Showing posts with label anecdotes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anecdotes. Show all posts
trigger warning. sexual harassment.
As you can assume from the title.
Since October, brave women have been telling their sexual harassment stories with the hashtag #MeToo. I thought I would finally share my own. This post is only limited to three stories, but there are more. More than I can care to have.
These are just three of the countless.
ONE
JULY 2016
A notification popped up. "Instagram: [someone] wants to send you a message." Almost instinctively, I tapped it as one does. On my screen was a grammatically incorrect wall of text and a picture of a Malay man's genitals. Short, stiff and gross.
"It's urs if u want it :P"
He said he masturbates to my Instagram. He wanted me to send pictures. He thought I wanted to. I told him he was repulsive. I blocked him and I went to bed.
I woke up the morning with a new notification. Different account, same person. He apologised, it was never his intention to degrade me. He asked me out for coffee, I declined.
He called me a 'stuck-up slut.'
I told him it was an oxymoron, and blocked him again.
TWO
DECEMBER 2016
Alone, wrapped in a plain brown hijab with headphones on, clutching heavy shopping bags. A Middle Eastern man, mid-to-late twenties, walked towards me. He held his arms out, gestured to my body. He licked his lips and asked if I was looking for a husband.
"Mashallah Habibi, you are too beautiful to be lonely."
"Talk to me, baby."
"I can make you so happy."
He followed me until I ran into a Marks & Spencers. I waited by the racks until he disappeared into the crowd. I didn't leave until thirty minutes later, when my heartbeat slowed down and my eyes weren't so red.
I took a cab back home that evening.
THREE
MAY 2017
I was talking to a male friend outside a busy pub.
I wore leggings and a red dress past my knees, he wore a blue t-shirt and jeans. We chatted about the end of first year when a man came over to us, looking for a lighter for his cigarette. We told him we didn't smoke. He offered to buy us champagne. We told him we didn't drink. He asked for our names. I lied, and said 'Harry.'
"Why do you have a man's name?" He asked in a thick Eastern European accent.
I joked, "Because I have balls."
The stranger leaned down and lifted my skirt. His eyes looking up. I swatted his hand, and pushed my skirt down. He then whispered in my ear, "You're too pretty to have balls."
I wanted to say something. "And you're too much of dick to get laid."
I wanted to slap him. Painful enough to leave a red welt.
I wanted to scream. Instead, my friend and I stood in awkward silence. The stranger walked away, still looking for a light.
"What the hell was that?" My friend finally spoke up. I sighed, crossing my legs. I pressed my arms against my chest, and wished I wore trousers.
"It happens."
Sexual harassment happens. Regardless of what is worn, regardless of time and place, regardless of company or lack of.
They weren't factors as to why I was harassed.
I was harassed because there are men in this world who think women are lesser than them. As if we crave their attention or demand their validation. There is a power struggle in them, that could be satisfied by demeaning women. In their eyes, we wanted it. We wanted them.
Whether we knew it or not.
Do you have any stories of sexual harassment?
with love,
It starts slow. Almost too slow.
The memories wash upon the shore. They dig into rocks before tumbling back to the sea. I sit alone by the bay, watching the waves shift in sunlight. It is too hot today. I sweat in this heat but I enjoy the view. Where the sky meets sea, and dance across the line.
I smile.
Today is a beautiful day. Today, perhaps, I can finally let go.
I am not good at letting go.
My bedroom is a prime example.
Ripped posters still plastered on my wall. Broken makeup still hidden in their drawer. Letters still kept in a box. I should throw them away. They take up too much space. Useless junk even a hoarder would find excessive.
Yet here they are. Still plastered, still hidden, still kept. They remind me of better times even as insignificant as they may seem, and were. No matter how much I urge myself to leave them, they still remain etched in memory. I wait for the day I may actually forget them.
And sometimes, on those rare days, I do.
It doesn't happen in an instant. I wish it did. I wish I knew when to let go. Rather, it happened gradually.
A slip of the small things first. Birthdays, car rides, moments I thought I'd remember forever. Instant, time past. My thoughts faded. I became forgetful. Then, after a while, maybe a month or year, the things that were once so necessary in life became a footnote. A mere addition.
One day, the posters will tear and letters will be burnt. As time passes, they will become a remnant of things that once were. And just that. Nothing else, nothing more.
That is when you know, you can finally let go.
shawl : Adlina Anis | top : Alia B.
jeans : Superdry | shoes : Summit
For this post, Ejam and I collaborated for a by-the-beach shoot. I wished I knew that beforehand. Then I wouldn't have worn heels. Rocks and heels do not bode well together. As I've found out in
my go-to Black Summit Heels and Skinny Jeans.
For this shoot, I wore my new Adlina Anis Tri Silky Satin Scarf in Black, and Alia B. Top, I dipped into the cold water. Sweat trickling down my head. I hear clicks from the camera, then adjusted myself. I repeated this process until I stepped back onto shore. My feet covered in sand and sweat trickling down my forehead.
It was all worth it for these shots.
Ejam Masle is a wonderful photographer, making my awkward poses seem graceful. Go check him out!
my go-to Black Summit Heels and Skinny Jeans.
For this shoot, I wore my new Adlina Anis Tri Silky Satin Scarf in Black, and Alia B. Top, I dipped into the cold water. Sweat trickling down my head. I hear clicks from the camera, then adjusted myself. I repeated this process until I stepped back onto shore. My feet covered in sand and sweat trickling down my forehead.
It was all worth it for these shots.
Ejam Masle is a wonderful photographer, making my awkward poses seem graceful. Go check him out!
"I am nineteen. You are twenty-one."
It starts like every other story. A boy meets a girl. They are young, careless and free. Just how they should be. Smiles exchanged, and a feeling growing. It wasn't love. No, not yet but it was something. Something they wanted.
It ends the way it shouldn't. A boy meets another girl. A girl becomes bitter. A girl writes a piece. And expresses it through an Open Mic Night a year later.
Whoops.
turban : Adlina Anis | earrings : (similar)
turtleneck shirt : Uniqlo | dress : (similar)
Photos by
I've worked with Kaleidoscope Studio before, all the way in 2015 for Shocktober. When I heard they were hosting an Open Mic night, I was compelled. I registered as a performer, and proceeded to freak out. I shouldn't have done this.
I had written a few pieces but I haven't been onstage for almost two years. It's been a while since I've had an audience that wasn't watching me through a screen. I will admit, my tongue no longer spits out words, rather rusty and stutters often.
That didn't stop me from filming it though.
That didn't stop me from filming it though.
More than anything else, it was a cathartic release. I forgot how much I enjoy being on stage. There is a comfort to speaking in public, unabashed and unafraid. Perhaps you need a bit of bitterness in your heart, and a kinder audience to watch.
Yet when you start speaking, all you can do is enjoy yourself.
I hope you enjoy.
with love,
He's got his head stuck in the clouds.
Only he could make the void so beautiful.
I pressed my head against his shoulder, hand on his chest. His breath was steady, so I followed. He knew where he was, where he stayed, where we left. So distant from the world, far away from those on the ground. He cherished his place in the heavens, forgetting the forsaken.
I asked him to take my hand. He refused to come down. But I never asked him to leave, only to let me follow. He still refused.
That boy's got his head in the clouds. No one was ever going to bring him down.
That boy's got his head in the clouds. No one was ever going to bring him down.
He keeps a cigarette tucked between his lips, strikes a match and finally lights up. He absorbs himself in the poison. Inhales toxins, exhales burden. I watch him blow smoke, I see his shoulders relax, and I almost catch him smile. He only smirks, never smiles.
"I shouldn't have done that," he chuckles to himself. I agree. He still finishes the whole pack.
His thoughts are clouded by sour memories he thinks he's accepted and mistaken metaphors we can't quite comprehend. 'I'm an old soul,' he likes to say. I nod along. He's too young to know and I'm too young to care.
I know enough my place in his world is brief. I care enough to make it last.
I know enough my place in his world is brief. I care enough to make it last.
"You are so young, so beautiful, and you've got your own world waiting for you."
He tells me things I already know. Whispers wisdom in the dark under wrinkled sheets. There is a kindness in his voice, slow drawls so tender. Almost as if he makes sense. I say nothing. Instead, I close my eyes and listen to his sermon.
"I have nothing," he continues, "I like being alone, and I'm fine with that..." His speech wanders. He has so much to say yet no one listens. I try, but in his arms, words suffuse and fade. I drift off to sleep where I feel most free. He floats away, back to his sanctuary in the clouds.
When I wake up, he is gone.
Wafts of his cologne still fog the air. It leaves me dazed. I cling to the bedsheets, I pretend he's here and perhaps, I think, he'll reappear. Hours pass before I stand. In my misty state, I pull the curtains back. I smile.
Wafts of his cologne still fog the air. It leaves me dazed. I cling to the bedsheets, I pretend he's here and perhaps, I think, he'll reappear. Hours pass before I stand. In my misty state, I pull the curtains back. I smile.
There is a clear blue sky; sun shining and no clouds in sight.
end.
glasses : Ebay | shawl : ShawlByVSnow
blouse : Missguided | shirt : Primark | pants : CoveredbyAnnisa
SHOP THE LOOK HERE
SHOP THE LOOK HERE
Photos by
Time Optic Productions
Time Optic Productions
This is a work of fiction.
Obviously.
Head in His Clouds is in collaboration with Time Optic Productions. It was absolutely wonderful to work with them, having such a fun time filming this whole piece. In conjunction with this post, they made video here. Go check it out!
Obviously.
Head in His Clouds is in collaboration with Time Optic Productions. It was absolutely wonderful to work with them, having such a fun time filming this whole piece. In conjunction with this post, they made video here. Go check it out!
So, have you met a boy in the clouds?
She said to me,
'You're almost pretty, but not quite.'
'You're almost pretty, but not quite.'
I wished I were but I’ve looked at my reflection long enough to realise it would never be.
Instead, I forced myself to try. Artificially, superficially, pretty. I caged my teeth in metal terrains for three years. I starved my waist three inches in three months. I hid my bruises beneath bright dresses. I started to smile more. People began to notice me.
It is then I wondered.
Is this what pretty feels like?
Oh, this is a trilogy I see.
I've been writing more this year, I note.
I flip through the pages of my book. Ink-stained fingers, blue and black. I smile to myself, recalling each reason I wrote each word. Most snippets were crap, these were feasible. Feasible enough for me to publish.
So here is another edition of Words in Books I'll Never Write...
It's filled with friends, food and the odd screenshot. I wish it were as curated as my Instagram. Instead, it is messy, wild and carefree. An almost perfect portrayal of my life now. I'm not complaining, I revel in the chaos.
But there are times, when I realise how much I miss blogging. I could organise my life in each post, assign significance to an outfit, or pretend I know things I actually don't.
I want to go back to blogging. I miss it.
But there are times, when I realise how much I miss blogging. I could organise my life in each post, assign significance to an outfit, or pretend I know things I actually don't.
I want to go back to blogging. I miss it.
My first thought is to apologise.
I forgot to update this blog on adventures I've had, and the stories I want to tell. There are drafts still here. An unfinished story from Easter Break, a love letter, and scripts for the next few weeks. My second thought is 'no one really cares.'
I forgot to update this blog on adventures I've had, and the stories I want to tell. There are drafts still here. An unfinished story from Easter Break, a love letter, and scripts for the next few weeks. My second thought is 'no one really cares.'
People forget, I forget.
I don't want to explain myself, give excuses and repeat. I don't want to write a long-winded concession. I don't want to do anything but say, I'm here.
Hi again.
I still want to tell you a few things. I am a blogger after all. Bloggers demand you know every good thing that happens to them. To make life seem more interesting.
six good things to note.
I removed my braces.
I saw Jon Bellion perform.
I watched Harry Potter & The Cursed Child. (met the cast, and proceeded to cry)
I finished my exams. I'm going back home.
April and May were good months to me. In general, the first half of 2017 has been a good year despite its rough start. I am back in a familiar place. Sitting in my bedroom, storage boxes stacked and waiting for a call. I am happy to say I'm happy. I hope it continues, pessimism insists it won't.
Someone asked if I will start blogging again. I nodded and said, 'Yes. Just give me some time.' They furrowed their brows, and ask why I didn't start earlier. Why did I take a break for so long?
I shrug.
"Life happens. That's all."
what's going on in your life?
"i don't seek lovers. i seek muses."
- every pretentious prick ever
More specifically, the pretentious prick in a red scarf.
Falling in love is a fickle thing. One that I cannot describe so easily. Many young writers have written novels about love, romance and its in-betweens. They express their love of love in ways the brain may be able to seek. These writes know love. I am not one of them.
Instead, I sit on my bed. Behind my board and books, and just talk about love. And why falling out of love is okay.
Yet still not enough.
It has almost been a year since the first edition. I featured three passages from a book literally titled 'Words In Books I'll Never Write.' I've switched books since then.
My best friend gifted a cardboard-covered book, with my favourite quote printed in gold. I squealed and told her I loved it. I keep all my slices there, filling it in whenever inspiration strikes. After a year, I decided to write up another post.
Here is another page from words in books i'll never write.
My best friend gifted a cardboard-covered book, with my favourite quote printed in gold. I squealed and told her I loved it. I keep all my slices there, filling it in whenever inspiration strikes. After a year, I decided to write up another post.
Here is another page from words in books i'll never write.
you smile.
"For tonight?" I ask, just as arms wrapped around my waist.
You nod.
"For tonight."
"For tonight."
I smile, caressing your face nuzzled in my shoulder. I can imagine you differently. I let your face remain the same. Brown hair and flushed skin. Slender and young, a wickedness lighting your eyes. I'll call you beautiful for tonight, as you will call me perfect. Plain lies we tell ourselves, and I almost believe it.
This isn't love, but we can pretend it is.
"There is not a single word in the whole world
That could describe the hurt."
That could describe the hurt."
I kept your heart in a glass box.
You gave it so willingly, asking me to keep it safe. You kissed my hands and wished me well. So I left it in the box, tucked away in my drawer. Every night since, I checked to see if it still beats for me. I always smiled at its glow. Tonight was different. Tonight, I removed it from its cage. Tonight, I held your heart in my hand.
This is where we end.
I never wanted this to happen. Staring at the concrete ground, refusing to look at you. My breath slow and tears swelling. I hold everything back, you say nothing. We both realise then where we stand. After a long silence, I finally speak. Three words; barely a whisper. I repeat it again and again, until I cry.
“I’m so sorry.”
How were you to know, we would end like this?
i doubt it, but i'll give it a shot.
"A New Me."
The new year also brings around the idea of a new identity. The hopeful slogan scrawled across online pages. Magazines telling you to change. Be nicer, get fit, study hard. Become a better person than you are now. I've never quite believed this.
Nevertheless, here I am. As usual; cup of coffee in my hand and glasses hiding my eyes. There's a nervous tick, ball of anxiety as I try to explain. This is a new year, but not necessarily a new me.
It's just me.
It's just me.
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