, but I shall call him Brian coz he seems like a Brian. He had the audacity to compare women to cars. And we ladies are certainly not cars. Would you like to know what this Mississippi pipsqueak said during class?? oh ho ho. We were talking about face lifts and why aging women felt the need to get them, when he said " Weill, I don't see the problem. It's like cars. When it gets old you trade it in for a new one." Cars? CARS? Is that the best you can come up with Brian. I'll show you cars. If women are like cars then you are like a garbage truck. And you know what else he said? We were talking about how back in the fifties, women didn't have much of a life other than being a perfect housewife who cooks while wearing high heels. And then he pipes in with the most inappropriate comment. "Weill I must be doing something wrong coz I want a girl like that. Har har." I'll tell you what you're doing wrong Brian, you're breathing and living. What kind of a woman wants to put up with your hillbilly accent and mentality? Huh? Maybe if you found a blind and deaf woman so she won't be subjected to listening to your idiotic voice and looking at your stupid face. There. Go throw shows at him. Stilettos if you can manage it.

Cobra starship has an ego the size of texas.

Okay. I'm going to admit it. I'm as guilty of singing along to cobra starship's song "good girl gone bad" as the next girl in line, but can I say that this song really irritates me? I have no idea why. Maybe it's the fact that the whole song is about driving good girls wild. Or maybe it's the lead singer's assumption that he can make all the good girls go bad. Well guess what Gabe Saporta, YOU AIN'T GETTING TO THIS GOOD GIRL. And I dare you to try, coz believe me by the time I'm done with you, you'll be sorry you ever messed with the good girls. There's a reason we're called good girls bucko, and it's coz no matter how many times egotistical little farts like yourself try to "get it on" with us we send you on the right track. mmhmm. you're an insult to womanhood.

In danger of getting pelted with missiles.

It's that time of the year folks. You know, when you have to run outside with an arm covering your head at ALL times, because it's official: the infamous shoe-thrower will be released on September 15. In case you don't remember, an Iraqi journalist last year threw his shoes at George Bush (Is this guy awesome or is he awesome?)And while he hurled BOTH his shoes he shouted "This is a goodbye kiss from the Iraqi people, dog." Fitting ending to Bush's eight year reign huh? In case you don't know, In the middle-eastern culture throwing shoes at people is the highest display of contempt and is reserved for the lowliest of the low.
I'm sure after this incident, the secret guard will have all journalists remove their shoes before meeting with the president...pity really. Anyways, to Muntazar, ROCK ON DUDE! And to my four? five? followers, leave comments and share your thoughts whether they are in agreement with my views or not.

XOXO

Confessions of a fat girl.

Hey chicas. I know it's been a long long LONG time and I'm sorry. I have neglected this blog beyond common courtesy. But that's over with, isa, and I want to post a couple of pages I have written from a book that I'd like to finish.

Confessions of a Fat Girl

Oh. My. God. Oh no. This canNOT be happening. I gingerly opened my eyelids and looked down. Oh, this is definitely happening. The needle was still pointing resolutely to the very ugly number of 168. I sucked in my stomach, still at dang 168.

"Jenna?" The worried voice of my mother cut through my panicking thoughts. "How's it going?"

My cheeks redden as I exhale loudly. "It's fine, mom." I step off the scale and collapse onto the cold edge of the bathtub. 168. 168.168? How in the freaking world did I get to 168 pounds?

"So?" My mom called outside the locked bathroom door. Great. Almost forgot about mom. Almost. She's the reason I'm even in this situation. Who knew that my mom could bully me into weighing myself. I heave myself off the bathtub, slip into my nondescript gray sweatpants which has become my best friend in the last couple of weeks, and knead my forehead.

"So what?" I call back to my mother in a flippant tone which I desperately hope to mask my trepidation. The bright fluorescent lights beat their way through my head pounding the same message over and over, slowly building up pressure.

I'm....fat. No way to smmoth over the truth, I don't have "baby fat", I'm not slightly chubby, or voluptuous. I'm faaaaaat. Lord above help me.

Missing my trasfat-loaded butter.

One of my besties has moved far away from me, a crime I'm not sure I will ever forgive. To show Hadia my....appreciation, I have written this poem to honor her memory.

I wrote this poem for a very dear friend
In case you don't know who it is, it's Hadia.

She's the yin to my yang
The butter on my toast.

But as everyone knows,
She won't be here anymore.

No more will I hear her biting sarcastic comments
Or see her arching eyebrows.

No more will I hear her exasperated sigh of
"Alaa. Be serious."

She's gone. Gone. GONE.

Gone to be the butter
Of someone ELSE's toast

But no worries Hadia.
You may be leaving today, but tomorrow
You'll find me in your room. Again.

Letter to the Queen Bees of the World

Letter to the Queen Bees of the World


To the Queen Bees of the world:
I loathe you.
You embody all that’s wrong in women,
Wrapped in pretty paper.

To the Queen Bees of the world:
I hate how you flip your glossy hair,
While you ridicule the poor girl.
I hate how you flash your even white teeth to the world,
While whispering about how fat your friend has become.

You may be on top of the world today,
But when your daddy’s card maxes out
And when your plastic looks fade,
I’ll be on top of the corporate ladder
And you’ll just be a trophy wife.

XOXO
Ella Kay

Lady who has no logic.

So this story took place in early January. In case you don’t remember, Hamas and the Israeli government where having a slight tiff, and of course when these two have an argument usually hundreds of innocent civilians die in the process. The M.S.A at my college was quite concerned over the death toll so they had an interesting idea on how to raise awareness to the Palestinian’s plight. They basically had a table laden with all sorts of cakes and brownies, and people could help themselves to anything as long as they asked a question pertaining to the situation back in the mid-east. ANYWAYS, I was sitting at the table with the rest of the M.S.A members when this middle aged woman with a cane cam limping to us.

This lady kept on going on and on about Hamas this and Hamas that and Israel is a humane country blah blah blah. We listened to the lady and told her that the politics of the situation didn’t interest us, but rather the deplorable state of the Palestinian civilians is what’s raising our concern. Get this; the lady actually said “Well Israel is being very nice to the Palestinians. They leave voicemail messages to the Palestinians anytime they’re about to start an air raid.” I believe that at that moment I looked like a fish that has just been thrown out of the sea. I was so flabbergasted that my mouth was wide open and I kept on making noises like “ungh, unga, mmmm”. I had no idea how to answer back to this dim-witted woman. Luckily, my friend Hadia answered back “ Ma’am, You’re talking about a country that currently doesn’t have electricity, they’re sewage system is busted. I have a slight hunch that the Palestinians DON’T get voicemail messages.”

To this day, Hadia and I, make references to this crazy lady. Our favorite one is yelling to each other as we’re leaving a room “Now don’t leave me any voicemail messages!” Voicemail messages. Voicemail. I’m still laughing hysterically to myself.

Second poem.

Now, I wrote this poem a year ago so excuse its roughness.

A woman’s chin trembling,

Her face etched with fear.

Her voice calls out, cracking:

“Where’s my husband? I wish he were near.”

A girl calls out in anger:

“My brother died of kidney failure;

there was no electricity for his gear.

No one will help me, of that I am sure.”

Long has this land suffered.

It’s furrowed over with strife.

A land left unbuffered,

It’s people forced into a hidden life.

This land reeks of injustice,

Permeating its deadly fumes.

But we continue to live in bliss;

Locked in a political tomb.

They cry out desperately.

But to no avail,

We answer to their oppressors.

Let's see if anyone can figure out what this poem's talking about.lol.

My first posted poem!

This is a poem that I wrote MONTHS ago about the tragic death of a family friend that affected me more than I ever expected.

Mostapha

I wake up,

late at night.

Salty tears running down

my sweat drenched face.



We were never friends

nor confidants.

Yet I still remember

your strong arms

lifting your beaming sister

into the air.



And all I can

see is:

twisted steaming metal,

your sobbing mother,

and my trembling hands.

Guilty about MJay?

Okay, so I'd like to welcome everybody to my blog: Kay is the Word. I hope that people will find this website to be insightful, useful, and entertaining. I have chosen my first topic to be about the recent uproar that has swept the entire world and blown up the world wide web. I,of course, am talking about the death of the King of Pop, Michael Jackson(Or as I shall call him, M Jay).
We've seen footage after footage of M Jay fans crying or close ups of their devastated faces. I'm sure most of you have seen countless Facebook status's expressing shock and grief over his untimely death. My question is: why in the heck is everybody so upset? I've been thinking long hard, because I too felt quite upset yesterday, and I think I have found the answer. It's guilt.
How many times have we cracked Michael Jackson jokes? My personal favorite is the one about a kid asking his dad questions about God. ANYWAYS, how many times have we ridiculed him? There is not a single aspect of M Jay that hasn't been scrutinized whether it's about his nose that keeps on falling off or his close attachments to children. We've called him a molester, a crack addict, and a general psycho; and now that we've realized that this distant entity that we call Michael Jackson is dead, we realize that he was actually a fragile human being and that maybe, just maybe, we were a little too harsh on him.
Maybe all this grief and shock that everyone is feeling is just guilt in disguise. Just like how when middle schoolers bully the underling mercilessly until the poor kid cracks do people realize ,belatedly, that they have went too far.