Hey there,

Come walk this through with me as I tell you about the impact of my cohort and I’s recent visit to the CHOICES Women’s Center in Queens, New York. It was a transformative experience in the sense that I got to confront my own cultural upbringing, grapple with the topic of abortion, and reaffirm my commitment to women’s autonomy and reproductive rights.

Growing up in Saudi Arabia and living in Ethiopia, as I tell you every week, I was no stranger to the taboos and legal restrictions surrounding abortion. The subject was shrouded in silence, and access to safe reproductive healthcare was severely limited, if not illegal, due to cultural and religious norms. As I entered CHOICES, I carried with me the weight of these societal norms, which had been deeply ingrained in my understanding of women’s bodies and choices for a long time.

Meeting Merle Hoffman, the founder of the CHOICES Women’s Center, was awe-inspiring. Listening to her life experiences and her unwavering commitment to providing a comprehensive and safe space for women seeking reproductive healthcare left a lasting impression on me. It was empowering to be in the presence of someone who had dedicated her life to advocating for women’s rights, especially in the face of the polarization surrounding abortion in the United States.

Before our visit, I had the opportunity to discuss the articles “Your Body, My Choice” by Dayna Tortorici and “The 13th Amendment Case for a Right to Abortion” by Liz Anderson with my cohort. These readings provided a fresh perspective on the historical and legal context surrounding abortion rights, challenging what is supposed to be the “traditional” narrative.

As I delved into the essay by Liz Anderson, I was struck by the connections drawn between the 13th Amendment and abortion rights. The historical understanding of slavery, as elaborated by Tucker, made me understand the broader implications of the 13th Amendment, which bans not only chattel slavery but also “the badges and incidents of slavery.” This includes any treatment that would mark someone as slave-like, which put into context how the civil disabilities faced by women in the 19th century due happened to the law of coverture.

Through this lens, I began to see the parallels between the struggles faced by enslaved Black women and the civil slavery endured by married women. Recognizing that abortion bans were rooted in the assumption that women lacked equal rights to their bodies and their choices, I understood that the fight for abortion rights is intricately linked to the fight against systemic injustice.

The CHOICES Women’s Center visit, coupled with these readings, reinforced my belief in the significance of individual autonomy and the right to make choices about one’s body without judgment or interference. It was clear to me that upholding reproductive rights is not just about protecting legal access to abortion but also about dismantling the deeply ingrained norms and biases that limit women’s freedom and agency. While I didn’t have a sudden life-changing epiphany, being in the presence of such fierce advocates reaffirmed my commitment to championing women’s rights. It’s not about becoming a completely different person overnight, but rather taking small steps to challenge the status quo and empower women in my own community.

CHOICES showed me that being a part of a movement doesn’t require grand gestures. It’s about showing up, being empathetic, and amplifying the voices of those who need it most. Even working the front desk of such a center sends a message. It shows a commitment to taking action and playing a part in fostering a world where women can make their own choices without judgment or fear. Any journey towards change won’t be instantaneous or without obstacles. It requires constant self-reflection and an ongoing commitment to advocate for women’s rights, especially for those who are marginalized and face the greatest challenges in accessing healthcare.

For me, this experience has ignited a fire within, urging me to actively challenge cultural norms and support organizations like CHOICES Women’s Center in college. As I wrap up this reflection, I hope it encourages you to reflect on your own beliefs, actions, and the ways in which you can contribute to a more inclusive and equitable world. Let us continue this journey together, advocating for the rights and autonomy of all individuals, regardless of their gender or cultural background.

Hello again! Today, I want to invite you guys in joining me on a profound journey of introspection as we delve into the intricate interplay between gender norms, cultural expectations, and personal growth. Inspired by two thought-provoking articles assigned to my cohort and I, we have Anitta Harris’ “The ‘Can-Do’ Girl Versus the ‘At-Risk’ Girl” and Iris Marion Young’s “Throwing Like a Girl: A Phenomenology of Feminine Body Comportment, Motility, and Spatiality”. I guess today’s blog will serve as my deeper understanding of the complexities inherent in challenging and navigating gender norms?

Being born and raised in Saudi Arabia and later growing up in Ethiopia, I was acutely aware of the ways in which societal expectations influenced my movements, interactions, and overall sense of self. I observed how subtle cues and norms shaped my behavior, from the way I walked, sat, and occupied physical spaces. Reflecting on my time in these cultural contexts, I recognized that societal expectations molded my movements by prescribing a specific set of behaviors deemed appropriate for a woman in each one. These expectations, although weren’t physically restricting me from doing otherwise, limited my freedom of expression and constrained the full potential of my embodied experiences. As Young references in her piece, society almost reduces women’s condition simply to unintelligibility by “explaining” as an appeal to some natural and ahistorical feminine essence. Young was not making universal claims about how all men and women experience and act in the world, but what is typical of women in a tightly defined historical and cultural situation.

Confronting these norms and navigating the complex interplay between cultural expectations and my own sense of self required deep introspection and critical questioning. I embarked on a personal journey of self-discovery, challenging societal notions, and seeking to reconcile my authentic identity with the expectations imposed upon me. It was not a linear process, but rather an ongoing exploration of who I am and who I aspire to be. This journey involved questioning the messages I had internalized, taking tiny steps to unravel layers of conditioning, and taking notes to redefine my own values and beliefs in the face of societal pressure in the future.

The articles acted as catalysts, igniting a desire within me to cultivate a sense of empowerment rooted in authenticity. They provided language and concepts that clarified my thoughts and emotions, deepening my commitment to challenge societal expectations however they may present themselves to me. By getting to read Harris and Young’s pieces, I gained insight into the ways in which gender norms perpetuate inequality and limit individual potential. While it is easy to point out instances of clear-cut inequality, I was made to think about the different and less obvious restrictions on the lives of young women and girls being just as insidious. For example, with the whole idea of “delay motherhood until you have reached full success as a woman” but then STILL being told that you haven’t reached full success until you have bore children for your husband. It reinforced my belief in the limitless capacity of each individual to shape their own life journey, regardless of societal constraints. This realization led me to make sure I am always fostering a space where everyone’s experiences and perspectives will be valued.

While I acknowledge that challenging societal expectations and fostering a more inclusive and equitable world is an ongoing process and not something that can necessarily be done the next day, these articles have propelled me to take tangible actions. I am already taking part in community-based projects (my internship this summer) that promotes gender equality, highlight the growth of young girls, and individually support organizations dedicated to empowering marginalized voices. Through education, advocacy, and personal growth, I strive to create a ripple effect of positive change in my immediate surroundings and beyond.

Thank you for accompanying me on this deeply personal exploration (ew, I know). I encourage you to embark on your own journeys of reflection, questioning, and growth as we collectively work towards a world that celebrates and respects the inherent worth and agency of every individual.

Today is a very special day. Somewhat because this week has been very ordinary in the sense of what I have come to understand as NYC living. Also, because today I will be attending my first Pride Parade — something that if you told me I would be doing this time last year, I would laugh at you. I also would assume, if you told me on June 25^th, 2022, that I would be going to a pride parade a year later, that you were trying to be a little more than just funny.  I would assume you were taking a shot at me, my masculinity, and my sexuality, somehow, and I would feel as if I had to respond. This may be a crazy way of thinking, but it is very common within our society of fragile and toxic masculinity. Not that I am that uptight and hurt by the words people use, but just that this is so rare for me in actuality. And if I am being honest, I cannot say that selling myself on going was easy. I had for so long adopted the societal norms surrounding me, calling such celebrations “taboo,” “demonic,” or even “disgusting.” When some of Alexa’s friends asked, “why I am going” or “why I want to go,” I initially froze. Well, why did you want to go? This question was so much easier to answer alone, privately, without having to worry about my answer being good or respectful. My answer then was perfectly suitable because it was my answer. So, avoiding potential deep conversations, I kept my answer to her friends’ short, saying that I would like to experience the parade, because I have never experienced one or anything like a Pride celebration before. But there was more to that answer.

And to be honest, none of it is even that wild. The summarized, quick answer is also somewhat legitimate. However, the rest of my reason coincides with our seminar discussion on moral communities, specifically focused on how I can become more hyperaware and hyperactive within such communities. The LGBTQ+ community is a community that I have always excluded myself from. I am a cis-gendered heterosexual man. Any relatives that I have who are a part of the LGBTQ+ community, live or lived very closeted lives in the terms of sexuality. Lastly, I was not even always on board of the support behind this community. But I also was not always educated, and I was once was simply young, stuck in the echo chamber of my hometown, and deemed this “sinful desire” of these people to be too much for me to sympathize with. As if my own sins, or the sins of the people in my family, friend group, or community, who were so against this movement, were not equal and possibly even more troublesome, than people identifying as LBGTQ+.

I want to touch back on the relative aspect, because that is honestly when my perspective on all of this really, really changed. By the time I got to Duke, I had adjusted to being conscious of how I treated people and what I said to people. I also had accepted the new thoughts that exploring and personalizing one’s sexuality and gender was not a crime. I thank Duke for this, but Duke was not even as large of an influence as I give them the credit for. Instead, I have to credit my late uncle, Uncle Fabian. My Uncle Fabo, as we called him, knew how to light up a room in a way that I have come to copy in my own life, by making jokes about others. Not mean jokes that a bully would tell. But truthful jokes, facial reactions, and significant sound effects to the outlandish things he heard/saw. He also knew how to take jokes and make them about himself. I loved this about him and wish that I could walk into a room that he would be in right now, just to hear what he would have to say about my hair, or my clothes. He passed away the fall of 2021, during my sophomore year. That time was dark for me. That time was also when my family became comfortable expressing to me that he was gay. Why wait this long? I understand not wanting to expose that to me at a young age. In trying to go with God’s words, much of the Southern Black population has come to place being anything other than straight as being under the jail, except for rare cases, such as my Uncle. For many members of my community, their greatest fear was a child being exposed to such lifestyles early and proclaiming themselves at a young age as “different,” as much of my community referred to non-straight or non-cisgendered people as. Nevertheless, by the time that I was a junior or senior in high school, me and my older cousin Darius had put two and two together. So why did we not let Uncle Fabian live his truth in the community we had then? Or was he doing so, just in a community that excluded me and Darius? And why? When I look back, I do not believe that my family or community handled it wrongly. Besides the religious argument, it was also important to remember that we are Black. My community knew that as Black children, we already had our back on the wall. We did not need additional reasons to be discriminated against. I’ve come to understand the situation as a necessary evil in some sort, in which exposure to the realm of sexuality and gender had to be removed to protect one from increasing the difficulty of their live, even if it was living in their truth. It is also important to consider that women were the pillar within my community, and they were determined to prove to themselves and to their men that they could raise a boy into a Man. Simply put, a Man was straight. I believe that for sometime, and even still now, this way of thinking has caused single mothers to avoid exposing their children to the spectrum of sexuality.

After Uncle Fabo’s death and all of the mourning, I thought about this circumstance for some time, and I wished I could ask him about it. Either way, his bravery and understanding that he would have to alter his own reality around his 18-year-old and 20-year-old nephews is something that I wish did not have to happen. Of course, I was too young to really voice my input on such the decision, and I obviously was too young during his life to have a seat at the table that heard about his sexuality.

So, as a way of honoring him, and as a way of becoming more hyperaware and hyperactive in my moral communities, I will be attending parts of the parade today. The same way I intentionally try to avoid bumping into people, I should intentionally try supporting people and being a cheerleader for others, even those that are different from me that I do not know. Life is too damn precious to not be understanding and there for one another. Continuing, life is too damn lonesome at times, for me to not try to be the best communal neighbor that I can be. Yeah, that can be tiring at times— worrying about how good and moral you are being toward others. However, this is worth it; we are all here together, and that deserves to be appreciated.

It used to be anger

Red hot

But as the air becomes toxic

The PM2.5 in triple digits

The sun obscured

The passion is waning

The disgust is gone

Replaced with sadness

That feeling that nothing will amount to anything

I can’t be mad at the inevitable

Even anger seems pointless in the face of it all

The world will burn

And I’ll burn with it

Bill Gates can sit laughing

All the people the Gates Foundation “lifted out of poverty” 

Burning

“I can’t with it anymore, literally what am I supposed to do?”, my sisters voice is screeching from my phone. She had left me a 3-minute-long audio message on Thursday, so I sat there isolated at my desk in the windowless Choices’ office contemplating her anger. I want to respond back with the burning rage that she cast through the speaker. While she exposed her sense of hopelessness, the booming passion she radiated told me that she still believed she could mend the world. I wanted that vitriol and fervor to wash over me, but I felt none. 

How could I tell her that when I saw the news about the Supreme Court ruling on affirmative action, I cried at my desk. Not even an impassioned cry, just silent tears rolling down my cheek. I couldn’t tell her that I went for a 5-mile run without a mask even though the sky was hazy with smoke. To mask up meant that you believed a future day would be clearer. It meant you believed there could be a future where the sky will be blue and it’s worth preserving your lungs for that future. I guess I’ve realized I’m slowly killing myself, but then again, all of us are slowly dying on a slowly dying planet, so what difference does it make? 

I used to have the ability to care so deeply it hurt, and I like that I see that in her now. The day I graduated high school, I submitted a 10-page document to my county’s board of education explaining how they had failed to raise a community of anti-racist teens. One lady immediately called me to espouse just how much she was moved by my piece of mind. Nothing came of that. 

For weeks, I helped set up early for protests at my county courthouse. There were poetry readings, vigils, and speeches from community members of all ages. Sometimes anti protesters would join the mix. Their calls for white power still haunt me. All of this was to get a confederate monument removed from in front of our town courthouse. Nothing came of that; the statue still sits proudly at our county seat. 

I held the phone up and began to record my response. I tried to raise my voice to match even a tenth of her rage, but the result was unconvincing. Lifeless. I told her that I didn’t know. That not a single action I had taken felt it had amounted to anything, that hours spent knocking on doors to register voters felt futile. I tried to end optimistically, but she’s too smart to see through thinly veiled illusions.

That evening, our MOXIE group went to the Museum of the City of New York, specifically to their “raise your voice” exhibition. The brightly colored room was a spectacle of aspirations. From every direction the sound of protesters’ megaphones and chants emanated. I believe I was supposed to register this dizzying display of the people’s power as a beacon of hope. Instead, I felt swept up in the futility of it all. The same emotional abyss that I felt reading the Supreme Court’s decision came back to me. The photographs and speeches lost their jovial tone. Instead, I felt that I was simply seeing the same cruel struggles play out in different time periods with different characters, but the carnage and suffering was the same. 

The fight for workers’ rights hasn’t ended. The Triangle Shirtwaist factory is now a Shein factory in China.

Orange juice strikes in response to Anita Bryant’s “save the children” have simply taken to new platforms like twitter in response to never ending transphobic and homophobic transgressions. 

I parked myself in front of a wall of screens. The movie playing was just a splicing together of clips from various protest movements over the last century. The sounds morphed into static in my brain. A dull thumping. When all the horrors of the world are at your fingertips, what does it mean? A call to action? Nothingness? A blank stare? Shaking your head disapprovingly then walking to your corporate job to go screw over nameless mothers, fathers, and children?

If a tree falls in the forest, who hears it?

If a protester calls for change, but the whole world screams for change, who hears it?

I don’t know.

I’m really tired.

I think I’ll go to sleep now.