Depth and words

I recently experimented with a release of a small prose-poetry book. It doesn’t really have a genre and I was approached by a local publisher (they only publish Arabic books), so I was hesitant and didn’t think the book would receive any attention. Forget the Words is not as close to my heart as On Love and Loss which is still selling rather well on Amazon.

But this is not the point of this post. The book managed to reach a few people’s hearts, on a very intimate level. Firstly, my mother read and understood it, and she was able to see that the book was fragmented because I believe in fragments and inconsistencies. My mother is not one to enjoy English books, which reminds me of Amy Tan’s “Mother Tongue” – in which she asserts that as long as her mother could enjoy her work, then this means she can reach a wider audience.

I received feedback from people I hadn’t  met, sending me messages, emails, letting me know that the book spoke to them, that they were able to connect. Some were previous students of mine, others were new, and then there were those who had simply heard of the book by word of mouth. I am overwhelmed with the amount of citations on Twitter and Instagram! I type in #forget_the_words and random pictures come up with quotes from my book! It is, needless to say, an exhilarating feeling.

When I wrote the book, I was simply angry with words, with life, and I hurled the book at the world. I didn’t care for its success. I haven’t even shared it with all of my colleagues, it is not academic, not scholarly, not what I would term creative fiction. One colleague though, and a beautiful friend of mine, Janet, took the time to read it and reflect upon it. I think that’s what really got me- she actually did reflect on it. She didn’t read the book because I wanted her to read it (at least that’s not what it felt like) and she was able to make the links, the connections. She told me that the words took her to another place, that she was immersed within the dialogue and the symbolism, the metaphors I used. And that’s precisely it, I just hadn’t realized it. Janet helped me put it into words, and I’ll just borrow her analysis here: I wanted those who read it to feel as though the dialogue wasn’t mine, that the Sun and the Moon represented much more, and that human connection and depth is all we could ever live for. I seek depth everywhere. I seek depth in conversations, in friendships and relationships. Like Anais Nin once wrote: “I must be a mermaid, I have no fears of depths and a great fear of shallow living.”

So the book has given me a chance to connect with people on a deeper level. I am grateful to whatever entity is in charge, the Universe, the publisher who took a risk publishing in English rather than Arabic, my friends who read the book, readers who I never met, and those who took the time to think about the words, when I so blatantly asked them to ‘forget the words.’

  

   

       

Literary Madness

Literary Madness, my academic monograph, is now available on Amazon US and UK.

Here is the link for scholars of literature and disability studies:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Literary-Madness-British-Postcolonial-Bedouin/dp/1443897566/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1474910925&sr=8-1&keywords=literary+madness+shahd

 

 

Love and Academia

Today someone reminded me of how difficult it was for me during my undergraduate days. My postgraduate days were extremely exhausting and very gloomy at times. There were many days where I thought of giving up on academia. There were times where I couldn’t hold a pen. And yet, despite the struggle, I managed. Today my papers fell out of my briefcase, everywhere, it was a total mess. And as a student of mine bent down to help me gather them, for that one moment, as I looked at her, I had a flashback of myself, as a student, struggling to carry my literature books and dragging myself to class. As we gathered the papers and I thanked her, my mind went back to the past.

It has been only two years since I got my PhD, October 2014. That day was a day where the clock stopped ticking, the viva seemed to go on forever, and I couldn’t bring myself to see the end of the tunnel. But at 3 pm that certain October day, I was finally who I wanted to be, and where I wanted to be. I rememebr being in shock for a few days after. And when I came home, I was met with endless love and celebration. 

People look at me today and assume it was an easy journey. Some people tell me I am too young to be a professor. Some tell me that I wasted years amongst books. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. It was never about the degree. It was simply about love. 

   
     

What Went Right

As this blog remains a personal rather than an academic one (but the personal and the academic are always intertwined for me), I was hesitant to write about this. But here goes. Recently I have suffered from a physical relapse, one that has hindered my ability to walk. I have also developed tremors, a very nasty and frustrating shaking that does not seem to go away. I won’t go into the boring details, but suffice it to say that it has been a challenging month.School started, and faculty had to go back to campus. I was very hesitant about showing up to school with a cane. Yet I did, and it was fine, but of course there had to be one remark that infuriated me. A superior suggested that it was “all in my head” and that I should “toughen up.” At the time, I was struck by the audacity, and was unable to respond. Later, of course, I dealt with the situation. But again, this post isn’t about negativity or what went wrong.

Let’s talk about what went right. I went to the University of Oxford for a conference I had been so excited about. I had spent months waiting for this conference, waiting to visit Oxford, to speak at the conference. I was giving a paper on madness and its potential for subversion. I never imagined it’d be like this – that I would go alone, and that I would go not as functional as I would have hoped. Simply, I was scared. When I voiced my fear to a wonderful person, Dr. Noor, someone with both a scientific background and an interest in Disability Studies, she told me that my fears were “perfectly normal.” A conference, in itself, is nerve-racking, she assured me, and to add to that, a body that is struggling to make it. We had met during an informal meeting to discuss our careers, but we quickly established a strong connection. Dr. Noor and I work from similar angles, similar research frameworks. We consider the ways by which illness and the body is socially constructed, how a sense of identity emerges, and the importance of dialogue between physicians-patients-society. This is a three way conversation which still needs to begin. 

I might be portraying Dr. Noor as simply a colleague, but she is way beyond that. She has helped me on a personal level, and is a friend I have been blessed with. Even when I suggested that I may be afraid of going to Oxford alone, her response was: “But I believe in you, Shahd.” We spoke about how hard it might be, but how I would have to get out of my comfort zone, if I really wanted to attend the conference (which I did)!

I am glad I didn’t give up on it. I was about to. Family and friends told me that there would be many other conferences, better health days. But if you know me at all, you would recall that I do live for the moment. I live for today. Maybe the circumstances weren’t the best, but I learned that every time it feels like it’s almost over, that is the crucial point where you shouldn’t give up. That’s the very moment where you shouldn’t let go.

I have been let go of, very recently. On a personal level, someone I believed would be there for me, there with me (at Oxford and everywhere else), has decided that it was time to move on. Of course this hurts. And it leaves you wondering where you went wrong. What you possibly could’ve said or done, or changed in yourself, to make them stay. At the same time, my walking ability has decided to let go of me, at least for awhile. Perhaps we’re on a break, as I like to think of it.

On the flight, I was recognized by students who made the connection that I was “Dr. Shahd” who teaches English. One of them was especially happy to be sitting next to me, and she was very friendly. When we landed in London, she noticed that I had a cane. The look of horror and shock on her face was something else. She couldn’t help herself and started asking so many questions. I responded and explained that I was okay, but she insisted on knowing “how” ‘why” and if I was “born this way.” That’s a story on its own, but again, suffice it to say that I handled it. 

At the conference, which was on madness, the social construction of illness, mental and physical, and its representations throughout history and literature – we spoke about how normalcy is overrated. I was reminded by a friend’s consolation of me by saying “Walking is so overrated.”

 But here’s the thing, at the conference, amongst academics, I felt like I finally belonged. A professor of Schizophrenia and madness, asked me how I felt about MS. I explained that it was a random disability, and I alternated between the binary of abled/disabled. He called it “Bonkers!” and asked me to “enjoy!” Richard and I became good friends afterwards. He was right to suggest that it was bonkers, and to tell me to enjoy, because this strange state of being human is always enjoyable, in its complexities, its inconsistences, and its nonsense. 

And maybe what went right was that it was okay that everything went “wrong.” 

Here are some images of the trip. 

   
     

My New Book

My first poetry collection is now available on Amazon. Here is the link: http://www.amazon.com/Love-Loss-Shahd-Alshammari/dp/1631358901/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1433966269&sr=8-1&keywords=on+love+and+loss+shahd

I expect that copies will soon be available in Kuwait. I don’t claim to be a poet, or a writer. This is merely an experiment, as all things in life are. Trial and error. Let’s see how it goes!

Personal Feminism

When you tell people you’re a feminist, especially academics, they expect you to believe in some universal definition, in a description that almost sounds formulaic. When you tell men that you’re a feminist, they tend to cringe or roll their eyes. Then there are those who refuse to be labeled as feminists, for fear of identifying as less feminine, more butch, and isolating the opposite sex.

But I am a feminist. And in a very personal sense. Most of my friends and social circle today believe that I have always been a liberal, that I grew up granted a freedom which others would view as normal human rights. This wasn’t always the case. By the age of four, I was aware that everyone around me made fun of my curly hair. Both women and men, even random strangers, advised my mother to tame it, to make me look more like a girl. When I started school, the dress-code was dresses for girls. This wasn’t okay with me. And so my mother let that spark of rebellion grow – until that spark turned into anger, and anger turned into motivation, and motivation turned into a desire to be treated equally, equal to my brother, who at the time was treated better at home, even though he was younger. He had something I didn’t have: born with a male organ. It was that simple.

When I tell people how constricting my childhood and teenage years were, they smile in disbelief. Yes, I was in a private, co-ed school. But nobody knows how hard my mother fought for my education (and my sisters’, for that matter). In my father’s community, girls were meant to be married by the age of 18, if not earlier. They were meant to cover up. To wear long dresses. To tie their hair. To not attract attention. To not have guy friends. To learn how to cook. To eat after the men in the house, never eat with them. To stand meekly near the door while they shoved their way in. To bow their heads when spoken to, never to talk back, and to always, always, appear as polite and modest as ever. How does that fit with the ideals of an American education? Paradoxical much?

My mother introduced me to feminism at a very young age. She made me listen to Nawal Elsaadawi, because I had trouble reading her works in Arabic. She grew up in the 70’s reading Nawal’s controversial and feminist declarations, sneaking her books into bed, and was constantly criticized for identifying with her. People around my mother labeled her as dangerous, immodest and wild. But it was this very same lack of immodesty, this wildness, that equipped her with the tools necessary to help liberate her own daughters. Standing in the face of a Bedouin community, she insisted on equal educational rights, on teaching her daughters that female slavery was not acceptable, and that there was a way out – no matter how long the journey took. It was no easy task. I recall crying and screaming at her to get me out of a community that made me feel inferior, shameful, and constantly lacking. I hated how school was marketed at home as a privilege, rather than a right. My peers believed school was their right, having boyfriends was natural, wearing stylish (and revealing) clothes was normal, and grades didn’t matter as much as having fun. For me, everything was considered a privilege, and could be taken away at any given moment.

My mother was shunned for her beliefs, and she was accused of raising women that would one day be too rebellious. But I know that if it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t walk out of the house with my head held high. I wouldn’t love my curls. I wouldn’t wear jeans proudly. I would worry about how society labels me.

The point of this long post: I took my younger sister to a conference where Nawal Elsaadawi was speaking. She got to meet her, and I got my mother a signed copy of one of her books. I told Nawal my mother raised us to be rebels. My sister was ecstatic, because like me, she has been raised to fight for herself and even more than me, to fight for humanity. My sister is a young activist, interested in human rights and politics. And my other baby sister is an artist who believes in breaking rules and transcending boundaries. We are three very different women, all the product of one Feminist, mom, who made sure we got an equal shot at life.

Here is an excerpt from Nawal’s speech at the Emirates Festival of Literature:

An Open Letter

I am not writing this to elicit your sympathy. This is not a cry for help. I am not interested in moving you. But, this is an open letter, to the world, to my family, my loved ones, and those I’m yet to meet.

I am a 28 year old who feels like a 60 year old. I look good, though, by society’s standards of “good looks” and a “healthy” appearance. I drive a Blue jeep, and you would never guess that there are days where I struggle with the steering wheel. I’m just about to get my PhD in English Literature, but I have spent years coping with chronic fatigue that has made my research nights incredibly difficult. There were nights when I typed up my thesis using one hand, one eye closed and the other half-peering at the screen. It took double the time and effort. Let’s just say, it was no easy road (but then again, a PhD journey hardly ever is).

But what bothers me? Is it the fact that I have Multiple Sclerosis, a progressive and degenerative disease that affects young adults? A random disease that has no scientifically proven cause? No, not really. MS is a hassle, but I have been living with it for twelve years. We’re pretty much acquainted now. What really annoys me, aggravates me, and leaves me wanting to constantly write about my experience with MS, is the lack of awareness and lack of understanding that I am faced with. People don’t get it. Not because they don’t want to, but because it’s difficult to believe someone with an ‘invisible’ illness. It’s difficult to imagine. And because you don’t see it, it’s hard to understand.

I am tired of people telling me to take vitamins to feel better. I am tired of people telling me to avoid stress and “stay positive.” How do you actually avoid stress? Stress is amongst us. Stress is just a part of life. You can’t help it, no matter how aloof, and even numb you are. We all interact with others, and just that simple interaction can raise ‘stressful’ situations. Should I curl up in bed and hide? I refuse. It’s just not me. I want to live. I want to experience it all. The good, the bad, the stress, and the peace.

People tell me I should try this diet, or go to the gym, or try this herbal potion, or this magic recipe that is bound to cure me. Now, I haven’t actually asked for advice from the general public. I would think that my doctor would know better, so I usually turn to him. But my inability to keep up with people my age, my constant fatigue is sometimes (not always, to be fair), considered ‘boring’, ‘old’ and ‘lazy.’ The fatigue that MS patients suffer from is not your everyday fatigue. It is not how you feel after a sleepless night, or after a long flight from the States to Kuwait, or during the flu, or even from a major hangover. Maybe, it’s all of the above combined, along with a heavy, strained body. And it happens every single day, for no reason at all. It happens randomly, it happens at work, while you’re driving, while you’re out for lunch with a friend, or after you’ve just woken up. No amount of sleep or rest can relieve the fatigue. It’s just there, it’s a part of you – your shadow.

And here’s the thing. I don’t want to be lazy. I don’t want to be old, or boring, or miss out on that gathering, or that party, or be unable to stay awake. But it so happens that sometimes, I am that person. And not by choice. But I have learned to deal with it. I know that sometimes MS fatigue gives me slurred speech. I know that sometimes, I may appear drunk (when I really am far from it). And I just wish people would understand that there is nothing that I can do about it, and that they can’t either. There is no cure. There is nothing I can do in terms of my “lifestyle.” Except, ask for your understanding, and not your advice or sympathy, although I know that it is done out of good intentions. We hate watching those we love suffer. It’s not exactly easy, I know. But sometimes, just listening, just smiling, just saying that you “understand” is more than good enough. It’s genuine and I truly do appreciate it.

A dear friend, also a writer, has urged me to write. It is perhaps the best advice anyone could give me at this stage. And it looks like I’ll keep writing about my experience with MS. Writing eases the pain. It voices what I cannot say out loud. It urges me to share my vulnerabilities and my strengths without the fear of rejection. It’s up to you to choose to read and what you choose to do with the information I hope to provide. This is a lens into my world – and perhaps the world of many others who suffer from invisible illnesses, disabilities, or just pain, be it mental, emotional, or physical.

‘Considering Disability’ – new academic journal

call for editors_Considering Disability

I am so excited about this new project. I am the Rest of the World Editor for this journal: http://www.missguscoth.co.uk/ghdc/consideringdisability/

We are currently looking for copywriters and proofreaders. As this is a journal that promotes global disability studies, we are very keen on recruiting people with an interdisciplinary approach and an interest in disability studies.

Please contact : consideringdisability.editor@gmail.com for more information or to apply for the position.