the rambling woman

dig deeper   stuck in my head, sometimes okay here. also at akharlamova.com

"Я знаю что ты - моё счастье ненадолго; пусть - всё-таки я жила"

- Valery Bryusov 

"I know that you are my short-lived happiness. Let it be so, but I will have nevertheless lived."

(via tupaya-devushka)

(via russianhearts)

— 2 months ago with 23 notes

thepaperplaneofexistence:

I’d feel more comfortable with dudes opening doors for me if instead of saying “ladies first” they said “eagle one is on the premises, make way for madam president, I repeat eagle one is on the premises”

(via sorayachemaly)

— 5 months ago with 100181 notes
findinghealthyhappiness:

skylightdreams:

where has this been all my life??

this is how you get tea to not be bitter. I didn’t like green tea until I learned not to brew it with boiling water.

findinghealthyhappiness:

skylightdreams:

where has this been all my life??

this is how you get tea to not be bitter. I didn’t like green tea until I learned not to brew it with boiling water.

(via lipsredasroses)

— 5 months ago with 19171 notes
"i.

“Your name is Tasbeeh. Don’t let them call you by anything else.”

My mother speaks to me in Arabic; the command sounds more forceful in her mother tongue, a Libyan dialect that is all sharp edges and hard, guttural sounds. I am seven years old and it has never occurred to me to disobey my mother. Until twelve years old, I would believe God gave her the supernatural ability to tell when I’m lying.

“Don’t let them give you an English nickname,” my mother insists once again, “I didn’t raise amreekan.”

My mother spits out this last word with venom. Amreekan. Americans. It sounds like a curse coming out of her mouth. Eight years in this country and she’s still not convinced she lives here. She wears her headscarf tightly around her neck, wades across the school lawn in long, floor-skimming skirts. Eight years in this country and her tongue refuses to bend and soften for the English language. It embarrasses me, her heavy Arab tongue, wrapping itself so forcefully around the clumsy syllables of English, strangling them out of their meaning.

But she is fierce and fearless. I have never heard her apologize to anyone. She will hold up long grocery lines checking and double-checking the receipt in case they’re trying to cheat us. My humiliation is heavy enough for the both of us. My English is not. Sometimes I step away, so people don’t know we’re together but my dark hair and skin betray me as a member of her tribe.

On my first day of school, my mother presses a kiss to my cheek.

“Your name is Tasbeeh,” she says again, like I’ve forgotten. “Tasbeeh.”

ii.

Roll call is the worst part of my day. After a long list of Brittanys, Jonathans, Ashleys, and Yen-but-call-me-Jens, the teacher rests on my name in silence. She squints. She has never seen this combination of letters strung together in this order before. They are incomprehensible. What is this h doing at the end? Maybe it is a typo.

“Tas…?”

“Tasbeeh,” I mutter, with my hand half up in the air. “Tasbeeh.”

A pause.

“Do you go by anything else?”

“No,” I say. “Just Tasbeeh. Tas-beeh.”

“Tazbee. All right. Alex?”

She moves on before I can correct her. She said it wrong. She said it so wrong. I have never heard my name said so ugly before, like it’s a burden. Her entire face contorts as she says it, like she is expelling a distasteful thing from her mouth. She avoids saying it for the rest of the day, but she has already baptized me with this new name. It is the name everyone knows me by, now, for the next six years I am in elementary school. “Tazbee,” a name with no grace, no meaning, no history; it belongs in no language.

“Tazbee,” says one of the students on the playground, later. “Like Tazmanian Devil?” Everyone laughs. I laugh too. It is funny, if you think about it.

iii.

I do not correct anyone for years. One day, in third grade, a plane flies above our school.

“Your dad up there, Bin Laden?” The voice comes from behind. It is dripping in derision.

“My name is Tazbee,” I say. I said it in this heavy English accent, so he may know who I am. I am American. But when I turn around they are gone.

iv.

I go to middle school far, far away. It is a 30-minute drive from our house. It’s a beautiful set of buildings located a few blocks off the beach. I have never in my life seen so many blond people, so many colored irises. This is a school full of Ashtons and Penelopes, Patricks and Sophias. Beautiful names that belong to beautiful faces. The kind of names that promise a lifetime of social triumph.

I am one of two headscarved girls at this new school. We are assigned the same gym class. We are the only ones in sweatpants and long-sleeved undershirts. We are both dreading roll call. When the gym teacher pauses at my name, I am already red with humiliation.

“How do I say your name?” she asks.

“Tazbee,” I say.

“Can I just call you Tess?”

I want to say yes. Call me Tess. But my mother will know, somehow. She will see it written in my eyes. God will whisper it in her ear. Her disappointment will overwhelm me.

“No,” I say, “Please call me Tazbee.”

I don’t hear her say it for the rest of the year.

v.

My history teacher calls me Tashbah for the entire year. It does not matter how often I correct her, she reverts to that misshapen sneeze of a word. It is the ugliest conglomeration of sounds I have ever heard.

When my mother comes to parents’ night, she corrects her angrily, “Tasbeeh. Her name is Tasbeeh.” My history teacher grimaces. I want the world to swallow me up.

vi.

My college professors don’t even bother. I will only know them for a few months of the year. They smother my name in their mouths. It is a hindrance for their tongues. They hand me papers silently. One of them mumbles it unintelligibly whenever he calls on my hand. Another just calls me “T.”

My name is a burden. My name is a burden. My name is a burden. I am a burden.

vii.

On the radio I hear a story about a tribe in some remote, rural place that has no name for the color blue. They do not know what the color blue is. It has no name so it does not exist. It does not exist because it has no name.

viii.

At the start of a new semester, I walk into a math class. My teacher is blond and blue-eyed. I don’t remember his name. When he comes to mine on the roll call, he takes the requisite pause. I hold my breath.

“How do I pronounce your name?” he asks.

I say, “Just call me Tess.”

“Is that how it’s pronounced?”

I say, “No one’s ever been able to pronounce it.”

“That’s probably because they didn’t want to try,” he said. “What is your name?”

When I say my name, it feels like redemption. I have never said it this way before. Tasbeeh. He repeats it back to me several times until he’s got it. It is difficult for his American tongue. His has none of the strength, none of the force of my mother’s. But he gets it, eventually, and it sounds beautiful. I have never heard it sound so beautiful. I have never felt so deserving of a name. My name feels like a crown.

ix.

“Thank you for my name, mama.”

x.

When the barista asks me my name, sharpie poised above the coffee cup, I tell him: “My name is Tasbeeh. It’s a tough t clinging to a soft a, which melts into a silky ssss, which loosely hugs the b, and the rest of my name is a hard whisper — eeh. Tasbeeh. My name is Tasbeeh. Hold it in your mouth until it becomes a prayer. My name is a valuable undertaking. My name requires your rapt attention. Say my name in one swift note – Tasbeeeeeeeh – sand let the h heat your throat like cinnamon. Tasbeeh. My name is an endeavor. My name is a song. Tasbeeh. It means giving glory to God. Tasbeeh. Wrap your tongue around my name, unravel it with the music of your voice, and give God what he is due"

Tasbeeh Herwees, ”The Names They Gave Me (via cat-phuong)

I am weeping.

(via strangeasanjles)

(Source: rabbrakha, via lifeinpoetry)

— 5 months ago with 75257 notes
fiestyhysteria:

randomly remembering a joke and laughing about it to yourself

fiestyhysteria:

randomly remembering a joke and laughing about it to yourself

(via fatpeoplemakemehappy)

— 5 months ago with 530502 notes

cutesy:

by Norwegian conceptual artist Rune Guneriussen

lamps like mushrooms!

(Source: red-lipstick, via likecatchingfire)

— 5 months ago with 71499 notes

dinnerwasdelicious:

Roasted Beet Salad with Goat Cheese
We love beets and it’s not because they’re the only non-potato vegetable in our January CSA. We love them because they’re earthy and sweet and super fucking tasty. They are the most glamorous vegetable and look like gems and leave behind pools of perfect deep garnet. We even admit to loving them because we’ve read Jitterbug Perfume a few times too many. Even more, we may just love them for their greens.

Beet greens are not your average winter roughage. Somewhere between spinach and swiss chard, they balance being delicate and having the biggest balls in the room. They carry an earthy,  tannic weight, but are still mild and sweet like you’d expect from the thing growing out of your beets. Serve them raw in a salad or use them to replace your favorite cooking green, but our favorite application uses the entire vegetable. The irrepressible sweetness of the beet brings out the sharper tang of the green, while the oxalic acid in the greens amplifies the tender, almost creamy, texture of the perfectly roasted beet.

Roasted Beet Salad with Goat Cheese

  • 1 bunch Beets, no larger than than 2” diameter, with Greens
  • 4 tbsp Olive Oil, plus more for roasting the Beets
  • 2 tbsp Balsamic Vinegar
  • Salt and Pepper, to taste.
  • 2-4 tbsp Goat Cheese

Serves 2-4

Preheat your oven to 400 degrees and fill up a large bowl (or your sink) with cool water.
Separate the Beets and Greens from their stems. Place the Greens in cool water to hang out and get clean. Give the Beets a good rinse to remove any sand or gross stuff.

Loosely wrap the Beets in aluminum foil. There is absolutely no need to peel or trim them at this point, so don’t. Those things will slide right off once cooked, kind of like roasted red peppers. Place your aluminum foil packets on a baking sheet and roast the Beets until they are easily pierced by a knife, usually about 30 minutes.

After the Beets have roasted, allow them to cool on your counter until you can touch them without burning the shit out of yourself. This is a good time to begin preparing your Greens. Give them a good swish in the cool water, dry thoroughly, and roughly chop into pieces that you can easily fit into your face.

Heat 4 tbsp of Olive Oil in a small saute pan, and cook down the Balsamic Vinegar for a few seconds until it’s bubbly. Toss in the Greens into the pan for a few seconds, until they start to wilt, and remove the pan from the heat.

Once the Beets are cool enough to handle, wipe the nasty gross peel off with a paper towel and trim away any remaining squiggly ends or stalk. Cut the Beets into bite-sized wedges and toss with the Greens and the dressing left behind in the pan.

Season with Salt and Pepper to taste, and top with Goat Cheese. This salad is great hot, but makes a wonderful cold leftover that perks up a brown bag lunch, and goes great with a turkey sandwich.

Beets are awesome and I am making this tonight.

— 5 months ago with 192 notes

Who is this? I want to watch him tell stories all the time.

(Source: theepi-tomeofhyper-bowl, via fatpeoplemakemehappy)

— 5 months ago with 90382 notes
officialcrow:

nothing i expected. everything i wanted

officialcrow:

nothing i expected. everything i wanted

(Source: redwingjohnny, via fatpeoplemakemehappy)

— 5 months ago with 237540 notes

strugglingtobeheard:

anarchistpeopleofcolor:

California prisons sterilized female inmates without permission (by RTAmerica)

I’m going to watch this later but I’m boosting and posting because this happened very recently and needs to be brought to light

Un-freaking-believable.

— 5 months ago with 43668 notes
#eugenics  #2013  #forced sterilization  #california