I started this post in Jordan. And returned home with it unfinished. I soon came to realize that I needed time and space away from the world I had engineered as a safety net for myself. I needed to break free from time and space limitations.
I could not imagine writing another post. Facilitating another drama therapy group. Sitting in my apartment. Feeding my cat. Writing clinical notes. Taking out the trash. All of the day to day things that normalize one's life.
Jordan changed me. While there I considered staying. While here I considered leaving. It took me until now to be back. And I needed to BE back. I needed to need to be back - to return. Fully. And so, now I write this post as an homage to one of the most meaningful gifts I've ever received. The true gift of my name.
A few months ago I published a post discussing the merits of professional identification - or as some people would call it "identity politics". And in Jordan I find myself having an identity politics of the most salient nature.
My name is Karimah Lateefah.
I was born in the early 70's on the heels of the Civil Rights Movement and in the throes of the Black Power Movement.
My parents both participated in the Civil Rights Movement. My father marched with Dr. King and my mother was a freedom rider.
When they found that I was coming to be in the world, they decided to name me something that reflected the significance of the time, so, they bought a book of African baby names and picked out Karimah and Lateefah. My daddy wanted my first name to be Lateefah. Mommy wanted my first name to be Karimah. I am happy that my mother won one of many arguments they would come to have.
My name is Karimah Lateefah. I am certain that Lateefah was meant to be spelled Latifah. It is a bit softer. I used to tell Daddy that having that many ee's in my name made it sound heavy - like I had a bunch of teeth. But in Jordan I heard Arabs pronounce my name the way it was meant to be pronounced. (care-ee- mah). They spoke it so softly and gently pushed air through the h at the end. My name levitated. It sounded like a cloud.
As I was laboriously finding my way back to the entrance of Petra I finally met up with Edna, the esteemed Art Therapist from Atlanta and our lovely driver, Ahmed. As we drove back to Amman, we stopped at a local shop for "refreshment". After coming out of the bathroom I noticed that some of the shopkeepers were refrencing me while talking amongst themselves. As I came closer I noticed that they were pointing at my hair. It is curly. They wanted to know how I got it this way. I didn't know how to explain it to them. They finally asked me what my name was and I told them. Like every other Arab I'd met they indicated their surprise and then asked me if I knew what it meant.
Of course I knew what it meant. It means kind and generous.
They informed me that according to the Quran, it means someone who is so kind and so generous that they will give you whatever it is you need even if they need it themselves.
That description was so beautiful it nearly brought me to tears. I thought about it. I thought about me. I wondered if I am a martyr. I wondered if I sacrifice myself for the greater good of the whole. I wondered if it is at all self -serving. I wondered if it consistently leaves me at the shit end of the stick. Always and ever.
But hearing them say my name... it never sounded so beautiful... like a song. I have heard people say that my name is beautiful before. But I never heard it myself. I never heard the beauty. But in Jordan, I could hear it. I could FEEL it.
Two days later we were in the community center in the heart of Zarqa, a refugee camp for Palestinians who have migrated. As we entered the center we saw a row of children sitting on benches and chairs waiting for us to arrive. My colleage, Edna, walked in first and there was a spunky, little girl, sitting at the front desk. She asked Edna,
"What is your name?"
Edna replied,
"My name is Edna"
The spunky little girl responded,
"My name is Karimah".
I was stunned. It was like bumping up against my 8 year old self. Looking into a mirror from the past... as if I had just stepped into a wrinkle in time.
"Ah! My name is Karimah".
A few moments later the 8 year old Karimah rushed into the group room where we were setting up our supplies and she looked at me and said, "I love YOU!' and ran out just as fast as she ran in.
I was thrilled!
When creating name tags she asked me to write hers. So I wrote my name and she nodded in approval and stuck to me like glue for the rest of the day.
I felt my heart leap. We took a picture together. It is amazing how much of her spirit seems to be reflected when I see myself in the mirror now. Honored to have known her. Grateful to have come to a greater knowledge of myself.
I could not imagine writing another post. Facilitating another drama therapy group. Sitting in my apartment. Feeding my cat. Writing clinical notes. Taking out the trash. All of the day to day things that normalize one's life.
Jordan changed me. While there I considered staying. While here I considered leaving. It took me until now to be back. And I needed to BE back. I needed to need to be back - to return. Fully. And so, now I write this post as an homage to one of the most meaningful gifts I've ever received. The true gift of my name.
A few months ago I published a post discussing the merits of professional identification - or as some people would call it "identity politics". And in Jordan I find myself having an identity politics of the most salient nature.
My name is Karimah Lateefah.
I was born in the early 70's on the heels of the Civil Rights Movement and in the throes of the Black Power Movement.
My parents both participated in the Civil Rights Movement. My father marched with Dr. King and my mother was a freedom rider.
When they found that I was coming to be in the world, they decided to name me something that reflected the significance of the time, so, they bought a book of African baby names and picked out Karimah and Lateefah. My daddy wanted my first name to be Lateefah. Mommy wanted my first name to be Karimah. I am happy that my mother won one of many arguments they would come to have.
My name is Karimah Lateefah. I am certain that Lateefah was meant to be spelled Latifah. It is a bit softer. I used to tell Daddy that having that many ee's in my name made it sound heavy - like I had a bunch of teeth. But in Jordan I heard Arabs pronounce my name the way it was meant to be pronounced. (care-ee- mah). They spoke it so softly and gently pushed air through the h at the end. My name levitated. It sounded like a cloud.
As I was laboriously finding my way back to the entrance of Petra I finally met up with Edna, the esteemed Art Therapist from Atlanta and our lovely driver, Ahmed. As we drove back to Amman, we stopped at a local shop for "refreshment". After coming out of the bathroom I noticed that some of the shopkeepers were refrencing me while talking amongst themselves. As I came closer I noticed that they were pointing at my hair. It is curly. They wanted to know how I got it this way. I didn't know how to explain it to them. They finally asked me what my name was and I told them. Like every other Arab I'd met they indicated their surprise and then asked me if I knew what it meant.
Of course I knew what it meant. It means kind and generous.
They informed me that according to the Quran, it means someone who is so kind and so generous that they will give you whatever it is you need even if they need it themselves.
That description was so beautiful it nearly brought me to tears. I thought about it. I thought about me. I wondered if I am a martyr. I wondered if I sacrifice myself for the greater good of the whole. I wondered if it is at all self -serving. I wondered if it consistently leaves me at the shit end of the stick. Always and ever.
But hearing them say my name... it never sounded so beautiful... like a song. I have heard people say that my name is beautiful before. But I never heard it myself. I never heard the beauty. But in Jordan, I could hear it. I could FEEL it.
Two days later we were in the community center in the heart of Zarqa, a refugee camp for Palestinians who have migrated. As we entered the center we saw a row of children sitting on benches and chairs waiting for us to arrive. My colleage, Edna, walked in first and there was a spunky, little girl, sitting at the front desk. She asked Edna,
"What is your name?"
Edna replied,
"My name is Edna"
The spunky little girl responded,
"My name is Karimah".
I was stunned. It was like bumping up against my 8 year old self. Looking into a mirror from the past... as if I had just stepped into a wrinkle in time.
"Ah! My name is Karimah".
A few moments later the 8 year old Karimah rushed into the group room where we were setting up our supplies and she looked at me and said, "I love YOU!' and ran out just as fast as she ran in.
I was thrilled!
When creating name tags she asked me to write hers. So I wrote my name and she nodded in approval and stuck to me like glue for the rest of the day.
I felt my heart leap. We took a picture together. It is amazing how much of her spirit seems to be reflected when I see myself in the mirror now. Honored to have known her. Grateful to have come to a greater knowledge of myself.
