we all know a real life Alia Khan, don’t we?

 We may not want to cop to it but we all know a real life Alia Khan, don’t we? 

ster·e·o·type/

A stereotype is a belief that may be adopted [1] about specific types of individuals or certain ways of doing things, but that belief may or may not accurately reflect reality.

Yes, it’s a stereotype but sometimes stereotypes contain a kernel of truth. 

The first ‘Alia Khan’ I knew of was via my brother when he attended the local F.E. college in the 90s.  This female Muslim student dressed in a long, flowing jilbab (jilbabs are basically robes) and wore a headscarf.  Her strict father would drive all the way up to college entrance rather than – heaven forbid! – risk his daughter getting out the car and walking from the college gates on her own.  As soon as she waved goodbye and walked through the doors, it was straight into the girls’ toilets.  Off came the jilbab and headscarf and on went the make up and clothes she stored in her bag. There was something deliciously scandalous about all of this to my young ears.  I had never heard of such teenage Asian rebellion. 

Older and wiser, I have witnessed many Alia Khans in all her various forms.  I remember being surprised when a former pupil dropped by to say hello to staff at the independent Islamic girls’ school worked in.  The girl had honey highlights in her dyed brown, fashionably cut hair, wore acrylic French manicured nails and was dressed in jeans and a top.  This girl attended THIS school?  A school where the headscarf was part of the uniform and we kept a bottle of nail polish remover in the office for girls to use if they came in with painted nails.   

Seeing this girl stroll into school so carefree seemed to me like an affront to the school’s strictly enforced dress codes and rules for nails and make up.  I felt like we should have been ushering her away into an empty classroom or the janitor’s closet rather than have pupils catch sight of her (that was my naivety to think girls had strictly enforced rules on what they wear at home.  I worked there long enough to realise that they weren’t all like that – perhaps a 50/50 split in how many continued to wear their headscarves.  As long as you’re decently covered, you’re good to go).  She was attending college and was warmly greeted by the staff while I couldn't stop marvelling at those nails.  

I’ve heard smug London journalists (because London is the home of smug journalists) talk gleefully about seeing Muslim girls whip off their scarves as soon as they get past the school gates.  They see it as evidence of RELIGIOUS HYPOCRISY AT WORK! whereas as I see it more simply as teenage rebellion.  Isn’t teenage rebellion lovingly cherished in western art forms?  Film, art, literature, music etc.  You’d think they would drop the sneering superior attitude and at least sound vaguely impressed.

I don’t like hearing people talk about Muslim girls in such a way but I’d be a liar if said Alia Khan didn’t exist.  I was her and she was me when I was in sixth form and sat in a pub with my friends during a lunch break, meekly sipping from a glass of coke while getting told off for being there from a member of staff because we were underage. 

Muslims who are less laid back than me have complained to the BBC because they don’t want to see a stereotype perpetuated on TV but whatever they may say, they cannot deny it.  We all know an Alia Khan and – ssshhhhhh!!! – we might have even been an Alia ourselves. 

Hallo.

so i updated my blog for the time in, like, months and it yielded a grand total of 1 viewings.

That's cool.  That's cool.

Okay, I'm a little bit wounded.  i handwrote my post - being all authentic and sharing-is-caring about it.  I bet  MI5 are filing away my handwriting style for future reference as we speak.

If I end up in Gitmo, I'm totally blaming you all.

So anyway, I'm starting from the ground here which is liberating in some ways.  i'm not going to bother check my spellings or capitalising everytime i use the personal pronoun 'I'.  cos really, it's not worth it and my writing is still readable (just a little sloppy).  I'm going to enjoy instead, a freewheeling, stream-of-consciousness writing style where i can type whatever comes into my brain.

I was going to write a review of 'Snow White & the Huntsman' a few weeks ago.  that was until i realised that the entire film that had filtered through my eyeballs had not registered in my brain at all.  like AT ALL.  nothing.  Nada.  I felt like the guy from Memento trying to piece together the memories of my life.  That's usually a good warning sign that the film isn't very good.  Visually, it captures pretty images and steals good bits from other films like LOTR and Princess Mononoke but trying to hang it all together with a sense of narrative and plot was beyond the film makers remit. Also, Kristen spends the entire film with her mouth open catching flies and has grubby fingernails.  I was worried she was going to soil the majestic looking deer creature that bowed down to her.  And Thor has an accent like Shrek.

Instead, I'll talk about Breaking Dawn Part 1 which I watched on DVD.  I thought my love for Twilight had all but died.  My interest has waned with every passing movie.  it feels weird to burn through your obsessive love for something so quickly but the fact that Twilight became a global phenomenon and was suddenly everywhere meant that it ground me down to a nub of apathy.  I've always hated BD.  it's an awful book and terrible conclusion to a once beguiling series.  However... i liked the movie.

One thing that struck me was how indebted it was to the first film of the series directed by Catherine Hardwicke.  At the time of Twilight's release, there were negative stories coming out about Catherine being difficult; making an awful film that had to be rescued by the film editors and to be fair, there were some clunky moments but there was also plenty she did right.  New Moon was full of empty grandeur, Eclipse was action packed leaving little room for romance but Twilight captured the giddiness of first love.  It was romantic.  The two leads had a chemistry and Catherine coaxed convincing performances out of them.  (There was also sparkling which was an epic fail but we won't mention that).  


Watching BD, i suspect the penny dropped for the studio heads that actually Catherine deserved credit for what she brought.  There were so many references to Twilight in BD such as:

• rotating camera shot with 'Flightless Bird, American Mouth' in the wedding scene.
• the sparkly lighting at the wedding just like the prom scene in Twilight.
• the spliced together montages when Bella changes.  
• they used the original music composer

I can only think of four things right now but take it from me, there was a sense of deja vu all the way through the film (you can tell I'm a fan cos I care about this stuff).  This guy who directed BD - Bill whoever - didn't bring much of anything to the table (although an A+ on the honeymoon scene *nudge nudge wink wink*) and yet he got to direct the last two films in the series .  Surely the honour that should have gone to Catherine?  

I've defended her in twilight forums as she's a bit of a divisive figure there - her comments on Rob and Kristen's relationship being one of the crimes against her - but i hope BD was an unofficial tribute to what she did rather than a ripping off of her directorial style.

Weirdly enough, I want to see the final instalment.  I'm not quite as ready to let go of the franchise as I expected myself to be.  There's a tiny spark of passion that's been rekindled.   Weird, huh? 

The Art of Writing: Pleased to Meet You

Two Beds and a Coffee Machine

I’ve been having a little Darren Hayes/Savage Garden retrospective on youtube recently.  As music snob in the 90s I couldn’t bear Savage Garden.  They didn’t inspire much love from the music critics either who wrote them off as derivative and banal.  That didn’t stop the band from being absolutely EVRYWHERE.  They sold millions and I have vivid memories of ‘Truly Madly Deeply’ playing in the sixth form common room.  Good grief, I hated that song.  I’d walk into Topshop and ‘Affirmation’ would be playing with shoppers mouthing the lyrics.  I could hear even my friends sing along.  I didn’t get it.  The only song I could even admit to liking was ‘I Want You’ – an 80s throwback with a prominent guitar riff. 

Savage Garden split up after just two albums and Darren Hayes launched a solo career.  Listening to his solo effort, something in my brain clicked and I finally got it.  What a voice!  Such sincere, heartfelt lyrics!  It all made sense somehow.  It was unashamedly romantic (and strange in places).  I bought Darren’s first two solo albums and I’ve been revisiting them lately.  I found the Savage Garden track ‘Two Beds and a Coffee Machine’.  Listening to it, I was surprised by the lyrics. 

It told a story from Darren’s own life.  Growing up, he was a witness to domestic violence in his family.  I can’t imagine how frightening it would be to live in an environment like that.  It took Darren a long time to come to terms with it.  He said in an newspaper interview, “I was profoundly affected by my childhood and it was time for me to take responsibility for who I am and deal with that.”  Being a performer he expressed his feelings through his music and his family came through (his father was an alcoholic) their problems. 

In the media, Dennis Waterman has been creating waves with his comments he gave to Piers Morgan.  It was all over twitter and has caused fury.  He admitted to hitting his wife because she could argue well and he resorted to hitting her but he made the distinction that "She certainly wasn't a beaten wife, she was hit and that's different."

Erm…

Hearing it from the perpetrator’s mouth, it certainly gives an insight.  For Dennis, there was a line drawn and he didn’t cross it as far as he was concerned.  For the rest of us, it’s simple.  A hit is a hit.  Whether it’s one hit or twenty.  Whether you are battered to the floor or hit across the face.  A hit is abuse.  But of course, for many people, there exists those shades of grey where excuses are given and one can be manipulated into a different way of thinking.  We need to shine a light on those areas and say that physical abuse is not acceptable.  There are many ways to avoid confrontation.  Simply walking away and cooling off would be a good start. 

Reading about Dennis, I feel like there are many stories out there that we don’t hear about.  Perhaps things we don’t want to hear but maybe it’s necessary so that we can come to an understanding as well as educate ourselves on the realities of domestic abuse.  It is possible to make it through for everyone involved.  Surely, every story deserves a happy ending?  

Leap Day

It’s Leap Year Day!  Hurrah!  No one loves me!  Yay! 

Meh.

I’m completely unimpressed by all this women proposing nonsense.  I can’t help but take it personally that I have no one to propose to *sob sob* #imafailureasawoman but you know what?  I don’t care.  I really don’t give a flying ----.  I read an awesome quote on twitter which I’ve posted below:

I think that neatly sums up my thoughts.  To say such things might sound arrogant, like I think I’m too good for marriage, but that’s really not the case.  I’m clearly not good enough for anyone!

Anyway, for an extra day that comes along once every four years, couldn’t we do something more fun?  The whole reversal of genders for a proposal suggests that this extra day has a topsy-turvy quality to it.  Let’s live the whole day backwards!  Let’s have breakfast for dinner, an evening meal instead of cornflakes, elevenses at 11pm, lunch at… well, lunch.  I guess some things don’t change. 

If the Oscars were hosted today we could have had an alternate list of nominees as part of topsy turvy Leap day.  I’m rather disgruntled that Drive was nominated in one category only (which it lost) when it should have been the toast of the Oscars.  It would have been the cult film with its elite rabid fanbase (me included) cheering it on from the sidelines via twitter and tumblr. Its absence hasn’t gone unnoticed.  This fantabulous article from Hairpin gives an illustrated response of the film and this montage showcases all the neglected nominations of this year past: 

I’ve taken a break from Lovefilm because frankly the costs of renting out DVDs don’t outweigh the benefits (films have been crap) but Drive was the last good film I saw.

As part of my topsy turvy Leap day, I think Ryan Gosling, the star of Drive, should in fact propose to me.  Yes!  Come on, Ryan, I’m here, waiting for you to take me out for a romantic breakfast and followed by a sunset on the beach proposal.  A perfect end to a Leap Year Day. 

print, cut out and keep version of 'The Driver'

sad day

I had already written a blog post today but I deleted it because I decided it was too personal and not the kind of thing I’d want to put out into the internet ether.  I’ve been on a crying jag for most of today.  Why?  Well, I don’t really know. 

That’s a lie. 

I do know but if I could sum it up, I would say it was just self-pity.  Just one of those days, you know?  I don’t like to dwell on the negative – I feel like I could get lost in it – I feel like I’m already lost in a fog already.  I’m forgetting what I’m doing; postponing things I should be doing and today feels like two steps backwards. 

I will get through this inshallah.  

The 90s was ace

I've been studiously ignoring the current 90s revival on the basis that I already bought the clothes and lived through the fashion as a teenager – why go through it again?  It kinda ticks me off that I no longer have those clothes any more, and if I did, I probably wouldn’t be able to fit into them.  However, after perusing the clothing racks of Urban Outfitters, digging up old 90s music and reading articles full of wistful nostalgia I have to say I'm kind of onboard with it now.  Nostalgia is such a potent emotion.  It cleans everything up and leaves your memories sparkling with a rosy hue. 

I have hoarder-like tendencies and even though the clothes ended up in charity bags, my boots survived.  I'm now calling them vintage because they totally are according to the 10 years rule:

Being a crafty gal, I keep scraps of paper, card and stickers.  I went through my drawers and found a stash of stickers that used to be given away with magazines like Smash Hits, TV Hits and Just Seventeen.  Looking through them was quite hilarious.  All those forgettable teen idols like… erm… that guy… and… what’s-his-face… along side Keanu Reeves and Brad Pitt.  Take a gander here:

Also this one: 

My favourite sticker is this one though:

Smash Hits is no more sadly (R.I.P) but who couldn't love a magazine that has Hugh Grant's and Divine Brown's mugshot as a sticker? 

A make up sample that unravelled my insecurities

I remember vividly staring at a picture of a girl in a magazine.

As a teenage girl, obsessing over images in a teen magazine is pretty normal behaviour but this particular picture caught my imagination like no other. 

It was a close up shot of a girl splashing water on her face, laughing and gazing at the camera as she did so.  Her youth and radiance dazzled like the sparkling water captured in the image.  I pored over every detail of the picture – her pale white skin, her clear blue eyes, her chestnut hair – but what I liked most about her face was her lips. 

Pale pink, glossy, full lips. 

I was filled with envy and longing.  I wanted lips like hers with the exact shade of glossy pink.  It was a Boots advert and I don’t remember what it was advertising (a face wash I guessing) but the desire for pale pink lips embedded itself into my brain like some insidious worm.   

I was an insecure Asian girl (and still am) and it didn’t compute back then that pale pink lips were outside of my colour wheel.  I identified with white girls just as easily as Asian girls even though my teen mags never seemed to reflect the kind of diversity they had in their readership.  Well, maybe, when they hired the models with the short haircuts who were branded ‘tomboys’ for their style to contrast nicely against the whimsical dream-like waifs with long hair and floaty dresses. 

Against my ‘olive’ skin, my mouth needed a shot of red to stand out clearly.  My brother even advised me that I looked better when I put a bit of lipstick on (my brother knows nothing about make up so for him to notice something like that meant I had to take it seriously).  My ‘natural’ make up routine always included a smear of red lipstick anytime I left the house.  I remembered a work colleague staring at me during Ramadan when I had dared to go lipstick-free.  I dawned on me on how long I had been carrying my insecurities with me. 

My mum recently bought me a copy of Elle and I was flicking through the pages, admiring the shoes and overpriced handbags when I came across a free make up sample for Rimmel foundation.  I eagerly ripped it open and took out my foundation brush, ready to apply a coat to my face so I could look just like Kate Moss. 

Disaster! 

The shade of foundation was at least three shades too light.  I kept applying it hoping maybe if I spread it across my face, the colour would blend in. 

Nope.  I looked like an ashy-faced pale clown. 

I went to the bathroom to wash it off and stood in front of the mirror to take in the full horror of how awful it looked.  I looked terrible but as my initial shock wore off I noticed my features were thrown into contrast against the newly pale skin.  My dull brown eyes looked inky black and mysterious.  My eyebrows brooded like Heathcliff on the moors.  My lips looked… well, they brought no attention to themselves but I remembered my raspberry lip-gloss in my drawer.  It struck me that I could apply my lip-gloss, not as a topcoat to my red lipstick, but on its own and my lips would finally look like the glossy pale lips I dreamed of having all those ears ago.  I applied it satisfaction and the mirror gave a rewarding reflection of glossy lips with a hint of pink.  I rubbed it off and applied my red lipstick.  Now, I saw in the mirror what white women must see everyday.  Beautiful, bright, full red lips that stood out invitingly against pale skin. 

What took me most by surprise was how easily me eyes were adjusting to my new pale skin colour.  It was like witnessing some kind of optical illusion, tricking my eyesight into thinking I looked… okay.  Was it the foundation warming up to my skin?  I could see my familiar rosy cheeks coming through the foundation.  The ashiness melting away a little bit from my ghostly pallor.

But… I thought I had settled into liking myself for who I am?  I wasn’t filled with self-loathing, wishing for paler skin.  I’d grown up.  I’d become better than that.

I had to keep tipping my head back to look at my neck to convince myself how truly absurd the colour contrast was.  I also examined my hairline where there was a gap of true skin colour peeping through like I was a geisha (they wear the white make up in an exaggerated mask-like way with subtle hints of the natural skin colour beneath). 

I want to see if I could darken the colour and make it wearable.  I grabbed my powder concealer, which I’d bought a shade too dark, and applied it over the foundation on one side of my face.  Slowly, my face warmed up to resemble something that looked like me.  One half of my face was white, the other dark. 

My eye was drawn to the lighter side.  Did that mean the light side of my face of beautiful?  Was this conditioning from birth I’ve had to always see light skin tone as beautiful?  Have I really not changed since I was a teenager?  If so, I found this to be both depressing and alarming.  I have no intention to go back to those days of insecurity and self-loathing. 

I scrubbed my face and washed my foundation brush with a religious zeal to make sure it was not contaminated by the Rimmel foundation. 

The make up sample was thrown in the bin.  Its ability to transform my looks was powerful and almost intoxicating.  There was a little voice in my head that wanted to keep it and see myself as the grotesquely pale creation I had seen earlier with perfect glossy pink lips but I had to resist (my bin was full of discarded hair from my hairbrush and pistachio shells so frankly I had no choice in the matter). 

I was back to looking like me.  Flawed, not beautiful, but me.  And I was okay with that. 

***

If you’re in Birmingham, there’s a drama called 'Lite' with educational workshops playing at the MAC on the topic of skin lightening.  More details at link. 

revised opinions and Google Plus says who?

I want to start my post with revised opinion on gel liner.  As you may have read, I wasn’t impressed with Avon’s gel liner.  I thought it sucked.  However, I think I spoke too soon.  I’ve been using my eye pencil recently.  I love the smudgy undereye look – it really helps to open up my squinty little eyes – and I’ve also started to apply a little outward flick on my upper eyelids for a 1960s cat eye look.  A crisp line is needed for the perfect cat eye but my pencil gets rather smudgy after a while, leaving me looking like a Victorian chimney sweep in the eye area.  Not great.

This is where gel liner comes in because that stuff does not budge at all.  In fact, trying to remove it from your eyes with make up remover is a real pain in the butt.  You can use it to create dramatic lines and it stays put so I’ll concede and say yeah, gel liners are okay (but liquid liner is still tops in my book).

In other news, I’m going to be helping out an organisation called ‘women’s networking hub’.  I’m going to help with twitter updates and creating content for the website which sounds pretty fun.  I met the lady who runs it and she’s really cool and has done a lot despite no funding.  2012 is going to be my year inshallah so this is the first of good things to come.

***

It’s come to my attention that my rishta post has been Google plussed.  I have no idea how to use Google+ and I’m not a user so I don’t know the identity of the person who Google plussed it or who they shared it with. 

Who is this enigmatic person?  I’m not trying to start a witch-hunt – I’m genuinely curious!  If the person reading this is you, can you tell me what you liked about it?  Or why you wanted to share it?  You can leave me a comment if you wish.

I wrote that post in a very agitated, angry state of mind.  It was one of those ‘I have to get this off my chest’ moments.  It’s funny how eloquent and articulate you can be when you’re upset and pissed off.  After I wrote it up and posted it, I spoke to my friend over the phone and talked it all out which felt great.  I don’t harbour any ill-will towards the guy. 

However, I’m still waiting on my phone call.  I’ve given up hope that he will phone.  I think his kind words were just hollow, meaningless words – oh, the drama of it all – and that he has no intention to phone me.  Part of me is totally fine with that because I don’t hold a torch for him but on the other hand I could really do with the career advice he could have given me!

Damn it. 

Dear reader, I texted him

I'm an idiot.

A complete and utter moron.

Why did I text him?

Why am I anxious for him to call me back like he said he would?

Okay, so let me tell you what’s been going on in my life.  as you read before, I had a rishta.  He told me over the phone I wasn’t the right one for him.  I accepted it (I have no choice but to accept it).

I got on with my life.  I went to visit my friend who had baby recently.  I must have been in a state of shock because I forgot how much newborn babies freak me out.  They are so tiny!  They eat, sleep and cry.  That’s it.  Just the three settings.  Her baby was crying and I was too freaked out to even try and hold her (I typed ‘it’ before correcting myself, ha! I'm sooo not maternal). 

Anyways, my friend was asking me about how I was.  I need to get my arse in gear and sort out the mess that is my life and I was spurred on to search counselling courses online.  I found a masters course which sounded interesting and suddenly an idea popped into my head. 

Why not text the guy who offered his help to me while refusing marriage?  We both studied the same subject at uni although he has progressed much further in his career than I have. 

It seemed like a good idea.  I rummaged through my bin for his discarded phone number, retching in the process at the thrown away tissues and hair. Ewwwwww!  I composed an apologetic text that basically said ‘I know this is cheeky but can you help me?’

After waiting for an agonising couple of hours and he texted back saying yes, he would like to help.  I was elated (his text totally made rummaging through the bin worth it) and he said he would call the next day.

That was two days ago.

I am in a nervous state waiting on his call. 

When will he call?

What will I say when he calls?

Has he regretted his reply already? 

Does he think I'm a mad stalker?

Isn’t this going to get more awkward the longer he leaves it to contact me?

Oh God, he's waiting it out - he deffo thinks I'm a nutjob...

Ugh.  This is actually going to drive me insane.  If he does call, it will be the first and last phone call I ever make to him.

I AM SO STUPID!

Heartbreak rishta hotel

Soooooooo… 2012 already, huh? 

Is it me or did it come around fast?  It sounds dumb to be taken by surprise but I feel like there was something quite anti-climatic about the end of 2011.  Considering the events that happened throughout the year – Arab Spring, death of OBL, England riots, to name a few – I suppose I expected something more than fireworks and ‘hello 2012’. 

I think I could have done with the distraction of world events.  Home life for me has been really quite difficult and particularly tense this Christmas.  For goodness sake, we don’t even celebrate Christmas and yet I still manage to ruin xmas lunch with a blazing row.  I’m surprised the neighbours didn’t call the police but I can thank the middle class neighbourhood we live in for having a ‘we don’t like to get involved’ attitude.  Or maybe they were enjoying their own particular brand of hell that seems to descend upon the ‘holiday season’.