No, my brain is being stretched, pulled, stressed, ripped to shreds. Between the hours of midnight and 8 a.m., what is left of it repairs itself, scarring over the trauma. But my mind is not completely free. No, I'm dreaming. I wake up, staring at the wall around 4 a.m. when I hear the call to prayer billowing through my window, creeping into, clouding, and slowly smothering my thoughts until I scream inside. The incessant honking of cars outside my window confirms my half-awakened anxiety. A cat screams. Yes, screams. Chills run down my back as the stress from the day before rushes back through my veins like venom, flowing to every artery and eventually connecting to my brain where it pools and fills in the folds, soaking my perception of the world as I thought it was in a filthy bath of pollution, cats, stares, garbage, smog, ghostly shrieking, honking, screaming children, head scarves, dirt, shouting, and madness. In this world, there is no real escape. Only temporary relief. During this 4 in the a.m. revelation, my brain once again is beginning the violent yet delicate descent into a state of bizarre madness where I am a minority in religion; in skin, eye, and hair color; in language; in values; in sexuality; in morals and ethics. I am the crazy one.
Walking out my door every morning, I look left and right. I notice the woman in the hijab staring at me. "What do you want? What is so interesting about me?"My stomach rolls as I avoid her stare. I pass her, and my peripheral vision catches her head turning, following me with her gaze. I wonder: "Is it because the education system is so awful and undeveloped that you stare at me like that? Have you no idea how to interact with people who are different from you? I'm not insane." Anxiety swells through my body as turn the corner. 2 more people immediately to my right. I have to walk on the road for a bit, there is no room on the sidewalk, as the trees hang too low, and it is too narrow and broken. I dodge the water dripping from an unknown source from the above building. No avail. It splashes on my sandal and consequently on my feet. I dodge the pile of trash, alerted by the strong smell of rotting hamburger that I'm sure is at the bottom of the pile. The 2 stare at me as I walk by, as if I didn't really exist. If I caught them and looked them in the eyes, it wouldn't matter. Past attempts at this have failed. They lock eyes, stare, turn to each other and do one of four things:
1. continue to stare until I am out of sight
2. say "hello, welcome! What is your name?!" and laugh
3. look at each other and whisper amongst themselves
4. ask me where I am from and/or grab my arm
At the end of the road, I have made it to the main street, Abu Ir. Coming at me at Jeeper's Creeper's speed is a slew of cars, mostly yellow cabs. They've spotted me. My anxiety sky rockets as they shoot piercing honks in my direction, slow down, and yell "taxi!" at full volume. I politely decline, but they are insistent. My blood starts to boil, I ignore them. They become upset as they yell words at me that I'm sure are not in my Egyptian Arabic book. I am a moving target for people trying to make a any money in this city. I become angry. I am angry that I am not a person here, but an agnaby (foreigner). I am a cash cow because my country is in the developing world and I can afford to pay more. I cringe at being objectified. More staring. I remember the conversation a cab driver had with a man in the front seat."
"These kids in the back are slowing me down, I have to be somewhere."
"why did you pick them up? At least they're customers."
"they're not customers, they're khwagat (derogatory term for agnaby)."
I leap into the street. An opening must be taken advantage of. Cars continue honking as I stand precariously in the middle of the road on the lane dividers. huh, dividers. Lanes don't matter here, people don't use them. Instead, they rely on an intricately understood system of honks and hand signals in a country that has 5 times the amount of cars that the infrastructure can support. I catch my breath as I once again wait to cross the rest of the road. I notice what I am wearing while I bide my time. A polo, jeans, brown shoes. I wonder why I spend so much time trying not to look foreign when I am clearly not from here. I guess I'm trying to deflect some of the staring.
I am always on the spot, until I return at night to my bubble. I am always putting on the foreigner show, staring Me. I am always the topic of conversation as I pass by. I am a conversation interrupter. The honks become more intense as my mind starts to race and my anxiety roils my blood until I leap again across the road to catch a cab on the proper side of the street.
"I am only paying 5."
"10."
"5 or nothing."
He drives off.
Not getting taken advantage today. It's my price, and it's all about principle. 3 more tries and the cab is mine. I can't afford it; I'm a student, not a tourist.
This is 10 minutes every day of my life. Why do I do it? Because it's going to make me a stronger person mentally. After this, I will be able to deal with anything. Strength, however, doesn't just come from perseverance. No, it comes from learning. Perseverance is merely the gas that keeps you going. More and more learning requires less and less energy. Less perseverance. Less anxiety. Less 4 a.m.'s. This is my goal for Egypt. My one, big goal.
I will continue to feel this everyday until I've learned to overcome the stares, framing them in a healthy context. When I've learned enough Arabic to get exactly what I want. To persuade linguistically. I will get to this point after I have learned how to walk away from social situations that pull me into discussions and arguments about payment negotiation. I will get to this point when I have enough confidence to let more and more of myself shine through the walls I have put up to protect myself during my learning process of how to adapt to this culture and society.
Until then (and I know I will get there), I will continue to put myself out there as a public spectacle, accomplishing little tasks of day-to-day empowerment: buying a bus ticket, talking to the shopkeepers, ordering food, shopping, and being around Egyptians.
I must learn to interpret this bubble of a life as something different.
Until this day, however, my mind will interpret the honks, trash, and stares as a debilitating, poisonous bath that juts me out of dreaming at 4 in the morning with a haunting call to prayer.
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