March 31 – Scent of Jasmine

by Khadijah Lacina

A few days ago Mujaahid called me from Yemen. It was the second time I’ve spoken to him since our return to America, and I admit I had trouble speaking through the lump that filled my throat. I talked to little Suhayb, and heard baby Yasmeen in the background. It made my heart ache to feel the distance that separates our worlds now. I wanted to share with you the story of baby Yasmeen, to try to bring her and her family just a little bit closer…

On September 27, a new little person entered the world. My eldest son, Mujaahid, and his wife, Hiyaat, had a baby girl. She was delivered at home, with a midwife and Hiyaat’s mother present, and by all accounts was a big baby. She was born with a caul- in Islaam this doesn’t have any special significance, but I can imagine that my Bohemian grandmother, and my Irish grandmother, would have a few things to say about it. They named her Yasmeen, which is the source of the English word, Jasmine. I pray that she will both spread joy and goodness like the fragrance of her namesake, and that she will find the world to be sweet and scented in the same way.

I wasn’t there for the birth, just as I was not there for Suhayb’s birth, making this a bittersweet time, one which brings home forcefully the reality of distance unrolling over desert and mountain, of time spent apart and the choices which led to this separation.

The first choice, I suppose, was when we sent Mujaahid to study in the village a few months before we ourselves were going to make that transition. He would call every week, his voice sounding small and far away and tearing at my heart-strings. He would assure me that he was fine, and was studying hard, and that everything was alright.

The second choice was when, a couple of years later, he decided to marry and to build his house attached to his wife’s house across the valley. Automatically he became a part of their life, while stepping out of ours in a major way. His brothers and sisters felt the distance at that time; perhaps it was for the best because when we left the village a year or so later due to my continuing illness, he didn’t even consider coming with us.

That was the next choice, and it was both ours, to leave, and his, to not join us. It was so difficult leaving the village. I had teachers there that I loved and respected, I loved learning about Islaam and attending classes and lectures, and the village itself had found a deep and abiding place in my heart. And, of course, as we were bumping off in the pre-dawn darkness over the trackless mountains that surrounded the village, my heart felt like it was being physically ripped in two as part of it stayed with Mujaahid.

I don’t have any photos of Mujaahid as a baby, but last year, when I was able to see his son, Suhayb, for the first time, I immediately saw the shadow of my little blond boy in his face. It made parting with them after a month even tougher, bringing home truth of the saying that when we choose to have a child, we choose to allow a part of our hearts to walk around outside our bodies for the rest of our lives.

Now time, and distance, and political upheaval have made our lives in this beautiful land more uncertain than before. When I think that I may never see Yasmeen, or Suhayb, or Mujaahid and Hiyaat again, I feel an intense sense of loss, and sadness, and a wish that I could somehow change things, while knowing that I cannot. Too much time, too much distance, too many choices made that led us to where we are now.

But I know that even while a part of my heart is with them in their mountain village, a part of them remains, and will always remain, within my chest, as close as the air I breathe. And sometimes, that is all you can ask for.

Khadijah Lacina has recently returned to the States after almost ten years living in Yemen. While trying to get over her culture shock, she spends her time homeschooling, writing, knitting, crocheting, playing in the dirt trying to grow things, and messing around with herbs.

March 7 – Horses, Motorcycles and Lemons

by Tania Pryputniewicz

I can’t stop being attracted to horses so maybe I should just ride one; is it spring, or the astral maneuverings of my daughter’s obsession with horses surfacing as if I’d thought of it myself?

Like the woman with grey eyes and coral mouth preparing to mount her motorcycle in front of Howard’s Station over the weekend, sheathed in her leathers, something about the loose black hood framing her silver hair that made her appear as a nun as she tilted her head to slide on her helmet. We exchange a few words on Ninjas and I consider briefly, riding one again, almost not afraid of dying again, my daughter standing quietly at my side.

Not since the screaming descent, before children, on the carbon-fiber frame of a bicycle, my husband’s helmet glinting far below through the sun/shadow spattered curves I had yet to navigate, have I used that full-body lean and swerve to sweep the curves for the joy of it–with that unhesitating precision you need on a motorcycle. And without that god-commanded umbilical restraint hardwired into mothers that keeps them within a two foot radius of their children at all times.

The rider waves, snakes smoothly out of the parking lot. I take my daughter’s hand, steer us and the conversation towards breakfast and the rest of the week’s lessons in gravity and heat. One of my sons will fall out of a lemon tree; one of my sons will mist water from a spray bottle onto a light-bulb. Rinds of glass will continue to appear over the course of the week in the toy boxes under the stairs.

The sound of the shattering glass takes me instantly back to childhood, Illinois, my brother’s lemon meringue filling on the ceiling, thick shards of pie glass exploding into the corners of the kitchen and under the refrigerator the instant my mother took the pie out of the oven and set it on the cold counter.

Here, in San Francisco, the pupil’s of my son’s eyes shutter appropriately tight; talk of a concussion recedes and by afternoon’s end he’s selling the lemons he harvested for fifty cents apiece.

And in the last two miles before our house on the drive home, the wild turkeys with their tan necks jolt raggedly along the edges of the horse pasture…my husband murmuring something about how much horses weigh, how much damage a fall at full gallop can do, why isn’t ballet good enough for our daughter. If horses are meant to be in her life, they’ll find her, I think to myself, knowing better than to share the insight aloud.

It’s not that I find my disinterest in danger waning, but a desire to inhabit the body returning as the kids individuate and release back to me parts of my psyche, incrementally, with highs and lows erratic as the tides. The body follows suit, with time on its hands again, wanting to wrap its arms around the neck of a horse.

Tania lives in California with her husband, three children, kitten, Siberian Husky, and four feral cats. She has an MFA in poetry and taught in the classroom for many years, though recently found herself living more of her life’s dream by working with women writers on-line, including her forthcoming class for SCN this March, Beginning Transformative Blogging.

March 1 – One in Four

by Kali’ P. Rourke

My first personal experience with a victim of domestic abuse and violence was in my early twenties.

I met a stunning woman who worked at my office and we became friends. Betty (not her real name) had long, glossy dark hair, porcelain skin, dark blue eyes and a slender figure. One beautiful spring day I expressed admiration at how lovely she was. She made a strange grimace and said, “I didn’t always look like this.” I chuckled, “What, a little gilding on the lily?” She grew pensive and I suddenly realized this was hard for her. I quickly assured her I didn’t mean to pry. She said, “No, you are a friend,” and she told me her story.

She married a man who was ten years older. Although she had no idea at the time that this was not the usual way to express love, he spent the next five years of their marriage isolating and tearing her down through emotional abuse. By the time they had a child, the abuse had become physical, but she was afraid to leave. He said he would kill her if she ever left, and she believed him.

One night when her son was four, the physical abuse was aimed at him and she finally fought back. She never had before. She said, “It was like it was what he was waiting for.”

He beat her until she was nearly unconscious. Neighbors called and when the police came and saw the pitiful wreck he had left of her on the floor, they arrested her husband and called an ambulance for her. Their son was a few feet away, screaming and crying as he hid behind the couch.

Her husband had fractured her jaw, both orbital sockets, broken several of her ribs, her collarbone, two bones in her arm and had punched her in the mouth, dislodging her upper teeth. Her sight was forever compromised and the months of surgery to restore functionality were eclipsed by the years of surgeries she needed to recover her appearance.
He served three years of a ten-year sentence and then began trying to find her.

She changed her name and occupation, and avoided photography of any kind…just in case.

Betty told me this story, mostly with her head down, as if she was afraid to see some kind of condemnation.

Most don’t understand how fear of the unknown (loss of security, income, even access to a car) is more frightening than abuse. Fear of the known… “He will kill me and my children if I leave,” is even worse. Women who have not experienced violence or abuse often think it is because they are smarter, stronger, more informed and that this shields them. They don’t understand why a woman would stay with her abuser. They also don’t realize that abusive relationship patterns surface as early as high school.

I assure you, it can happen to anyone. It can happen to me, you, your sister. mother, daughter, even your son…anyone.

Kali’ is a philanthropist and member of several Austin, Texas nonprofit boards. She recently joined the Texas Advocacy Project Board of Directors and is involved in providing free legal services to victims of domestic violence, teen dating violence and sexual assault. One in four women in America will experience abuse from an intimate partner in their lifetime.