Category Archives: Uncategorized

Where am I?

I don’t know, but I can tell you that wherever I am, it’s a place where I am taking my daughter to pizza and ice cream on Wednesdays because it’s a “tradition”. How did this happen? I am a total sucker … but she seems to enjoy herself and that’s pretty satisfying.

Seriously, how did I get suckered into guaranteed ice cream once a week?! Dad fail.


As Ramadan comes to a close, I am not a little bit surprised at how I managed to get so little sleep without either getting more to eat or performing more devotions. I seem to start every day dragging, without the benefits of caffeine or the secure feeling of knowing that I have been spending the nights deep in prayer and contemplation. Instead I am up later than I would like somehow not drinking enough water and then using what meager mental resources I have not falling asleep on the drive to work. I’ve got a few days left and I am fairly certain that I am not going to be correcting course significantly and have to chalk this one up as a “well at least I tried … kinda” attempt.


Today is the day my little rhino was born and I am so over the moon to be her dad. It’s really something insane to think that I stood in a delivery room and watched her come into the world, and held her and marveled at her tiny self. Today she’s a person with opinions, a little girl whose curly hair gets in her face, who wants me to stay with her in the room until she falls asleep. What happened? How did I get here? When will she stop wanting me to hold her hand while she falls asleep? This is something I think about since becoming a dad.

Ode to the World Cup

Every 4 years, an event comes upon us which brings unmitigated (mostly) joy. It’s the FIFA World Cup (of football [or soccer if you’re bloody minded]), and this year it’s being held in the spiritual home of the game, Brazil.  This is the equivalent of (and this is as strong of an analogy as I can muster) having a Christmas party in the exact spot where the nativity of Jesus happened. I cannot express the happiness that comes with every World Cup for me. For a month, I feel young again, connected to the millions of fans of the sport in the world. I feel more African, I feel more keenly aware of justice, I feel like a human.

This may sound completely insane to you, like I’ve lost all perspective. In a sense, you’re right, though I haven’t lost all perspective. This World Cup (and the next two) are fraught with moral perils and I’m not unaware of them. Moreover, as with everything when you get older, I am aware of the creeping rot and corruption at the heart of the FIFA itself. I could go into gory detail, but John Oliver has done a much better job than I can:

You’ll note the final words of the clip serve to remind how even all that knowledge doesn’t dampen the love for the event. That’s what I’m talking about. I set out to write a paean to the World Cup, but frankly, I can’t find words to do that. Instead I’ll point you at any video you can find of fan reactions. The looks on their faces do a better job than anyone could do of describing the emotions associated with the Cup.

Open Letter to My Newborn Daughter

First of all, thank you for joining us. It’s been a long 40 weeks and I missed you the whole time you were away. This is made more odd (and hence affecting) by the fact that I’d never met you, and was going off of grainy black and white pictures that made you look like an alien half the time. The other half of the time, we could see glimpses, tantalizing snapshots of how you would look: how long your hair was, how big your cheeks were, your eyes. All of these did nothing to make that missing any less keen, or the waiting take any less time.

Last Wednesday evening, your mother and I (we weren’t quite your parents at that point) checked into the hospital and dressed on our comfiest clothes. She took a pill, intended to hasten the inevitable labor, and we settled in for the night. The nurses woke her up at 1am and gave her a second pill. That’s when the contractions started. They got worse, and I watched her try to breathe through it. We did everything they told us to do in the classes; we walked the halls, we got in a warm shower, we sat on the exercise ball. Throughout it all, I felt powerless to prevent her pain, to relieve it, or to even help her face it. She was trying so hard, her shoulders and chin shaking like she was caught in a blizzard (while I sat inside and watched). She threw up. Her water broke. We were spent.

Your aunt Stephanie came, and thank God she did. She had insight, she had techniques, and she was able to give permission to your mother. Permission to take care of herself, to get an epidural. The quieted things down a lot, and we all got some sleep. In Sudan, where I’m from, where mama Sameira is from, where you’re from in the end, they call it the sleep of the rooster on the clothes line. Falling off, waking up, falling asleep, falling off. In the light of day, I looked at what was to come and it seemed daunting.

Your mother wasn’t moving much, which turns to to be a good thing, because when she did move finally, we were treated to the sight of three nurses busting into the room. They shifted her from left to right, right to left, frantically and in silence. They stared at the monitors that had been on her all night and they seemed worried. Your heart rate was dropping, from 140 to 70, and that was scaring them. You finally stabilized, on your mother’s left side. They explained that they’d been monitoring and hadn’t had time to talk us through it. That’s how worried they were … but you were fine now.

And that’s how it stayed, for a while. Your heart rate was strong, but dipping with contractions as it should have been. Until they came in again, this time the dips in the heart rate were coming a bit late. The doctor was concerned, she said you were getting tired, that maybe your umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck. She was thinking that we might have to get a Caesarean. The ‘C’ word scared me, and it scared your mother. She was getting sore too, and the doctor seemed to know what she was talking about. Thank goodness for the doula. She advocated for you, she asked about options, she asked why we couldn’t do an amnio infusion. The doctor was reluctant but nurse Marion seemed convinced, and she caught up to recommend it be done. In the end, that stabilized you and we could wait for the contractions to be closer together.

A few hours later they still weren’t. Your mother’s back was hurting. We all stood around, or paced, in my case. It was so hard to wait. Nurses and doctors came and went, our lady Ob/Gyn was almost at the end of her shift. More talk of Caesareans, more fear. “If we’re going to push, we need to start NOW,” the doctor said. So we got your mother ready, and she started. I was afraid, so I stayed by her face, trying to stay encouraging, trying to stay strong for her and for you. Your mother, she pushed like a pro. Such strength, such focus. The nurses remarked that she was like a woman who’d done this before. The reports from the business end were encouraging. More and more of your head was appearing in the window, and soon your hair was visible. You did have long hair! Just like the ultrasound technician said! I told your mother to keep going, we were nearly there. Time dilated, you crowned, we cajoled, we encouraged. I looked at your mother’s face, I looked down, I looked at her face, I looked and there you were. Welcome, tiny rhino, we’re so glad you could be here.


Went to the doctor with Dr Mrs My Wife this week, for a check and an ultrasound. Each ultrasound makes what’s to come more and more real. For example, this week we caught a clear view of Zoidberg (the fetus’ code name) breathing, and sucking on her arm, her little lips moving reflexively. I have to bite my tongue, hold back those anticipating words, if only for superstition’s sake. A watched pot never boils, and an expected baby will take as long as she can. I don’t want to wait any longer! Come home, Zoidberg, we miss you!

The Caged Bird Sings of Freedom

“The caged bird sings with a fearful trill / of things unknown but longed for still / and his tune is heard on the distant hill / for the caged bird sings of freedom”

I was woken up this morning by an alert on my phone informing me that the poet Maya Angelou had passed away at the age of 86. I had no idea who she was until the mid-90’s when I heard her voice declaiming the words to the poem “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” in the Buckshot LeFonque song of the same name. I wasn’t a fan of poetry, though I loved words, having decided that prose was more my speed, but that song, those words, they held me. I felt a lump in my throat and a tightness in my chest, and for the first time a poem made me feel. That seed germinated in me and a year later, I watched Il Postino, the Italian film about a lovelorn postman on a remote island who befriended the exiled poet, Pablo Neruda. The film had Neruda’s poetry scattered throughout it, and upon leaving the theater I resolved to go to the library and check out a book of poetry.

 After  5 or 6 years I found myself miserable as an employee of a chain bookstore that shall remain nameless. Stuck at the help desk on the late evening shift, I started writing poems, mostly trifling stuff, some terrible love poetry and such. But I felt my spirit rising. Around the same time, I heard Dr Angelou’s “I Rise” and once again I felt something. It’s the rare poem that describes your life as you are living it right now, regardless of where or how you are living that life. It spoke to me, standing with armfuls of books and explaining to customers that I couldn’t help them to find that “book with the yellow cover that was on your front table about four months ago”. So I did, I rose, I quit that job, I wrote more poetry, I looked at the world around me, searching for beauty and meaning (as we all do, I suppose) and trying to put that beauty and meaning down on paper. On scraps of paper, in battered spiral bound notebooks, I put down thoughts unfinished, poems completed, ideas and observations.  Until one day, I just stopped. I have never been as prolific as I was in that period, words have never come as easily as they did then. I lived a different life, was born as a different man for a short time, and my mother was Maya Angelou, and my father was Pablo Neruda.

 It’s been awhile since I read a poem that made me feel. But I did feel something when I read the news this morning. In the same way that I realized that my parents were real people as I grew older, I learned that Maya Angelou was a real woman with a real past, and not just the emblem she had become in the popular imagination (of dignified black womanhood? Of exotic black wisdom? Take your pick, she was many things to many people). I didn’t know about her past, in the same way I don’t know everything about my parents, but it doesn’t lessen the effect she had on my relationship with words. Good bye, Maya Angelou, I hope these poorly crafted words don’t offend, but you accept them as you go to your just reward.


The prefix “peri-” means “around or about, as in pericardial (around the heart) or perinatal (around birth) or peri… dadinal? I’m approaching an inflection point in my life, my own little singularity. Not long from now, I will have another person in my life; someone who needs me; who will love me, look up to me, hurt me. I am dreading and looking forward to this moment, in equal measure. In fact, part of the reason I revived the blog is to note down the experience, and chronicle the humbling. Tune in to share the experience, and to laugh at me from a safe distance.



We had the pleasure of taking some friends to see Bill Cosby the other night at the Paramount Theater in Oakland.  Dr Mrs My Wife and I had seen him once before, at the SF Jazz Center, where he’d done a two hour set for a fund raiser. I had been seeing him make more appearances on television, and it seemed like he was building up towards something bigger. And now here we were in front of the Paramount, watching the fruits of all this set building.

The Paramount itself is one of the old movie palaces that are scattered around the Bay Area. It’s a relic of a bygone era, all gilt edges and Art Deco flourishes.  It’s a beautiful venue for a show, and that night it was filled to the rafters for the man, himself. Half the crowd were young folks, “Cos-playing” in Cosby sweaters (to quote my friend Andrew); the other half were older folks, who’d no doubt followed Bill Cosby since he was playing Vegas in the 60’s. It was kind of heartwarming to see so many different kinds of people gathered together (I think this is a symptom of my own advancing age, but speculation on that will have to wait for another post).

Cosby himself is not quite the man he was, though he is still funny. He reminds me of footage I have seen of Groucho Marx in his later years, doing interviews (in this case on Bill Cobsy’s talk show). He’s bemused, slightly bored, and incredibly sharp beneath it all, as he rambles seemingly aimlessly. He also reminds me of my old man, who, it turns out, has been lifting material from Cosby for as long as I have been alive. He sat heavily in his folding chair, in a hoody and sweat cargo pants, holding court like a man in his own living room, occasionally breaking out of his stories to heckle the crowd. Just another evening in our living room.