How can I prove my existence
when my name is absent from official documents,
replaced by foreign characters,
when they urge assimilation?
when the map crumbles,
bricks collapse,
and I run to the edge of this Earth, where lost children gather and play,
bound by unspoken laws of being?
How can I reveal my grandmother's essence,
with her braids, tinted with titian red and silvered by time,
her thick Latakia accent,
and the embrace of her olive trees?
when they distort my name,
reshape my eyes,
erasing the familiarity of home,
jasmine-scented air,
and my name held meaning?
Yet, I've complied:
1. signed papers
2. learned the language
3. posed for passports
4. sang the anthem
5. celebrated with other displaced souls
I've chosen to tread unfamiliar waters,
leaving an unnamed child behind
How do I prove her existence,
when the bridge between here and there lies shattered?
-
She, too, ventures to the Earth's edge, where lost children gather and play, while her mother beckons her home.
"It will soon grow dark, my love."
"Mama, just a few more minutes, please."
-
How can I prove this existence
when they fragment me,
blur my past,
wrench my roots?
when she remains absent,
when she never returns.
The Animal with My Face
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Alberta’s Book Ban: A Dystopian Reality
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When Ryan Coogler’s Sinners hit theatres this spring, I expected style, atmosphere, and a dose of supernatural dread. What I didn’t expect was a politically charged, allegorical horror epic that tackles cultural appropriation, the cycles of colonization, and the politics of assimilation—all set to the raw pulse of 1930s juke joint blues. This film doesn’t…
Anxious Thoughts
Navigating life’s uncertainties, one word at a time
Anxious Thoughts 
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