Cultural Inheritance

-Mother

My mother has an almost cellular connection to Andalusia. On top of having great taste, she's always drawn to late moorish art and architecture.

This woman has been quietly, and often loudly, by my side through thick and thin- Regardless of the ease of our relationship status. We're not strangers to some animosity between us, and the feeling of seeing past each other. I hope she knows I always have respected her. My mother made herself queen of her own castle- one she build from scratch. This woman has broken generational curses through sheer willpower and dedication, and thrived in environments in which anybody would wither.

She has eyes that have seen all and perhaps too much.

I only know half of how hard life has been in her shoes.

She's a CEO, a fashion icon, a singer, a teacher, a beauty, a woman, a daughter, sister, a wife... 'Mother' is just one of her many names, and I've grown to see her as an individual who loves me dearly- not just because I'm her child but as a person in my own right.

She's taught me how to extend love. That love isn't a neat little one-size-fits-all package, and that the real deal is unconditional.

I love you, mami.

-Father

My father can be depended on. Not for everything but the important things. He became my father in practice when I was age four, and aged twelve he gave me his family name. He taught me important lessons, mostly practical teachings on family, dignity, charity, and open mindedness.

We don't see each other half as often as we should, nor a fraction of how often we'd like.

I've learned from him through observation- as he is a man of practice. How to treat others, how to eat well, how to care consistently. That care and love are on the same branch they're not dependent on your wallet. Money comes, money goes. Just remember where you got it, and be mindful of how you spent it.

In a world where life is cheap, and the spoken word is cheaper, he taught me how to add value, and how to contribute in bénéfice to family, and the wider community-

At his best, he practices good daily living in awareness of mortality. He meets people where they are instead of demanding they meet him- this social art extends further than just my father, and our family name. What I understand now, grown myself, is that he gifted me the best of the world we live in, as opposed to just passing on cultural inheritance. Using his sharp mind, and good heart, he filtered all his knowledge on living for his children. What a task.

He only ever truly cared about being a good father and a good Muslim, and I can say with confidence he intends to do both well.

And I will not stand to hear the contrary.

I love you, papi.

-Self

I spent much time thinking of my own journey, now well into my adult years.

An image came to me in a dream- my knees were crying camels. I wished somebody would do them the quiet dignity of wiping their eyes clean.

After years battling along the same road, I forgot if there was ever a destination. I'm still unsure if I'm well or just somewhere that feels internally homely. For me, it's unclear if the journey is over, or will ever be.

If I had half the grit of my mother, and half the heart of my father, I wonder how life would have turned out this far.

I wonder if I could honour my parents more than I currently do, through real world, tangible results. There's a gap between how I wish to honour them, and how I do.

I will learn Darija, papi, and I will earn a living for myself, mami.

Perhaps the time has come to shed the mentality of 'I'll die trying' and just do. Perhaps the standards my parents placed upon me are not as high as the standards I've imposed upon myself and I've conflated the two.

I'm learning myself. Still. Self-knowledge being the gift that keeps on giving. Dig deep and prosper, one might say.

And boy, do I dig. Deep. Truth being the pernicious compass I follow. I try, and know God loves a trier.

I have learned to love myself.