untitled
On the best of days I am able to think calmly and convince myself that this feeling is transient. This perpetual feeling of being sucked into quicksand, of being swallowed alive by my surroundings. This feeling of nothing being in my hands.
On good days I tell myself that our bodies and our minds are like life itself: constantly changing, hovering around some abstract equilibrium. And that there isn't really a finish line. That I should cherish the process, not the end product.
But on days like this, it's hard. When what should be a celebration of the democratic process turns into a debacle, an invitation for hate, marginalization, and social media uproar. When yet another Middle Eastern man gets attacked at a pizza joint in Wisconsin. When yet another Muslim mother texts her daughter, telling her not to wear her hijab in public anymore. When a half-Asian lesbian woman finds a KKK flier on her way to school.
I feel guilty for stressing over my grades, or my weight, or what dumb thing came out of my mouth the other day when I was talking to my professor. I feel guilty for stressing over what I look like, or how awkward I am, or whether or not I am really cut out for medical school. But at the end of the day, I know there are people who love me for who I am. I know that if I am hungry I can, at the swipe of a piece of plastic, buy an overpriced salad and call it a day. I know that if I'm hurt, I can make a doctor's appointment and not have to worry about being turned away because I am on Medicare, or worse, because I am uninsured.
I feel guilty for complaining about issues that I don't really know much about. I don't know what it feels like to be an undocumented student at Harvard, or the daughter of the local Imam. I don't know what it feels like to walk around my neighborhood in niqab, knowing that I look suspicious. Knowing that my neighbors might call 911 if I happen to stop in front of their yard to tie my shoelace.
I feel guilty for saying that I have problems, when in reality I am probably part of the problem itself. For the record I am a legal permanent resident. I look Mexican, I look Persian, I look short, I look small, I look pre-pubescent, I look weak. I look stupid, I look disheveled. I look nerdy, I look bored, I look tired, I look apathetic.
I see hate.
I see ignorance.
I see no end.
and the only thing I really truly AM...
...is frustrated.
On good days I tell myself that our bodies and our minds are like life itself: constantly changing, hovering around some abstract equilibrium. And that there isn't really a finish line. That I should cherish the process, not the end product.
But on days like this, it's hard. When what should be a celebration of the democratic process turns into a debacle, an invitation for hate, marginalization, and social media uproar. When yet another Middle Eastern man gets attacked at a pizza joint in Wisconsin. When yet another Muslim mother texts her daughter, telling her not to wear her hijab in public anymore. When a half-Asian lesbian woman finds a KKK flier on her way to school.
I feel guilty for stressing over my grades, or my weight, or what dumb thing came out of my mouth the other day when I was talking to my professor. I feel guilty for stressing over what I look like, or how awkward I am, or whether or not I am really cut out for medical school. But at the end of the day, I know there are people who love me for who I am. I know that if I am hungry I can, at the swipe of a piece of plastic, buy an overpriced salad and call it a day. I know that if I'm hurt, I can make a doctor's appointment and not have to worry about being turned away because I am on Medicare, or worse, because I am uninsured.
I feel guilty for complaining about issues that I don't really know much about. I don't know what it feels like to be an undocumented student at Harvard, or the daughter of the local Imam. I don't know what it feels like to walk around my neighborhood in niqab, knowing that I look suspicious. Knowing that my neighbors might call 911 if I happen to stop in front of their yard to tie my shoelace.
I feel guilty for saying that I have problems, when in reality I am probably part of the problem itself. For the record I am a legal permanent resident. I look Mexican, I look Persian, I look short, I look small, I look pre-pubescent, I look weak. I look stupid, I look disheveled. I look nerdy, I look bored, I look tired, I look apathetic.
I see hate.
I see ignorance.
I see no end.
and the only thing I really truly AM...
...is frustrated.
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