Riding Her Bike

This—any day like this—is why she adores every transference of the seasons. She doesn’t have a favorite. She loves each one for its unique nature. But she also loves when the qualities of one season infiltrate another. Today is such … Continue reading

I Think Therefore I Rant: Just Stop

When did it become so difficult for people to just stop? Everyone is always in a rush to cram more doing into his/her day, and as a result society is growing increasingly impatient. This has long been affecting how people … Continue reading

Another Fire

“Please, Lord, not another fire—not this again.” That was all I could say Monday morning as I saw the fire trucks lining our block and smelled that the blaze was near. Looking up towards the sky I could see glowing … Continue reading

Those People

I fell off my bike earlier this week. Actually, I technically fell on my bike. The ground was uneven (and perhaps there was an oil slick), and before I knew it my bike had capsized with me on top of it, but still sliding forward. (Thanks a lot momentum!) Fortunately I wasn’t seriously hurt. Even though my palms, arms, and hips slid across the pavement, my hands were protected by my biking gloves, and I was wearing long sleeves and pants. No abrasions, just tenderness and swelling where my hipbone contacted the ground and my ankle to upper shin hit and slid along one of my bike’s pedals.

The fall felt like it was happening in slow motion—slow enough for me to experience it and have a lot of “Am I really about to fall? Oh no!” thoughts, but not slow enough for me to prevent it. Once on the ground, I quickly tried to get myself up and out of the way of any oncoming cars. Fortunately, I had slid towards the curb and there wasn’t a lot of traffic. As I stood and searched my body for blood and then my bike for damage, I recalled how my husband and I had run to the aid of a deliveryman when we saw him fall off his bicycle. There had been heavy rain that day, and he’d mistaken a severe pothole for a harmless puddle.

After my fall, I looked around to see if anyone was showing concern for me. I saw plenty of people, but with the exception of one woman who made peripheral eye contact with me, everyone acted oblivious to (or unaffected by) my accident.

The street wasn’t teeming with people, but there was enough foot traffic that I expected someone to notice and respond to the black woman in a hot pink track jacket that went sliding across the pavement on top of her bright blue bicycle with yellow tires. When I received no sympathetic questions or helping hands, my first thought (and I’m not proud of it) was, “I can’t believe none of those people came to help me. Is it because I’m not one of them? Is it because I’m black? Those people are heartless. Those people are racist. I bet I would have gotten a more sympathetic response in another neighborhood—one with a different demographic.”

In that moment, I realized how easy it is to generalize and find oneself following a line of negatively biased thinking based on assumptions. It just takes one experience explained from a prejudiced perspective to lay the foundation for bigotry and make a situation us versus them. I was letting the actions of a small slice of a population color my view of the whole group. I recognized myself as a minority in that situation and let that explain my experience as opposed to looking for alternative likelihoods.

As part of my second round of thoughts, I remembered that the men of that particular group don’t touch women they aren’t related to. And perhaps the women, most with children in tow, didn’t want to abandon a youngster to help an adult. Perhaps if I’d stayed down someone would have come to help, but I’d gotten up relatively quickly.

Having looked myself over, I realized I wasn’t gravely injured, and since my bike was still functional, I gingerly remounted and pedaled away slowly—apprehensively and wondering what had really just happened. Had anyone felt any concern or sympathy?

Maybe no one helped me because I didn’t appear to need help. Or maybe, just maybe, they consciously or unconsciously didn’t want to help someone like me—black, female, and/or not of their religion. Perhaps I was one of “those people” in their eyes. You know how those people can be. Best to not get involved with one of them.

Whatever the reason, the part is not the whole. The actions of a few cannot be used to stand for those of the group. I had to remind myself of those truths. Even within a seemingly homogenous population—whether it’s dominated by one culture, ethnicity, or religion—there is diversity. It is unfair to extrapolate what the viewpoints or behaviors of all will be based on those of a few. All I really know is that whoever witnessed my fall didn’t come to my aide. As for the characteristics or attitudes of “those people” as a group, my experience doesn’t give me permission to assume.

What to Wear

I’m going to ask some questions I don’t have the answers to: Where does one draw the line between modesty and shame? Who decides what is appropriate attire? How does a piece of apparel evolve from indecent to provocative to fashionable to ordinary? Does it just take time? Is it an inevitable progression? In the timeline of clothing, does scandalous inevitably becoming commonplace or stylish?

I live in New York City. Very few things are universally taboo here. The hotter it gets, the greater the number of body parts going public. Summer is a season during which the clothes get thinner and shorter and smaller—some even disappear altogether.

To be honest, I don’t know how to feel about it. I grew up with very clear and insistent instructions on what to wear and what not to show. Underwear was meant to be just that. It was to be treated like classified information—for my eyes only. I heard clothing commandments from the older women in my life: Thou shalt not allow bra straps to slip into view. Honor thy body and modesty by wearing a slip with unlined skirts and dresses. Thou shalt only wear shorts and skirts longer than your hanging arms can reach. Remember that after Labor Day, white shoes, purses, skirts, and pants are wholly inappropriate.

Everywhere I look now, however, I see those commandments getting broken. It’s been confusing—disorienting. Some of the rules I happily unlearnt and relinquished. Others felt unbreakable—important. For instance, I wear a lot of skirts, but I don’t own any slips. However, by popular standards, I suppose I lean towards modesty. I like to keep my private parts private and my intimate attire inconspicuous. They’re top secret, and only my husband and I have the clearance the see them.

Some of what I choose to wear is rooted in personal preference, and some is fueled by insecurity. On the personal preference side, I don’t find being naked liberating. I like the sensation of wearing clothing. Even if I could delete all my inhibitions, I wouldn’t enjoy being nude. I don’t believe there’s anything about the bare body that’s shameful. I just think living naked would be uncomfortable and impractical—potentially dangerous even.

However, I can’t blame all of my internalized clothing commandments on standards of modesty. There are parts of my body I hide (or hid once) because of shame or self-consciousness, not piety. It wasn’t until I was in college that I felt comfortable in a tank top. I was embarrassed by my veiny, muscular arms—too masculine, I thought. I still prefer to wear board shorts with my bathing suit. It’s partly because I refuse to put a razor, molten wax, or laser near my bikini area, but it’s also because I don’t really like the way my naked upper thighs look.

Then there are the gray areas for me—where what to wear comes from indeterminate measures of shame and modesty. For example, I don’t often show my stomach. You won’t catch me in a bikini. But I can’t tell if I’m embarrassed to bare my belly, or if it just feels like something that should remain concealed. Similarly, while I would never tell anyone to hide her breasts, I don’t like showing cleavage. That’s primarily a personal and aesthetic preference, but perhaps there are also some latent insecurities left over from puberty, a season in which I felt ambushed by the rapid expansion of my chest.

Most of my clothing choices are made in my subconscious. These habits come from rules I internalized so long ago and deeply, I can’t tell where they originally came from. Now, as I try to parse out why I wear what I do when I do, the motivations aren’t always clear. And context matters, of course. I’m comfortable wearing completely different things in private, running errands, going to church, and on the volleyball court. The line, especially for women, between what we hide out of modesty and what we cover out of shame or insecurity is constantly moving—at least for me.

I see women walking the streets of New York in shorts that are so short I can see the cheeks of their buttocks. At first I thought it was a mistake. I thought perhaps they lived alone and only saw themselves in the mirror from the front. I wondered if I should tell someone that her butt was hanging beyond the margins of her hem. It took a while for it to occur to me that this look was intended. (Actually, I’m still not convinced.)

And who am I to judge? Things I consider appropriate, others would find offensive. The hemline has been rising throughout history. Ankles used to be on the cusp of indecency, then knees. Now women wear skirts so short I don’t comprehend how the fabric could possibly accommodate sitting.

Many of us wear sleeveless, even strapless, shirts and dresses without a second thought to weddings and work. But you don’t have to travel back in time, just to certain countries or places of worship, to find that shoulder coverings are required.

The other day, rushed, I left the house in a pair of shorts I normally only wear at home. I wasn’t comfortable. My long legs felt over-exposed. I asked my husband if my shorts were too short. And that got me thinking: What does too short even mean? Too short for what? Who is measuring? Was I afraid of being indecent or judged? Was I worried that the shorts were simply unflattering or too provocative? And that’s what prompted me to explore the dynamics between my modesty versus my shame.

I don’t want to tell other people how to dress. (Actually, I do, I just know that I shouldn’t.) When I see someone sporting something I wouldn’t wear myself, whether it’s unflattering (in my opinion) or too revealing or suggestive (in my opinion), I usually think the same things. First I wonder how that woman/man sees herself/himself. Then I feel both judgmental and jealous. I judge the immodesty, but I’m also jealous of the confidence.

Based on what I’m seeing, I think this generation of teenagers and young adults is less body conscious. They wear crop tops whether their stomachs are svelte, paunchy, or muscular. They will wear shorts that are so short, they seem hem-defying—cellulite be damned! They will wear shirts and dresses that show every contour, ripple, bone, or bulge in their bodies. They proudly display not just their bra straps, but sometimes the majority of their bras. And part of me thinks, “Good for them!” Your body is nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t get trapped on the hamster wheel of attaining the “perfect physique” or thinking that only certain bodies should wear certain things. Be perfectly content with the body you have. Wear what fits you, and “fits” is however you define it. You’re not obligated to conform to anyone else’s aesthetic.

I can champion those who are comfortable enough in their own skin to wear whatever they want. I also believe that maintaining one’s modesty has value. And just as I am trying not to judge those who are comfortable exposing more than I am, I won’t apologize for revealing less. I won’t be shamed for dressing with discretion.

There is a difference, however, between modesty and shame. Modesty is nothing to be embarrassed of. It is rooted in standards, not insecurity. Hopefully you are keeping things covered with confidence and not because you think that part of your body is unworthy of going public—just best kept private.

As I make decisions about what to wear each day, I don’t know exactly where to draw the line between my shame and modesty. I don’t know who gets to decide how much of the body is decent or appropriate for public viewing. But, at least in my opinion, it’s not about being taller or thinner or curvier or more muscular or policing who can wear what. It’s about embracing the body you have, and dressing it however you want.

Playing Outside

After years of playing competitive indoor volleyball, two nights ago I finally got a taste of taking the game to the beach. It was a good night for trying new things. Like taking a dance class, playing beach volleyball has been on a short list of things I’ve been meaning to do (but not trying very hard to do) for a while.

It was a nice night for playing outside. The early evening air was warm without being too heavy or hot. The sun set in a popsicle shade of orange—it’s colorful light reflected and complemented by the glassy skyline of Manhattan.

I wish it hadn’t rained, but that’s the chance you take when you play outside. Indoor sports are less affected by the whims of the weather, but they’re also devoid of fresh air and direct sunlight. There are no natural breezes in a closed gym. There is no flowery aroma hanging in the air. Light bulbs and fans and air conditioning units are poor substitutes for the sun and wind.

We played despite the rain. Getting soggy made me feel silly. It became difficult to take the game as seriously once the volleyball had become slippery. Diving meant getting wetter and sandy. I felt like a child—playing to win, but mostly just having fun. It reminded me of how much I had enjoyed Physical Education when I was young.

PE was always a high point in my academic day. I love learning, and I’ve been blessed with a lifetime of great teachers, but I can’t sustain hours of static attention without interludes of movement.

There was less to worry about in the gym versus the classroom. My mind could make mistakes. It could forget the right answer or find a concept confusing. My body, however, couldn’t betray me. There weren’t any wrong answers in motion. On days I didn’t feel pretty, PE reminded me that I was strong. On days I didn’t feel confident, PE reminded me that I was fast and capable. On days full of tests and stress, PE gave me fun and success.

PE was a welcome invitation to play and compete. I loved winning—especially if I had to work for the win. I loved being part of a team. I enjoyed devising strategies for dodge ball or capture the flag, racing towards a teammate’s outstretched hand in a relay, or making a shot (or a save) in floor hockey.

PE was a period for releasing stress. It was a time to play. There was nothing serious to worry about—just games. To this day, when I put on my athletic wear, I divest myself of life’s pressures. I want to win, but losing doesn’t ruin my day. It’s just a game—or a bike ride/run/walk in the park. It’s called recreation for a reason. It’s supposed to be fun. And that’s what I found the other night on the beach volleyball court, fun—fun playing outside—playing a game both familiar and new. We were getting wet and loosing, but we were enjoying ourselves too.

Silence & Solitude

I enjoy company, but I need time alone. As an introvert, silence and solitude are my close confidantes. If I couldn’t come home after a day of being assaulted by unwanted sounds and distractions, close the door to my apartment, and hear nothing (or what qualifies for nothing in this city), I wouldn’t be able to function.

I need time and space in my day that is free from interruptions—time when no one and nothing is demanding my attention. I need silence and solitude to wade into myself and discover the full depth of my thoughts and feelings. Noise keeps my thinking shallow. Distractions keep me at the surface of myself. To go deeper—to really dive into thought or fully submerge myself in an idea, I need a modicum of silence. And the harder I need to think, the quieter I need it to be. I’m not the type of person who can concentrate on serious work in front of the TV.

For me, silence is precious. I treasure it. Solitude is like a light that helps me to see myself. It illuminates my shadows. I bask in it. Through solitude, I am replenished. I can find thoughts I’ve lost track of. I can be a good friend to myself by paying attention to my inner world.

In silence, I can shake off the burdens of the day. Silence makes room for me to lay down and inspect whatever worries or fears I’ve been carrying with me. In silence and solitude I can hear my quietest inner voice—the one deep within that knows me best—the one that gets muted or ignored when life gets loud or I get stressed.

Time alone helps me to slow down. I become less apt to rush by and miss life’s sweet-smelling roses. Time to myself makes me a better friend. If I haven’t had a sufficient dose of solitude, it’s harder for me to listen to you.

Silence and solitude guide me. They are the paths by which I enter into my deepest self-knowledge. I can be still. I can let go of the weights and worries of the world. I can close my eyes, take a deep breath, relax, and rest within myself.