CulturalCreatrix

Creating a new cultural identity as a bicultural woman through words, images and prose

[culturalcreatrix]

First magical prayer cast in my new space. Saying no to my animus-wound/possession, Saying yes to a healthy relationship to my animus and the masculine. Saying yes to a fully embodied life. Deep prayerful bow @kaydama 💖

[kaydada]

That’s Sep, ya’ll

CulturalCreatrix

[culturalcreatrix]

thanks to kel for capturing such a beautiful image!

[kaydada]

Afton Arms,

Los Angeles.  Sep’s hood.

[culturalcreatrix]

The Nutcracker, Republicans and a 6 year old Iranian girl

When I was about 6 or 7 years old my mom operated an in-home daycare center. I remember coming home from school to a houseful of toddlers and feeling a mixture of anger and anxiety that I did not have my mom to myself. 

She had a client, a couple, who took me to see the Nutcracker one year. I remember feeling oh so very special. I had never been to a ballet before. I wore a burgundy velvet dress and black patten leather shoes. I felt grown up, beautiful and rich. We were not rich by any means. My childhood was filled with both my parents working and attending school. I have memories of my mom cutting coupons out of newspapers and whipping out her coupon book at the grocery store when it came time to pay for our food. But I never wanted for anything, I never felt the sense we were poor just knew it intuitively that we had less then my peers. 

Being invited to the ballet was a big deal. It was one of my first grown-up outings that I got to experience without my parents. The theater was magical, the quite hushed tones, the opulent dresses of the women and suites of the men. I felt I had entered some forbidden sanctuary. And then I saw the ballet. I had never seen the Nutcracker before, not even on TV. I fell in love with the magic and story that unfolded through dance and music. A part of my soul was awakened that I did not know was asleep. My child eyes drank everything in, greedy for more not wanting the night to end.

On the drive home, I casually mentioned to the couple who happened to be Republican and whose names I have long forgotten that my dad had escaped Iran illegally via mule across the Turkish border. Upon our arrival home the couple expressed their concern to my mom of my active imagination putting my mom in the awkward position of explaining that actually I was telling the truth. 

That evening I learned two things. One that there was a magical world out there that I had just gotten a glimpse of, where little girls were treated like princess. And two, that even though my parents openly shared our family story with me, there was an unspoken rule that I was not to share our adventures with outsiders. 

To this day, I rarely talk about how we ended up in the United States and the reasons why. There are many close friends who have known me for years and do now know the whole story. This is not on purpose. Only that family secrets are hard to break even as an adult.

[culturalcreatrix]

I love her and the soft way she holds the world

[culturalcreatrix]

Moments

There are moments in my life when I pause and give thanks for the choices I have made. One of those moments is choosing to move to Los Angeles. I was young, 27 years old. A self-proclaimed gypsy, fuck-it attitude living a life I thought was anti-establishment. Little did I know I was about to rock my world, turn it upside down and inside out. 

I moved to LA on a whim, a strong intuitive pull. Seriously. I knew all of two souls one a close sister who moved up north within a few months and another a lover who stopped talking to me. 

Those early weeks I couch surfed (a tale for another day) and walked. I walked and walked, it was what I knew to do well. As a baby living in post-revolutionary Iran my mother and I spent hours walking the parks until dark when it was safe for us to return home. My mother and I walking the streets of Modesto, Indianapolis, Colombia, Maryland. Then later as an adult walking on my own discovering exotic towns and cities. So I walked, discovering the westside and clearing my head. 

I would often end up at the beach watching the sun sink into the ocean dousing the sky with brilliant hues. It was a time of utter confusion, of heartache and break, in a way I had never felt before. I remember thinking this is what they mean when your heartbreaks, it literally breaks in half and hurts with every breath. 

Those weeks will always hold a tender spot in my heart. The courage of a young woman to leave all that she knew and step into the unknown. So every once and awhile I stop, pause and give thanks for following the impulse that brought me to LA. And to that young woman who had the wisdom to say YES!

[culturalcreatrix]

A Cat Named Natasha

I remember my first taste of heartbreak. I must have been about 5 years old. Newly immigrated to the United States and living in Indiana of all places. My dad came home one day with a Siamese kitten. She was the most adorable and beautiful creature I had seen. It was love at first sight. Love mixed with a little terror. I was an only child and this Siamese kitten, which we named Natasha, was my first constant company. I would dress Natasha up, pull her tail and desperately want to cuddle with her. Natasha despised being dressed up, poked, prodded and forced cuddled. She retaliated by scratching me, hissing and running away much to my dismay.

My family went away for a week and my dad in his inexperience locked Natasha in the bathroom. To his credit he left her enough food but upon our return Natasha was not the same. She was frantic with energy and angry, very angry. At the time we were not aware that cats are social creatures and do not like to be confined to small spaces. Additionally, Siamese cats form incredible attachments to their human companions, they need constant play and become depressed if left alone for too long. Unwittingly we had traumatized poor Natasha. I still considered her my constant companion and my best friend, but she was even more unapproachable after her stint in lock-up.  

Eventually after a year or so of living in Indiana we moved to Maryland. To my horror I was told Natasha would not be able to accompany us. I was heartbroken, torn apart and inconsolable. We found a home for Natasha with a neighborhood friend. One afternoon a few days before our departure my mom and I took Natasha to her new home. Natasha was furious with us. She ran up to the top of the stairs, hunched down and started hissing at everyone and everything around her. I still remember the look in her eyes burning with anger, fear and betrayal. Her eyes are forever seared into my memory. I did not understand why Natasha was not able to come with us. It was my first taste of heartache and betrayal. 

Years later in my thirties when I was visiting my parents in New York we started talking about Natasha. My father expressed regret in the way we treated and abandoned her. We all got a little misty eyed as we reminisced about Natasha our only family pet. Upon my return to Los Angeles I decided I was finally adult enough to adopt my own cat.

I set about creating a welcoming atmosphere for my new furry companion. I woke up early the day of the adoption and arrived at the shelter just as they were opening. I walked up to the counter and stated, “I want to adopt a cat. I want to adopt a street cat.” The attendant looked at me and said “Why a street cat? They are mean and feral there are so many house cats that need a home.” I could not argue with the man’s logic, after all I wanted a cat but I wanted a cat that I could snuggle with and one that would not tear up my furniture and scratch me every time I tried to pet it.

He led me to the first room of five. Each room had three rows of cages occupied with a cat and lined with newspaper. There was a tag identifying the animal with relevant information attached to each cage. The attended told me he would be back in a few minutes to take me to the next room. I just nodded; I felt an overwhelming sense of despair and sadness. How was I going to chose just one? I slowly started walking down the row of cages as tears rolled down my face. The scene from Dead Man Walking when Susan Sarandon walked down the row of prisoners to Sean Penn popped into my head. In a real way this was a life and death choice, in adopting a cat I was saving its life. I was trying really hard to keep it together and failing miserably. As I got to the first occupied cage a little brown paw stuck out of the cage and pulled me in. I lost it and started sobbing and turned around to look into the most magnificent sapphire blue eyes of a Siamese cat. She started meowing and continued to hold on to me. She had chosen me, ME. There was a frantic knocking from the window separating the room from the outside hallway; I turned to see a woman with her small son looking at me. The woman was gestating wildly and yelling I had to adopt that one, that one. I just nodded and wished this interloper would leave and let me have my moment with my new cat, because right then and there I knew this was the one.

I had to wait a day to take my new cat home and on my drive I decided that I was going to name her Natasha in memory of the original one, my very first love. My cat now, the second Natasha’s personality is polar opposite of the original. Her favorite thing is to snuggle in my lap. She still may yet carry some of original Natasha’s mischievousness, as my furniture has not escaped her sharp claws and she meows in protest when I pick her up for forced cuddles. But she also runs to the door and greats me with purrs and cat licks and spoons me at night. Natasha has taught me the sweetness of having a furry companion and to love another cat again.

[culturalcreatrix]

Target and the collapse of the Soviet Union

I remember when the Soviet Union collapsed. I was 10 years old walking around a Target with my mom. We were living in Modesto, CA at the time. Some manager came on the intercom apologizing for the interruption but he had some very important news to share. He then proceeded to announce the collapse of the Soviet Union. My mom and I were next to the jewelry department. We stopped right in middle of the aisle and I remember the look on my mom’s face, a mixture of disbelief and perhaps grief and concern. I remember thinking in my 10 year old head; wow this is a big deal. This is a really big deal.

As a child who was born on the tail of the Iranian Revolution to idealistic parents who regularly spouted Marxists and Socialists thoughts I was no stranger to the importance of the collapse of the Soviet Union, even at the tender age of 10. When most American children’s heads were filled with overindulgence of the 1980s and early 1990s I remember being taken to protests against the Gulf War and to feminist rallies. I remember seeing a screening of Fried Green Tomatoes with my mom at her community college; yes I was the only child present. But being surprised over her anger when I saw Dirty Dancing at a sleep over. My childhood was filled with such dichotomies, it was okay to be smart, in fact it was preferred, but when it came to sensuality there was an unspoken taboo.

Later that year at my elementary school we got to hold a piece of the Berlin wall. I remember being in awe, even in reverence and I remember thinking to myself most of my classmates probably did not understand the magnitude of the very act of holding a piece of a wall that symbolized an end of an era. Cold War politics still prevails in the global forum, how can it not, just as the wounds and trauma of WWII still affect the political landscape of the Middle East. But the stratification of East versus West has now shifted focus to Muslim versus non-Muslim.

To this day I am still in awe that I got the opportunity to hold a piece of the Berlin wall.

[culturalcreatrix]

[culturalcreatrix]

language and identity

Authentic communication. So often relationships boil down to the ability to speak clearly and compassionately. This requires a true vulnerability. Today I had an opportunity to practice this. I had to admit that I messed up. I brought my humanness into the room and let it sit there between me and him. My vulnerability sat between the two of us, hovering. I felt a simultaneous sense of relief and hesitancy. The room filled with tenderness, a reflection of two humans sitting across from each other trying to navigate the terrain of language, communication, seeing and being seen.

I am hesitant to use the word “authentic” for fear of playing into the word play of western spiritualism. A dictation of rules to be prescribed to demonstrating how spiritual one is. If you use the right words. Say the right phrases. Play the right game — then you are on the spiritual path. The process is a commandeering of language, sculpting it to fit certain ethos.

Language sets people apart as much as it brings people together. It is an identity distinguisher. It communicates where you come from, who you are. It reveals your socio-economic and cultural background. Language breaks down and creates barriers and provides a glimpse of first impressions. Language creates words. Words create prose, poetry, songs which in turn creates language.