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September 19 2017

kuroinekochris
14:23
1535 5db8
Reposted fromteijakool teijakool
14:22

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 rabbrakha)

@stonehenge-r

(via lexa-el-amin)

Reposted fromitslikerufus itslikerufus viateijakool teijakool
09:11
0675 4c14

Let It Fall

Reposted fromcat-gifs cat-gifs
kuroinekochris
09:08
"The Oktoberfest is an old German tradition where 12 children, one for each month are sacrificed to the Great Loaf to grant us a good harvest" -- https://twitter.com/actual_seidou/status/909202023458975746
Reposted fromgruetze gruetze
kuroinekochris
09:07
Reposted fromjessor jessor viabvd bvd

September 18 2017

kuroinekochris
21:33
Reposted fromFlau Flau viamfmfmf mfmfmf
10:17
1489 f18e

synchronized swimming from... underwater

Reposted fromKnoeggi Knoeggi viaSpecies5618 Species5618
09:51
6100 af84 500
Reposted fromnepotism nepotism viastraycat straycat

September 16 2017

12:32
7559 3583 500

dinnikeato:

banshy:

Bow Lake by Suki The Cat

What MTG card is this art from

Reposted fromSecret-H Secret-H viastraycat straycat
kuroinekochris
12:31
1249 8174 500

A rat would be placed in a cage and given two water bottles: one containing only water and one containing water that was laced with heroin or cocaine. The rat almost always preferred the drug water and almost always killed itself within a few hours. So there you go — that's our theory of addiction.

Bruce came along in the 1970s and said, Hang on a minute, we're putting the rat in an empty cage. He's got nothing to do, except use the drug water. Let's do this differently.

So Bruce built Rat Park. Rat Park was heaven for rats. Anything a rat could want, it got in Rat Park. It had lovely food, colored walls, tunnels to scamper down, other rats to have sex with. And they had access to both water bottles — the drug water and the normal water.

What's fascinating is that in Rat Park, they didn't like the drug water. They hardly ever used it. They only used it in low doses, none of them ever overdose and none used it in a way that looked compulsive or addictive.

Reposted fromg33ky g33ky viastraycat straycat

September 15 2017

kuroinekochris
12:20
4085 9410 500
Reposted frommantonis mantonis viaghalbadious ghalbadious
kuroinekochris
12:19
7715 ed97
Reposted fromtrueloveortruepain trueloveortruepain viacats cats

September 14 2017

kuroinekochris
15:51
15:49
kuroinekochris
15:48
2112 0cb8
Reposted fromgket gket viamonotymoteusz monotymoteusz
kuroinekochris
15:48
Reposted fromgruetze gruetze viamanxx manxx
15:48
2385 5f51 500

we-are-rogue:

theoryvault:

Meet the woman who put 50 million stolen articles online so you can read them for free

Alexandra Elbakyan is a highbrow pirate in hiding. The 27-year-old graduate student from Kazakhstan is operating a searchable online database of nearly 50 million stolen scholarly journal articles, shattering the $10 billion-per-year paywall of academic publishers.

That’s the woman who founded Sci-Hub.

She has even been compared to Robin Hood, although she said, “Sometimes I think it is not a good comparison, since what he was doing was illegal. And sharing books and research articles should not be illegal.”

Reposted fromkneadedbutter kneadedbutter viamanxx manxx
kuroinekochris
15:47
0090 0ae9 500
Reposted fromcarlandlouise carlandlouise viabiauek biauek
15:44
1908 9dfe 500

witchedybitchedy:

ruby–wednesday:

thecharge:

ariaste:

margotkim:

This is the greatest progression of events I have ever read, where’s my historical gay romance novel about this

KING JAMES, CAN YOU CHILL?

Local King Cannot Stop Promoting His Boyfriend

where’s the lush period drama about this series of events?

fun thing about king James, this guy was fairly public about his bf (more public than what was acceptable). He threw lots of extravagant parties with his man on his arm. It pissed off the church obviously so to get them off his back, he’s the one that ordered the third translation of the Bible from Hebrew to English (the King James Version aka the Authorized Version) so the Bible every hot blooded all American Christian reads today was literally just written so a very gay king could fuck his boyfriend in peace.

Reposted fromitslikerufus itslikerufus viaghalbadious ghalbadious
kuroinekochris
15:28
Academic year me
Reposted fromyouthless youthless viamanxx manxx
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