His father used to have a prayer chain, one made of beautiful old amber, each bead oval-shaped and bright. You would hear his voice, trembling its way to pronounce His name. I never saw my father do the same. In fact, I really rarely saw him pray at all. But whenever I would leave for a longer period of time, he would hold a golden-clad Quran over the doorstep and ask me to walk through.
I remember my teacher teaching me about vanishing points, where even the objects that are very much present are always pointing towards the vanishing. It is now that I am wondering why I would ever want to draw something where the point is to disappear. Interestingly enough, there were times I would run out of class, myself becoming some sort of undertow for the grown-ups who were chasing me, their authoritarian gaze fixed on my body. Some of them would catch me, some of them would leave me, in return believing to be that undertow I was myself at times becoming. And sometimes I would vanish and mostly I would not.
I used to visit these allotment gardens when I was younger than the amount of young I am right now. It belonged to the parents of a Turkish friend of mine. I remember the way he used to say "mother" in excitement, in anger and in shame. Those sounds still resonate in me though I forgot about the space.
„I tried, I tried, I tried, but they just won’t let me be.” He looked me in the eye. “Why they want to do somebody like they’re doing me is something I’ll never understand. Why are people like that? I mind my own business. I don’t hurt nobody. I try to do right, and no matter what I do, people come along, put me right back on death row … for nothing. Nothing. I ain’t done nothing to nobody. Nothing, nothing, nothing.“