One night, I had a nightmare I can never forget. 

It was the middle of the night when I awoke to a wretched stench oozing out of my closet. The most vile smell was undecipherable, like an unknown substance even the top scientists couldn’t identify. All I knew was, something was dead. Ah, I remember: that stupid raccoon that made its way through our roof vents. He must’ve gotten stuck!

I opened my eyes, flinching from the bright yellow light spilling through the crack of my bedroom door. It was late. I looked towards the menacing closet door in apprehension. All of sudden it burst open, thunder striking through the ceiling, and all I saw was my father’s dark silhouette, a body bag in his bloody arms. I stared in horror, and for a second the lightning brightened his face, although I couldn’t make out his dark expression. He swung a pistol from his right hand, and I heard my mother’s screams die out in seconds as he shot the bullet, the next bullet splitting through my older brother, the last penetrating my sister’s skull. My whole world crashed down and I could no longer feel my own throat from the way I was screaming. 

I woke up with tears streaming down my face, and my heart beating out of my chest. I stayed there, lying down on my bed, my throat somehow parched, for almost ten minutes. 

The street lamps on Ladonna Avenue weren’t green at all.

Yes. They were definitely more of a grayish olive, old and dull like a spoiled bruise.  If this lamp was a person, it’d probably be a mysterious elder, who had a black cane and a limp on his left leg, and maybe he reeked of cigarettes too. I planted my feet firmly on the sidewalk, leaning closer to the lamp’s pole until the tip of my nose was touching its cold exterior. 

Curious, my fingers glided over the pole’s rugged surface, brushing past bumpy slopes and tiny craters reminiscent of the textured skin dotting my face. By its side was a bright red telephone booth, and farther down were cobblestone steps leading into Ladonna Station. I could hear the q51 city bus rumbling in the far off distance, its headlights clashing with the neon blues and cherry reds of the traffic signal, flashing brightly in the darkness. I had to get on that bus if I wanted to reach Midtown by early morning.

As I waited, I wondered how many other people had strolled past this street lamp in particular. Garnished by layers of flaking green paint and faded scribbles, the lamp stood triumphantly before me, as if it was proud of how much it had endured over the years. I added on to my make believe character- the old man was now in the military for twenty seven years and three months, exactly. He was a ranked general in the combat unit, I think. 

Carved onto the very bottom of the pole was a girl’s name in boxy letters. It looked something like Esper or Emerald or Emma, but I couldn’t make out the entirety of it, so I just chose Esperanza. Hmm, yes, he had a wife named Esperanza who he divorced when he was 27, and then he got remarried to another woman named Emma. And he had no kids, no kids at all. How could he? He dedicated his entire life to the military. With a tired yawn, I lifted my hand off the pole and clutched the strap of my backpack, glancing up at the acacia trees swaying back and forth from the wind. It was only after a few minutes had passed that I suddenly noticed a phone number etched near the top of the pole:

call if u need a friend: 3478916544

Maybe it was from the flickering light, drowning me in splotches of artificial yellow for just a few seconds at a time, or the chilly midnight breeze prickling at my skin, but I felt a strange uncertainty wash over me as I  stood underneath the street lamp. It was a jumpy feeling. I grabbed my flip phone from the back pocket of my jeans and added it to my contacts. They were dumb enough to put their phone number on a street lamp, and I was dumb enough to save it. Who knows? Maybe whoever wrote this is dead, or like, 200 years old. Maybe this is the man,  the elderly man from the military. Maybe he had a mission for me.

thud, thud

the deafening pulse of the train at 3 am

mimics the throbbing surge of solicitude within me.

lavender moonlight ebbs onto the darkest of eyes

eyes as dark as her demons

demons that linger patiently in her head.

cotton sheets, milky white and thick, but

the walls are drenched in black tears

so there on the bed I lie,

to myself.

Based on the album cover made by Sam McKinniss for the album “Melodrama” by Lorde

The artwork has no name

The first time I learned about abortion was in spring of seventh grade. All I remember is my heart plunging down into my stomach as an animation of a pea-sized fetus flashed on my phone screen. My eyes followed the menacing doctor’s vacuum-like equipment as it reached into a silhouette of a woman’s uterus and suctioned out an underdeveloped baby. As a sympathetic middle school student, who’d only recently begun exploring the ideas surrounding feminism, women’s rights, and sexism, all I could think about was how traumatic and depressing an abortion must be. My heart ached for the baby, who’s painful screams I imagined disappearing into the suction of a vacuum hose. 

Although I was just starting to think critically for myself, questioning life, religion, and the childhood beliefs I’d easily accepted growing up, I was still that impressionable young girl seeking validation and approval from the older people in my life, whether it be my parents or my loveable Earth Science teacher, Ms.Choudhery. At the time, I didn’t understand, but when I look back, it’s quite obvious that Ms.Choudhery strongly persuaded the entire class’s opinion on abortion, whether that was her intention or not. When it came time to actually do a socratic seminar on the topic, not even one person was in support of abortion. We were all just awkwardly agreeing with each other that abortion was immoral, speaking up not in response to another person, but just to get those participation points. I remember passionately arguing that even if a fetus doesn’t feel pain, it’s still a potential life, who’s basic human right to live has been taken away. 

It was only until I reached high school, that my position on abortion drastically changed. I was very active on instagram and youtube, where social justice posts/videos about racism, sexism, islamophobia, and homophobia would circulate on my feeds. At one point, during Donald Trump’s chaotic campaign and presidency, abortion was a hot topic, and I kept finding recommended articles and informative posters on the issue, mostly from female activists. Some of these women had considered or gone through abortion themselves, and some were simply big believers in the rights to their own body. As I read through their first hand experiences, I felt my heart ache once again, this time, for the teenage girls who’d fallen pregnant by accident, the sexual assault victims who’s bodies were violated, and the torn mothers who had to choose between their baby’s life or their own. I felt my heart ache for the poor girls who couldn’t deal with their grief in peace due to pro-lifers who harassed them as they left Planned Parenthood abortion clinics. And I felt empowered by the women who simply decided they did not want or need children, and thus, didn’t have to, despite society’s pressure to do so. As a Muslim woman, I decided that although I probably wouldn’t have an abortion, I’d never pressure another woman to do the same. Now, I’m unapologetically and confidently pro-choice.