Potpourri...

I have to be honest, I have lied to you. It's not something I normally do. Some of it is to protect myself.  Some of it, I didn't want to discuss here, but that has changed.

My life is not a bed of roses. It has been filled with a lot of pain and struggle.  Over a year ago, (well almost 2 years now) I was laid off from a really wonderful and well-paying job. In a matter of days now, I will hit my “99 weeks" and the end of my unemployment. I will be put in some type of statistical limbo because I will be removed from the unemployed column, but I have no job.

Right now, I know that if there are any Muslims reading this, they would be asking “So, you have a husband to take care of you." Unfortunately, that is not the case. My husband does not live with me.  He lives in New York.  He has been out to see me about half dozen times -- including his trip out to marry me.  None have been more than a week and every visit leaves me with less money than if he hadn't come.  The only reason that I'm still married to him is because I don't have the extra $500 filing fee for the divorce papers.

Currently, I will be homeless at the end of April.

This, unfortunately, is not that uncommon of a situation.  Hundreds of thousands are no longer “Unemployed” but are not working wither and growing numbers of them are either homeless or about to lose the roof over their heads.  (Ever imagine or know just how hard it is to look for work without a residence??)  Some who have children can get on welfare, but that doesn’t cover all of the bills either.

And then there are poor saps like me who either don’t have or can’t have children.  Whose options are greatly dwindled just because of they don’t have children.

So here I am facing losing the roof over my head, with limited options, and falling through the cracks.

My husband knows and has made it very clear that he will not pay my rent or help me with anything else.  He either doesn’t care or shouldn’t have married me because he cannot support me or any other woman.

I know now that he only married me so that he could get his Green Card.  He repeatedly lied to me about his immigration/Visa status and didn’t tell me the full truth until we had been married for months.  But enough about him.

I could contact the local Mosjid, or the one that I prefer to attend, but they are very limited in how much they can help because they also help families with children and they rightfully have priority.  (Please, understand that I am not saying anything against helping families with children first, but I have to ask, “Why must I always get the crumbs just because Allah made it so have for me to have children and not let one plant and grow inside of me?”)

Anyway, I have been dealing with this while trying to find work.  Now I’m having to start to make plans for my stuff, finding foster homes for my “girls” (My cats), and trying to keep a positive attitude.

Then there are days where I hear that my own government is holding hearings against Islam.  Something about dealing with the terrorists.  All of a sudden, a patriot like myself is considered a terrorist because of what religion I practice.  I find that pretty damn funny on one hand, damn scary on the other.

Funny, because I’m noticed some similarities in Islam to Catholicism and other religions.

Funny, because we don’t hold other religions responsible for what a few of their members do. (What religion was Ted Bundy, The Zodiac Killer, RTK, or any of the other mass murderers or general killers?  Did they kill for religion?  Organized or their own?)

Funny, because have any such trials squashed a religion?

Scary, because it puts a bigger target on my back. (As if I didn’t look weird enough in hijab with my-so-white-that-I’m-transparent face. Hey, it keeps my head warm and dry.  And my hair could be having the worst hair-day on record and no one would know.)

Scary, because some could take it as a liscense to attack Muslims.  (As if they really need any additional reasons.)

Scary, because it makes me more cautious who I tell that I’m Muslim.

Unfortunately, it makes me glad that I decided to not wear the hijab in public unless I’m going to Mosjid and even then I frequently put it on in the parking lot.  (I really have enough strikes against me, I don’t need someone judging against me just because I happen to wear one little but obvious piece of religious clothing.  It is hard enough finding work to support myself.)

Then Japan was shaken, thrown in a washer hooked up to a mud-filled pond, and then finally put in a faulty microwave.

Living in Earthquake country like I do – I know that this hits me a little differently.  I remember having my legs feel like rubber for days after Loma-Preita – the 6.8 quake that hit the San Francisco Bay Area in 1989.  It took a long time for the ground to feel solid under my feet again.  Everytime I feel the Earth shake, it still takes a day or two.

So the empathy that I have buried for so long for too many reasons comes to the fore.  I imagine how it would feel to have the ground shaking every day at least once a day and, wow, It makes me feel sick.

As sickening and hard it is for me to continue reading and watching the news on this, I can’t help it.  It affects me.  Not just because we Californians are still waiting for our “Big One,” or because any potential nuclear fall-out will be heading directly towards me, but I need to see the people picking up and carrying on.  Because I need to see that human element that I seem to see so little of late.  I need to see, no, have to see that someone responds to that tiny little voice that we all have inside that tells us to stop and help another human.  That voice that tells us that the one that fell could have been me.  That voice that tells us to start to put things back into some semblance of order.  The same voice that told a barber to start cutting people’s hair even though he no longer has a business, or a home, or a bed of his own to sleep on anymore. 

That voice is what seems to be missing from all of these political dim-wits that think cutting the rug out from their fellow man is the best way to help him – even if it was the last thing they had they could call their own.

            The very rug that seems to be missing from under my feet.