Little Red Notebook

All my life I have been drawing lines, creating boundaries, and I had a fixation on perfection. I remember I used to tell my Mom that I was bound for greatness in life, and my physiotherapist once told me, when I was at the malleable age of 17, that I was destined for greatness because the mole that decorates the upper right side of my lip apparently categorizes me to be one of the “chosen ones” or ones with a special gift- and not in an X-Men/Heroes/Ghost Whisperer kind of gift, but something else.

I have yet to discover that gift. I began the hunt soon after discovering I got accepted to UCLA, I knew this was the beginning of my journey to greatness…

I lost focus of the search, faded into the background like wallpaper, and devoted most of my time to books, mid terms and finals. The essay would consume me as I consumed more food; I packed on the pounds my freshmen year and packed nothing more on my escapade to find my gift. I remember crying a lot because I missed my family, my home life, yes even Conti, and I missed him, my “First Love” – and let me tell you this, this first love business is not overrated, it drags you down for years until you gain the strength to “not look back in anger” (thanks Oasis for this one), and to really pick up your shattered pieces and walk on.

Getting back from the ‘love’ digression:

My second and third year, only pushed me further away from uncovering my gift, and dug me deeper and deeper into Adam Smith, Interest Rates, Enlightenment, Red Dwarf Stars, Avant Garde Russian Literature, Cobb Douglas Production Function, Trade Theory, Gellaterias and other Italian words, Derivatives, Integrals and Limit Theories, Thomas Friedman and Why the World is Flat… All fantastic stuff, but my shovel was stashed away collecting dust. I was nominated Secretary of the Lebanese Club on campus and Vice President of the Arab Club- both were meaningless positions to me, because there was no pizzazz in either title. The members were superficial sons of bitches, who had complexities; I don’t wish to waste my precious time talking about, but let’s just say it was a total waste of my time. Yes I am fucking spoilt, and my parents send me money from Saudi Arabia, I am sorry you had a shitty life but don’t take out all the frustration on me. But I couldn’t escape the fact that I was their scapegoat. Some were bearable, though they were few and far between. Actually I will name them: Sarah El-Ennan, Jad Andari, Mike Azar. Sarah was my twin, we shared the same hair style (back when mine was still curly), the same dress sense, the same attitude in life, and the same pet peeves, like a certain Mona, and the same likes, like going to Ralphs grocery store at 3am and making fun of the shapes of vegetables and stealing candy from the candy section. Jad was a “mal3oon” I can’t think of the right word in English, may be a hustler would be suitable, but that doesn’t even give him justice. He drove like a maniac in a run down Honda Civic, whose doors never opened so I had to jump in through the window. Actually at one point he grafittied his entire car. Every time I rode in it I felt like I was in some rap video, I would assume The Game would bust out at any minute, and his freestyle rapping definitely added to the experience. He was one Lebanese “maniac” but I loved him for being crazy like that, he really took great care of me. Mike was cool too, we had a lot in common, except for his obscene obsession with Asian Woman, I def don’t have an Asian fetish. Mike, Jad and I would travel in one unit, everywhere they went I followed for the entire first quarter of my sophomore year. They took me to my first (and my last) frat party. Writing about this now actually makes me miss those days….

But still no gift, no treasure, not even a clue to guide me.

Life caught up with me, and I jumped on the “Going Nowhere” wagon. I enjoyed the ride sometimes; other times it was a bumpy road (perhaps I will save some details for another post).

Actually this “Going Nowhere” wagon eventually brought me back to Jeddah… Ironically it was really a wagon that took me nowhere. So I guess all puns intended with that pseudonym.

Returning to the nest you would think brings back some warmth and nostalgia, but it did none of the above, it actually sunk me deeper and deeper into a reality I didn’t want to wake up to every morning. The sun shines every day in this city, but my mood cascaded like seasons, ever changing; my winters were bitter and draped in black, my falls were melancholy, my springs were fruitful and my summers were clamorous. My indelible smile would give way to a “salty discharge” (thanks Seinfeld for this one) and my self confidence dropped like a fat lady who lost balance and tumbled down an endless stairway.., Ouch, even that imagery through simile hurt to write. But then like Bruce Wayne said from Batman Begins, “we fall to pick ourselves back up again”. Such sage words, for such a rich man. And I did, I learnt to always pick myself back up again, say a silent prayer, and ask God to grant me strength to repel the vortex that was grabbing me by the ankle guzzling me into a black hole. My mind became my demon, my heart a beacon of love over matter, and my body shed the weight. (well one good thing came out of it). I was hovering somewhere between two worlds, torn in so many directions. And I forgot that I was even ever looking for a gift. I forgot what that physiotherapist told me over 5 years ago.

But yesterday I received a beautiful red notebook, it was a gift from a friend of mine who gave it to me in hopes that I would keep writing no matter where I was. He saw something in me, I thought I lost, not because I am a Shakespearean writer, or a Tolstoy storyteller, or a TS Elliot novelist, but because I was writing with hopes that the end of my writing experience would be the beginning of the reader’s experience of my writing. And now I think I know the “gift”, I think I found it; it’s my triumph of hope over experience, of my small ray of light over a sea of darkness, and how I can change someone’s world, without even knowing it. My gift can’t be found, because it lives in me and is a part of me all along, so I should just stop my scavenger hunt, and start living… crossing lines, instead of creating them.