For my second Wordless Wednesday, an image I saw today afternoon on Twitter: from the super-secret set of Kanye West and Kid Cudi’s video.
They were filming on the Ceremonial Court at Qatar Foundation. (The same place some concerned staff kept me from organizing an Arab hip hop concert a few years ago because of cultural concerns that it was too august a place to be defiled by Palestinian artists, like DAM rapping about their dreams as young Arabs). Don’t get me started on commercial hip hop… wrote a book about how far the dollars brought the art from its roots.
And yes, when I drove by yesterday morning on my way to teach class, I thought the beehive of activity was setting up for the QF graduation. Should have known better: that’s at least two weeks away).
Tahrir Square during 8 February 2011 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Yes, somehow, the wheels of time have churned away an entire year since young and old, male and female flooded Tahrir square in Cairo, Egypt. The confluence of the world’s Middle East media bureaus in the same city where the campaign to oust the Egyptian dictator Hosni Mubarak was being dramatically staged, transported viewers into the protests and then victory celebrations. The ripple effect of the Tunisia revolution reached as far away as Libya as into my heart. I saw the bravery of people standing up for what they believed in and did something I never thought I would need to do: I broke away from a promising career as a professional in order to focus on writing full time.
This break was risky because not only did I give up the considerable benefits of my job, and the attendant status of being associated with a high profile employer, but I also gave up the stability of being part of a group, any group. Last June when I struck out on my own, a friend gave voice to what many were perhaps thinking.
“Are you really going to write? Or is this fantasy of yours?”
She was confused because writing was always something I did on the side; while in graduate school I escaped from the rigors of first a Masters in 2001 and then PhD in literary theory in 2003 by taking creative writing courses. I have the elective requirements of the American university system to thank for my discovery of my creative voice. Like many other passions in my life, I didn’t give the creative urge center stage, letting it fill in the gaps created by the demands of being a wife, mother, and mentor.
I meandered through higher education administration, and then publishing, until I was spending so much time promoting the work of others, my own work grew jealous.
“What about me?” My novel projects whispered to me each time I organized a book signing.
“Ebooks are the way to enter the market,” experts advised at all the writing conferences I attended.
Even with these twin voices of reason, from the comfort of my senior level position in an organization, I didn’t listen. I toiled and stressed: I heard the increasing complaints of junior staff who felt that their training and education were not being put to use. Ironically it was this, the injustices suffered by others, that got my attention. I am a classic martyr type: I won’t sacrifice for myself, but I will if others will benefit. Every corner I turned in our office building, I was regaled with a tale of woe.
“You are the youngest in the company,” our leader said to one of the juniors, someone I had hired. “You should sit and listen. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
This twentysomething had been educated in the American system. Her faculty, and student affairs staff had encouraged her to think that she had transferable skills that would be an asset to her employer. She, like me, thought that age didn’t matter: the person standing in front of you did.
united states currency eye- IMG_7364_web (Photo credit: kevindean)
I know there are many people in Qatar fighting this juxtaposition of values and my heart goes out to them. What do you do when your education prepared you to expect a different environment than the one in which fact you live? I can’t say that I have a lot of advice to offer on this dilemma. Even now as my vow to write full time segued into teaching as an adjunct faculty member at American universities, I do believe that critical thinking, questioning assumptions, even sheer hard work will get you the respect you deserve, no matter how young you are.
But stereotypes in the workforce conspire against us in a unique way in Doha.
“Here’s a laptop. Sit there and try not to break anything,” someone said to a female student who was a computer science graduate.
“Rich girl, don’t you want to go home and spend Daddy’s money?” Someone else reported me to as the attitude towards Qatari women in the oil sector.
That’s the limitation of stereotypes: they are true for a reason but they often don’t adjust for the uniqueness of the person in front of you. I feel deep empathy for the women in these situations just as I wonder if some of the resistance I encounter in the classroom from male students isn’t because I’m a young, South Asian professor, as opposed to a six foot four, white male. I don’t know. But I do know that I feel more in control of how I treat people and in general, how they treat me. So the reduced salary, the occasional student irritation, the nights spent grading are worth it.
In the year since my liberation, I have published four e-books, posted regularly to this blog, and kept writing on more projects. I’m only sorry I can’t say that my work wasn’t the inspiration for my revolution. I let writing take a backseat because I didn’t know how important it was to me. I hope never to make that mistake again. The answer to the questions my friend posed to me a year or so ago are both yes. Yes, I have been writing and hope to continue to do so through the summer has I have three more releases planned. And yes, this is the fantasy version of my life: the life that I know many creatives want to live. I don’t take a second for granted (especially as stories of the dissatisfied employees trickle back to me through the grapevine).
Help me celebrate this watershed year in my writing life and vote for me as the blogger to win in the “Industry” category of the GoodreadsIndependent Book Blogger Awards. If the writing advice I’ve been tapping out as blog entries has helped, inspired, or even hurt you in some way, drop me a line in the comments box and let me know.
Where were you a year ago? And where would you like to be a year from now?
I’m a default random thoughts type because I’m a writer. No matter the people, country, or time period, the role of a writer remains the same: to notice, reflect or ponder the meaning behind the everyday. This past weekend I went to two events on back to back evenings where I saw something which was interesting in and of itself – a counter youth culture amongst young women in Qatar – made slightly dramatic by the reactions others had to them.
Damn She's Tall by Moggs Oceanlane
In fishbowl like Doha, where the entire population hovers near 2 million and the nationals number 250,o00, you notice those who are different. I’ve talked a lot about how I stand out as a western educated South Asian American woman in a sea of nannies, cooks, and maids. Depending on who is in a room when I walk into a meeting, there can be everything from mild surprise to indifference, or even hostility. The boyas, or girls whose dress is masculine, evoke similar reactions at all the female parties. (That was redundant to those who have lived in the GCC for a while: parties are gender segregated.)
Going to a wedding is no small thing: I had to find a dress, go to a salon to do my hair, pick out shoes, (“Wear pewter color, ma’am,” the girl sales girl told me, impressing me with her vocabulary. I did as I was told) select jewelry and then apply make up. It’s the western equivalent of a prom, with a bride who comes in at midnight. And all of this for an all female audience. People from the West often exclaim “What’s the point?” when they learn there aren’t men around. And this is an interesting reaction: after all, do we only look good for others? Is there no need for approval from other women? So many things about the assumptions of cult of beauty are challenged in an all female environment (though the cattiness and judgement can still remain. Someone whispered “I hate her, she’s so skinny” as another girl walked by). A standard practice is to change your display picture on your phone to show friends (usually only all girls because of the prohibitions of hijab) your glammed up self. “Hot!” A few people messaged me back when I sent photos of the end result (which they requested).
Has a New Evening Gown by Juan Manuel
When I got to the wedding, that of all the female family and friends who knew the either the bride or the groom, there were more exclamations, this time from my students. Because while I am well heeled according to some people’s definitions of female faculty, in the land of designer brands, I’m probably only just
serviceable in two inch heels. On a day I’d rather exercise and be on time to class than put on eye liner, it never fails that someone says: “You look tired.”
In the Oscar like garden of floor length dresses that women wear to weddings, some of the boyas were wearing pants, button down shirts, and even a vest or two. The effect was that they not only stood out, as perhaps my being one of a handful of foreigners did (and the only Indian invited as a guest, while there were many Filipino maids standing in attendance on their older patrons) but they demanded attention by sheer dint of their professed masculinity.
Amongst the yards, and yards of teased, curled, and sprayed hair (mine being no exception) not to mention hundreds of dollars of extensions, the boyas had cropped hair, close to their chin and ears. In some cases they came in with girls, ultra feminine, either as escorts or friends, there was no way to be sure. Some say that having another girl, a masculine boya, is a substitute for the value added by a male admirer – which in this gender segregated society would be construed negatively. (In either case their sexuality is not really the point of these ruminations: the expression of a public, counter persona in a communal society is.)
The next night at a fundraiser, a friend said: “I’ve never been with so many in one room.”
The boyas were out in full force, about four or five in a group of eight or so: one girl wearing cut off shorts and biker-style jacket amidst Chanel and couture party dresses. This time they seemed less like standouts and more like a gang or cult. There were clear expectations of dress (masculine, boxy, pants, no dresses) hair (if not short, then styled up in mohawk like ridges) and they hung in tight clusters, really only talking to the people they had come in with. Yet everyone was talking about them. Rather than seem disturbed by this obvious fact, the boyas seemed to enjoy it. They walked into the room as confident as anyone else and has a good a time as the rest of us, judging by their smiles, laughter, comings and goings.
This reminded me a bit of the research I did for my Hip Hop book. Before the days of Footloose and Pepsi commercials break dancing was thought of as street culture; beat bopping and rapping didn’t always make people into millionaires and a pimp’s life often had as many problems as his hoes. When the record industry realized there were multimillion to be made from hip hop, the fringe culture of youth on the streets went from the inner cities into the cars of white boys in the suburbs and then across the oceans onto posters on the walls of teenage rooms around the world. The margin became the center.
That’s not the scale of what we’re seeing yet with the boyas. And given the social and religious strictures, we may not. But that’s not really the point, at least for those who are using this identity at the present moment. For now they seem to be happy as the thorns among the roses.
