“I identify as tired.” — Hannah Gadsby tl;dr: jazz, exhaustion, and the sighs heard 'round the world Ahlan, friends. I'm just finishing up my fifth week in Amman, and everything is still going well, alhamdulillah. Tomorrow we begin a new academic period, whereby our contact hours jump from 16 to 25 hours per week…Already the long days of back-to-back classes are reminding me too much of high school. My fidgety frustration hits me around the 2 & ½ hour mark sitting at a desk, just like when I was 15 and staring at the Westview ceiling. I should probably be taking more walks. Originally I'd intended for this post to be about music, a theme around which I am experiencing some exciting developments as of late. Not only have I had the privilege of seeing several friends’ bands live in concert these last few weekends, but a week ago I played the role of “jam leader” at my favorite jazz bar's weekly jam night. Not just that, but somehow I have convinced several talented instrumentalist friends to embark on a more thorough musical project, starting in November! (Please hmu with any cool band names you've been hoarding.) I’ve always imagined that my ideal musical adulthood would be some sort of monthly jazz set; soon I’ll be living that dream?! I wish I could spend the rest of this post talking about all that fun stuff. But I would be lying if I described to you these last couple weeks without acknowledgment of the dark and uninvited storm cloud that has been hovering over my days. I have been longing for the familiarity and comfort of friends and family, but in a different way; my last few Skype calls with my loved ones have undoubtedly carried more weight than usual. Lately, dreams have been punctuated by all-too-visceral nightmares. And this story is by no means mine alone. I am living halfway around the world from the actual proceedings, but the effects of the Kavanaugh hearings have rung loud and clear. The waves radiating from this sh*tstorm have found many a social string upon which to resonate (across settings, cultures, space and time) and for the last couple weeks I have found myself more sensitive than usual, even to the “little things.” My reactions to small tokens of injustice — a gendered slur, the self-indulgent gaze of a man on the street, a sudden, unsettling consciousness that I’m the only woman in the room — these reactions have been pouring out of a deeper place the last two weeks, a place of hyper-clear recognition about the interconnectedness of these outdated social practices and the violence being played out and replayed on the evening news. And Facebook. And Twitter. And group texts, family phone calls… When the news storm first started kicking up, I was initially grateful to be located so far away from an America that seemed to be talking nonstop about "good man'" Kavanaugh. In Amman, if I want to, I can go a whole day without talking about it. But it doesn’t take long for me to be reminded of the f**ked-up-ness of the world, whether by glancing casually at social media, or being helplessly harassed by a guy at the bar. These are not isolated events; they're a way of life. I will keep this post short. Others have said so much, and they have said it with so much more courage and grace and resolve than I can imagine. But it was important to me to let my friends and loved ones know that I am touched by this, too. Silence is not comfort. To those back home who need people to be there for them in these dark days: I am sorry for my absence, and please know you’re in my thoughts and prayers. I’m still here to talk, whatever the time difference. To those who are capable of doing some of the lifting these days: I hope you will. My heart breaks too often from the feeling that many of my guy friends would rather stand on the side and watch us continue to carry these burdens than take the difficult step of reaching out and offering to lift the weight. The undermining and abuse of women belongs to no country, no ethnicity, no religion. I wish fewer people would ask me “what is it like for women in Jordan?” and instead spend a little more time asking themselves about the weedy roots of power growing in their own backyards. It ain't Arabic, but I've been dancing it out to this song: الضوء جاي يا حبايبي
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