The Piece and the Peace

*the writer has asked to remain anonymous

The Piece:

Before my lips ever wrapped around any type of smoke emitting paraphernalia, touched

any other person's lips, or spit out vulgarities, they would kiss my parents on the cheek

when they came home from work. Before these lips ever tasted fire, tar, and tobacco,

they danced and tingled at their first taste of ice cream. The same lips that repulsed from

the sensation of soda bubbles popping on their surface grew to feel much more than

that. Lips that would not have parted open for zucchini or green beans, now open wide

for Lexapro and green gummy bears. Parallels between powdered sugar traces and lines

of other similar looking substances have not been drawn, and I sigh in gratitude to all

the opportunities I missed.

Now my lips are confused. Mumbling prayers in prostration and then hurling insults in

road rage the next hour. They tell white lies when they need to, but they speak valiantly

when they can. They talk dirty in one moment and they clean up the next. They are the

thesis and the antithesis. They stand for the most honorable of values but caress the

most dishonorable parts. They tasted nicotine after every meal for a year or two, but

they did not forget the taste of dates. Honey isn’t the same revolutionary nectar to them

anymore. I wish figs and olives meant the same to my lips as they mean to the Book.

Perhaps my lips have lost their original disposition of innate nature:

in a sense; innocence.

Before my hair was pulled to please me, it was too frail to be braided. My aunts would

try to tie it with a hair band and fail because it slipped right out. I was born with a head

full of hair. It then fell off, of course, before it was born again. Before my hair was

gripped in a fist fight to expose my face and body to a flurry of punches, it was combed

by my baby sister, who would wet it and squint her eyes and lightly brush the strands.

I was six when my grandma would drive me to my friend’s house. I would sit on my

knees in her garden tossing rocks at a tree, while she and her younger sister stood

behind me, playing with my locks. I was nine when I first went to the barber, and my

mother had yielded the job of cutting my hair. It was the spring right after the Arab

spring, and hope danced in every heart. At that time everyone felt reborn, including

myself, and so I chose to shave it all off. My hair never silkily fell over my eyes again.

My hair is now confused. It curls up now. Is it shy from the world? Is it ashamed of the

head it’s attached to? I want to know. I decided to grow and nurture it, but it’s playfully

pulled by the wrong hands more than it touches the floor in sujood. It’s uneven in length

and messy. Spring has turned its back to me, and summers are never fun. Winter is

coming, and I need it to keep warm. Perhaps some hope is still due, as long as my hair

continues to grow.

The Peace:

Innocence and hope are two talking points that come up whenever I attempt to make

peace with my inner child. In the end, he is the reason for the existence of my art. My art

speaks to him in a dialogue of revolution and resolution. My art listens to him and his

opinions about the world, regardless of their political correctness or their actual

correctness. He talks to me through dreams and ideas, and I reply with writings, films,

and music. He asks me for help and I ask my therapist. I don’t know if I can help him, or

free him, or care for him like he deserves to. I don’t know if he would rather I feed him

honey, figs, and olives or just play with his hair until he sleeps. I don’t know how he

would like to be loved and cared for, but I hope my art gives me a way to do so. I know

my inner child knows God better than I do, even though I’m sure I am more well-read.

My inner child hadn’t read the Book, and I have. But his innate nature has a pull

towards peace, towards power, towards the Great.