Written by: Nour Kamel
I think of the road trip in loving silence with the one I love, through Arkansas to see an art museum funded by the Walmart clan and full of American art in the middle of nowhere. How beautiful all the hues were, all the light.
I don’t think about the dilemma of exposure, that finding a nurse or home for pops after his stroke poses his already shortened lifespan, made shorter by a pandemic, caring for him by myself for the better part of this year.
I think of the hostel in Chiang Mai that was red and had a cafe on the bottom floor, where I saw a beautiful Thai trans woman sitting so blissful with her date, so normal with her date – something I had never seen before and never thought I would be lucky enough to see – and felt immediately “I could live here” and still think about living, just there, in that moment.
I don’t think of all the gender performing I’ve done body and mind, for myself and others, just to stay whatever ‘safe’ means anymore in a place I call desperately ‘home’ – where a rainbow flag is a symbol of exile, instead of hope, but you can wear it printed on a face mask if the rest of you looks ‘right’.
I think about those long drives to Sahel every summer, mama at the wheel, staring at the back of her neck in love and awe at the wholeness of her, that independent aloneness of doing everything for her kids herself.
I don’t think about how many more rounds of chemo she needs, and how maybe after I can see anyone who isn’t immediate family without feeling guilty, without feeling like leaving and coming back home is a tossup with someone else’s death.
I think of the time I went to San Francisco without telling my soulmate first, surprised her at her door while she undid her braids and all she could do was joyously scream at me.
I don’t think about how I haven’t seen her in five years, how those years of distance tore and pulled us back together several times in love and stretches of silences, that we were meant to spend this birthday together, finally, and how I wanted to show her my home and hoped, in some way, that it would make her understand.
I think of the nights I spent in someone else’s bed and in the morning how they would convince me to stay, convince me to love them even when we both knew I didn’t, not fully, not in the way either of us would ever admit.
I don’t think about the feeling of relief just yet that comes with heartbreak, that comes after you realize you’ve been living in a haze of someone else’s making, that never had space for you.
I think of the bougie Gouna house with the pool and jacuzzi my sister rented for her son to not feel like the pandemic hindered his childhood in any way, pretending there was no covid in Gouna.
I don’t think about how everyone was walking around mask-free pretending there was no covid in Gouna, untouched, by everything, by this whole year – including me, who for a brief moment forgot what it was like to hold breath behind mask.
I think of the last time pops was truly lucid, when he drove nine hours across states with my sister just to see me for a weekend in Memphis, and how when I asked half-jokingly for my favorite chocolate cake from Dallas – there it was, waiting for me in the backseat of the car, something only pops would insist on doing: driving a piece of chocolate cake to his daughter because she asked.
I don’t think about anything, wrapped in his last blanket, especially the irony of being socially distant for nine months and him dying anyway.
I think of the nights in foreign places drinking with strangers who helped me home, safe in the dark, because that’s what you do.
I don’t think about all the men who have broken bodies, broken hearts, broken any will to keep letting men in.
I think of all the freedom and safety I had to be able to spend an hour walking between college and town, through quiet streets and parks, cemeteries and trees, practicing my whistling til I could whistle any song caught in my head.
I don’t think about how I can’t whistle with a mask on, breath caught, captured, muffled, tuneless – I carry no songs this year, and the dead never whistle back anyway.
*This text is a part of an Arabic publication (Open Letters) that highlightes our stories during the panademic as covid diaries. We choose to publish this text billingually to keep the writer’s authentinc voice.
Open Letters