The other day Maryam (my 7 year old baby sister) asked me if I was a liar because I had stitches on my stomach LOL. Anyway today is the one year anniversary of my surgery at the Center of Endometriosis Care. Check out this 5ish minute clip for a recap on my trip to Atlanta, Georgia.
lowkey inside experience cuz of COVID hehe
click below 🙂
Written on November 23, 2020
It was Parent Teacher conference.
We’d split – Hooyo would visit each teacher with Jawahir.
And Abbe, with me.
Relief.
I wouldn’t have to make rounds with her.
Hooyo.
Draped in all shades of the color wheel. Dripping with the loudest jewelry.
Choir concerts. Doctor’s visits. Grocery store cashiers. Extra from head to toe.
Her style. Like a rainbow. Compliments flowing in from every direction.
A vibrance only others could see.
Once in 3rd grade she made her way in as the class chaperone for our field trip to salt lake city.
Her display captivated all the kids.
How hypocritical I was. Because my favorite escape was her own closet.
She knew the story of every single garment she owned.
In her wardrobe I’d live out my fantasies in secret.
Other times my sisters would join.
Hooyo would encourage us.
Help pair outfits. Cheer. Me working an imaginary runway.
Halloweens. We’d all put on black abaya’s. Pick our hair out wide and paint our lips dark.
Dancing to Thriller in the living room. Taking turns filming with our camcorder.
Still like I switch, I’d find deep hope that at least in the public’s eye she would blend.
Hooyo has never believed in taking styling “tips”
She stares at her reflection in mirrors. Mesmerized.
Back then I think I was probably filled with envy.
That she could be so carefree about her self-expression.
Mama I’m sorry.
These truths will probably not phase you.
Cheers to you, the baddest chick in the game.
❤ my shining star
had to shoot this before going live on Super Bowl Sunday 🏈💀🤣
bad gal riri inspo
hi i made my first reel vlog. it was exhausting lmaoo
all to squeeze it into a 1 min & a half.. why do ppl do this? i’m proud hehe click below 🙃
continued…
written on February 15, 2016
from afar i saw my mother screaming
as she bounced out of her chair, making a dash into the water.
within a flash she was breathing heavy with rahma tightly in her arms.
my sisters and i stared at her frozen.
she of course cursed us and the lifeguards who came far too late.
rahma remained shaking with a face full of tears.
with a mother who could take the water by storm,
it was no surprise that in Somalia
bodies rich in melanin and water go hand in hand.
this weekend i had the opportunity to make memories with Somalia’s waters.
As my girls Sadia, Ayan & I just returned from visiting the historical city of Eyl.
if you search the Somali city on google it will be filled with results like:
pirates, piracy, and other narrow headliners.
inside of Eyl are the most breathtaking forms of beauty.
but none captured my soul like its waters did.
the girls & i planned to make it out to the shore right while the sun rose
the sand below, a powdered gold.
the clouds slowly began to make way for the sun.
its rays changed the sky into a thousand backdrops, all warm with color.
all along the shore lay boats. each painted with a name.
the waves rocked itself hard. but called toes forward along with the wind.
time vanished as the water stole my heart forever.
i am free.
this is what Somalia waters represents to me.
you won’t get that from the mass media.
where our waters are only represented
by voices like hollywood’s captain phillips.
who won’t tell you that before our Somali pirates came the british.
and other thieves who took things from our waters.
they raided our lands. pinned us against each other.
and sparked a war between ourselves.
2017 san diego, ca
leaving enormous amounts of people like my mom to flee.
ripping her away from her beloved waves.
america taught me that water and i were enemies.
that Somali’s only knew how to fight in water not make love to it.
2017 bosaso, somalia
that seafood was only an Asian thing.
im fortunate to have moments
where my mother is able to shatter those deeply rooted myths.
through the countless memories she would share.
where she had swam with my aunts
in the ocean and seas that border Somalia.
black people do swim.
i know because i witnessed one of the greatest sheroes
rescue her baby underwater.
2017 melbourne, aus
thick black hair reaching out from her head wrap.
unapologetic. moving like a swift and elegant mermaid.
straight from the #252.
written on February 15, 2016
Good ol’ stereotypes. Still breathing.
Defining you before you even learn that you can define yourself.
Black people don’t swim. At least that’s what I felt like black kids in my community grew up believing.
I would dread the days in elementary when we had field trips to the pool.
The white girls had hair that would dry nice and neat.
While my wet curly hair went right into a giant frizz.
During middle school, I would hold in the tears I felt trying to survive swimming class.
Then there came the summers.
Where kids from every part of the town would spend hours a day at the community pool.
Many to get shades darker. Afterall, tis the season where it was cool to look like us.
A few times each summer my mom would take my sisters and i to the pool.
During the bus ride down she’d remind us of our rules.
Don’t leave one of your sisters in the water alone.
And most importantly, watch rahma (my youngest sibling at the time).
Once we were in the water we did what we usually do.
Stand there. Walk anywhere that kept our head above the water. Splash each other and have holding-your-breath contests.
Until we realized we broke all of mama’s rules.
In the pool next to ours was rahma, all alone, gasping for air.
While we raced out the pool and into the next came a wailing sound.
To be continued…
(click here to read part II)
written at 1:04 AM on January 15, 2019
trigger warning: sexual violence
I heard you wanted to hold me. Back when all the darkness of the universe swallowed me whole.
I do not blame you for not being there. You did not know.
To make you and Hooyo proud has been my only motive in life.
It made me feel like I failed you. To let someone break me so painfully down.
I tried to be and stay strong for you.
I know you saw me lost for so very long. Wandering, withering, a walking corspe.
What did the world do to transform her soul into being so terribly cold?
I was naive to believe you or any one couldn’t feel my evolution.
She will never be back. The little girl you knew. I tried so many times to find her.
I still cry to Allah and ask why I couldn’t be like so many others.
Believe that monsters aren’t real. Only strangers hunt you. Jump out of bushes. And make a kill.
What happens when you can no longer say the paranoia is all in your head.
When it was alive in your bed. Used your bones.. I cannot unsee or unfeel these deaths.
It comes with me everywhere, uninvited. Drags my legs under covers, stiffens my joints into bricks, and leaves my mind frozen in boiling air.
Nightmares on replay of how furious you’d be of me. My very own sisters turning their backs.
Why did I forget? All the times I came home wailing to you about my childhood bullies. Countless boys, teachers, and racists. You believed me and loved me even when I couldn’t find the strength to fight back. Or when my revolting sent me to the office.
Your story of resistance and persecution is what nearly cost you your own life. Your wounds still alive across your arms, triggered in crowded spaces, and deeply ingrained in your brain.
So there it was, back again. Only this time knocking on the grave that it built. Refusing to greet the very ghosts it created.
And there you are, right beside me. With palms like parachutes. Lifting me in the air. Filled with pride.
Finally, I SCREAM. It is now safe to be weak again. soft again. to be me.
I am grieving and celebrating at the same time.
For all the times I asked Allah what did I do to deserve this cruelty?
I can now ask: How is it that I get to have you as my father?
I do not blame you for not being there. You did not know.
You do now, and your love is the warmest blanket my body has ever known.
Thank you. Truly, with you, I feel like I can do anything.
I can feel it now, my freedom is actually coming.
-Mimi
mimi thy phoenix