mouthful

Such an awkward, clumsy mouthful, almost custom made for a strange, bony girl with glasses, but it is with pride that I bear it.  It has much to offer, much to teach to the young woman who holds her head high as she says it.  It is a complex puzzle that I must comprehend, full of contradictions and impossibilities.

            Aliyah.  In Arabic my name commands respect, power.  From the bite of strained impatience on the first syllable, to the breathy whisper on the last, it is a noble name, one like the elegant calligraphy on the golden seals of royalty, or the decadent fabrics in the castles of emirs.  It flows easily, almost lazily, like a dancer’s moves.  It is pampered like the fat sultans sitting on their thrones, examining their treasure and their women.  It is strength, like the iron taste of blood.

            But in English, it is thuggish and ugly.  The syllables become dull and heavy and continually pound into your head, or else becomes over exaggerated and the discordant sound slaps you hard across the face.

            Haggar.  It has no meaning that can be expressed in words.  This belongs to the realm of the senses.  It is soft and feminine, like goat’s milk and jasmine on the salty skin of Moorish beauties.  It is the warm Arabian sunsets spent in the whisper of silk, the aroma of acacia and henna, and the arms of a lover.  It rolls off the tongue like water rolls of the backs of dolphins.

            But Haggar has a darker side.  It has gone through much suffering.  Like the mother of Ismail cast out onto the burning sands of hate, left to die.  But it survived and so did the woman that bore the name.  Saved by the river that sprung from where Ismail’s little fist hit the ground in frustration.  Saved from the jealousy of another woman, a woman with a name like fire.

            Bilal.  Like the slave many centuries ago who was left to die by his master, imprisoned under a rock in the burning sands of the dessert, Bilal is a name of suffering.  But it is a name suggesting gentleness, compassion, honesty, humbleness, loyalty, and perseverance.  Like the sliding melody of the adhan, it is free and captive in the same moment.  Its meaning lies in rolling hills of green, sweet rain, cool mists, the feeling of calm and peace.  It is fond of the gentle coo of the dove.

            Gore.  Straight from the Dark Ages of Europe.  The chilling hunting cry of blood thirsty soldiers, running through mud and trees to slay their fleeing enemies.  Barbaric, strong, the feeling of your insides being ripped apart by cold metal.  The sound of blood rushing in your ears, the feel of adrenaline being pumped through your veins.  It is a deadly clarity, a dark instinct.  It is terrifying, and impossible to stop.  It is the root of life, a blood dance.  You can feel it in the reverberations of tribal drums, calling to your spirit, tempting your body to move as if in a trance.

            Such an awkward, clumsy mouthful, almost custom made for a strange, bony girl with glasses, but it is with pride that I bear it.  It has much to offer, much to teach to the young woman who holds her head high as she says it.  It is a complex puzzle that I must comprehend, full of contradictions and impossibilities.