Category Archives: Academia

Each One Teach One

Posted in Academia, Graduate Student, teaching by

Today, I had my debut as an aspiring professor. I gave my first lecture on African History to a class of super sharp and highly motivated Stanford Students. Standing there in front of some of the brightest minds, even with my podium and powerpoint, was so intimidating. I gave the lecture at 10 this morning with less than 2 hours of sleep. I started out extremely nervous but as I began talking I became a bit more comfortable. As with any first time, it was clumsy and I was self conscious. It was by no means the best lecture given on campus, but I got through a difficult topic: “Structural Adjustments, Oil Shocks and Persistent Poverty in Africa.” My professor/advisor said I did a good job and my students were encouraging. To me that was enough. Afterwards, I had a series of meetings with my students. One of my favorite parts of teaching is discussing their ideas and helping students develop their writing. I had no time to eat, there was seminar where my peers presented their most recent research. We discussed the works in depth, and I was surprised that I wasn’t just about to keel over. Creativity excites me, ideas excite me. I think thats what drove my day.

I stumbled across this path of the educator and intellectual. It sounds really strange to imagine myself as an intellectual. But it is really exciting to think that my whole career is built upon the development of ideas and knowledge creation. I stepped onto DeAnza community college fairly clueless. At the time of my high school graduation, university dreams were over. But they were once again rekindled as I discovered my first true love. I discovered my love during the summer before my first year of college. I was a little timid at first, afraid to make a commitment. But I fell in love with this whole world Islam as a way of life, a civilization, a history, a world view. I began to read voraciously, devouring every book in the library to understand my relationship with the ideas, the texts, and community. I then made my commitment and for years I embarked on a path of self-education and activism.

My mom told me the other day that I better go find the family who I stayed with after I graduated high school. My friends mom told me that in order to live there, I had to go to school.

I didnt know it then, but thinking back now that is when I first began enjoying teaching. I believed in sharing knowledge. I would just build with people all day long about African history and Islamic legacies. There were plenty of causes to fight for, plus we were all hopeful. The intifada was just ending, resulting in Peace talks between Palestine and Israel. The year before, the Algerian government annulled elections. Bosnian Muslims experienced ethnic cleansing in the Balkans. I remember horrified as news stations showed footage of the Rwandan genocide. I remember how angry I was about the lack of concern for black lives. Black bodies were on display like road kill. I remember the numbers rose exponentially. 100,000, 200,000 500,000 800,000,…nearly a million. There were plenty of protests, talks, lectures, rallies. I discovered my love of activism and teaching during this unsure and exciting time. And I was fully engaged in that academic world. But even then, I didnt know I would become a teacher. I had no idea where my life would take me or the ups and downs.

For years, I thought I didnt have the patience to teach. How could I coach somebody through the learning process? What would be my reaction if they didnt get it? After teaching an elderly couple the complex Muslim prayers, I began to consider my gift for packaging information in a way that was understandable. I came back to California knowing I wanted to teach. I re-enrolled in community college and began the long circuitous journey to get my bachelors. Initially I thought I would teach highschool. But I wanted to teach students with a strong desire to learn. I always had a desire to work on text books and education reform. But tens of thousands of dollars in student debt made me reconsider that.

I took some time off from school, well it was more forced because of financial and personal circumstances. I couldnt attend a university or college for three years, when I finally paid off my debt to SCU. I finally received a financial aid package that allowed me to fulfill my dream of getting a university education. For reals, there were many times when it was just a dream. It was fall 2001 and the first day of classes was September 17. A week before, three airplanes crashed into those buildings. Years before, I put away my student activist coat and kept my religious and spiritual life very personal. I was pretty much disengaged from community life. But as discussion opened up in my classes, I was often the only person with knowledge about Islamic world views, the middle East, and Muslim countries. My professor took me aside one day and asked what did I want to do when I graduate. I told him, I wanted to be a writer. He said he considered me an intellectual and suggested that I consider a career in academia.

After a lot of meditation and contemplation, I began to see that as an academic I could make the greatest impact. I loved teaching, I loved writing, I loved activism and community work, I loved watching people learn, I loved the world of ideas and discourse. Getting into graduate school became my singular focus.

Teaching today reminded me that I have been making progress. All the hard work, sleepless nights, and lack of social life are paying off. It seems like I am one step closer to my goal. I have to finish this quarter strongly and write this last paper to become a true Doctoral Candidate. I am beginning to plan my next year. I have worked on designing my own course on Race and Slavery in the Muslim world. I have grant proposals, dissertation proposals, I have to prepare for my oral exam which will test my grasp of my field. It is scary and it goes by at a demanding pace. I pray that I can continue to develop and meet those important milestones. I hit some stumbling blocks, but Im gaining that momentum.
There are so many people who I have leaned on for their support, both materially and in their prayers and kind thoughts. I hope that I can step up to the task. I keep them in mind as I continue this work.

Race in Academia

Posted in Academia, Black Women, Interracial Relationships, Race in America, Travel by

So, it’s 1:30 and our neighbors are having a party. We live in the multi-cultural theme housing, but I rarely see or talk to any of my neighbors. I think the most cultural aspect of this little neighborhood is the “black music that they are playing right now. Yeah, all night has been hip hop. It is pretty weird, especially in this rather mono-ethnic environment.

Outside my department or the organizaitons such as Black Graduate Students Association or Muslim Student Awareness Network or ISSU, hardly anyone ever speaks to us or bothers to get into a conversation. Outside of some ethnic or religious commanality, there is always some awkwardness in making any bridges. The thing that makes it strange is that I grew up in a well integrated area. I even lived in a multi-racial household. So, I actually am pretty adept at moving back and forth between black worlds and white worlds. But Stanford has this special class divide.

Last Summer while I was in a summer program my lil Brazilian sis and I went to the Lake with our white classmate. This white sister kept saying that she now knew how we felt in all white Middlebury as the only black girls in the program of 120 students. She was not the minority because two of us were black. She stated that she felt awkward when my sis and I were cracking jokes about being ashy. Maybe it is not normalized for them to be the minority, but everyday I cycle through campus, I am aware that I am rather an anomoly. I think that it is an opportunity to learn and develop one’s patience. Perhaps more people should experience that awkward feeling.

Last year, my roommate and I were invited to one of the grad get togethers organized by one of my neighbors. I think two people came up to me and my roomate and tried to strike up some awkward conversation. White students approach the Black Graduate students tables at the student organization fairs all scared. We have offered free water and candy. They will venture near for some water or candy saying something like, “I’m not black but I’d like some water.” I said several times, “Hey you are welcome to some water, just as you are welcome to join us at a number of our events, such as barbecues, meetings, lectures, and cultural events.” I also said, “This organization is open for anybody who is interested in black culture or issues.” They wouldn’t sign up to learn anything about the few black people on campus concentrated in one geographic area. Even at the end of the year BBQ, they would be all scared, and walk by staring. At times, some would come by for a hamburger and scuttle off.

For a long time, I would get annoyed and would want to not think how much race seems to matter to people. But every so often, in unsuspecting moments it comes up. Like the last day I was leaving Durham England and in a brief conversation a British dude told me that because the color of my skin people would treat me differently. Plus, all attempts to touch and comments about my hair. Or asking some old dude the time and him saying “I don’t talk to n—-s.” Or sitting in Arabic class and the teacher pointing out, “Aziza is black, her skin color is black, she’s black black bliggity black” I was irritated, I said, “No, my color is brown.” “I am of African descent” “The name of my people is Black” and they he ignored me and for days to demonstrate colors, he said, “Like Aziza there is no one like her her color is black.” (these are translated from the Arabic) Meanwhile, in Arabic, there are names for people who are tan, people who are fair with blonde hair, and people who are ruddy. So black encompasses a million shades of brown. For a language as subtle as Arabic, I find the lack of distinction between ethnic groups and the infiinite variety in black people very obnoxious. Finally, I looked at the sketches of the suspects who jacked two stanford students. The descriptions and sketches sort of resemble two business school students. So, not only do they have to worry about getting jacked, but they will always be the usual suspects.

Final shady note, one friend pointed out that in white neighborhoods that have those shady XXX video rentals, you will always notice how the black porns are always sold out. So, it sort of makes me wonder about the weird voyaristic fantasies that people have with the “Dark Continent” and peoples of African descent.

Tonight’s party reminds me what a strange world we live in where people seem to love black music, obsessed with black sexuality, and black sports stars, but they don’t like black people. Well, if you don’t try to get to know us as real people with hopes, dreams and aspirations just like you, then you don’t have to humanize us, right?

Write Or Die

Posted in Academia, Writing by

I dreamed of writing, of telling untold stories, but never knew it would become like a state of emergency. I can flow on some paper, but my way of life depends on the mastery of some other type of beast. Writing becomes the mastery of devices, the mastery of structures and constructions, of excluding and of ordering.

I just heard a poet say that he was writing for his life. It just came to me at that moment that I’m in that same position, it’s write or die. The primary way that I convey my mastery over material and make an argument is through my ability to write. I have to produce, and master their language their rhetorical style, their mode of conceptualizing the world, their way of conveying reality. It is publish or perish and write or die. I write to eat, to travel to dream, to earn respect, to pay my rent, to clothe myself, to earn my place, to make my mark. I write to learn, to make sense of what I’m doing. Through the construction of words I convey to the institution that I am a worthy apprentice. This year, I hope to attain that document that says I am a master. I would have mastered something, entered that elite sphere of masters. Master, but not a slave? And mastery over what? Incomplete knowledge? I write to become a candidate, to take that next step!

Right now, in this mad rush, I have deadlines that is screaming “write or die!” I learn, I think, I analyze, I express, I argue, I fight. Write or die. Publish or perish. And we make a living ripping each other’s carefully crafted words apart where we undermine each other’s assertions by exposing their fallacies, irrationalities presuppositions, and underlying assumptions. Any closed society has its rights of passage and rituals to protect the ranks. And academia has all the trappings of a secret society with all its rites of initiations. Trial by fire, works lined up for summary execution. I’ve seen ideas come to life only to bleed red and die under the editor’s pen.

I write to wrap my mind around complicated thoughts that spill over thousands of pages and carry over in countless conversations. Recorded and lost in vocalized reverbations, stored on servers in cyber space, published in journals, resting in library basements, scribbled on scraps of paper, scanned, shredded, photocopied, handwritten, collecting dust in book shelves, pondered, dismissed, disputed, refuted, adopted, accepted, and transmuted. I write to make my intervention in this conversation. Here is my own contribution. I will show them something they did not see, do not want to see, and often want to remain blind to it. Pick one idea, inshallah, maybe it can be transformative. That alone will give this work meaningful.

Spring Break Like Whoa

Posted in Academia, Bay Area, Graduate Student, Travel, Writing by

I was a non-traditional student. I spent years in community college which meant that I didn’t move out from mom’s house to stay iin dorms, join a sorority, do the whole spring break thing, and come home for the summer and intern. It began twelve years ago…and now I can’t believe I’m buying this ticket.

I worked my way through school, sometimes too broke to even afford books or a bus pass to get to school. I was a student activist, down for the struggle, but not that many people understood my struggle. Even in community college there were a few quarters I couldn’t pay tuition. During those times I’d spend my time studying in Santa Clara University’s library. I was lucky to meet some Muslim sistas at a MSA event, they gave me a ride and we’ve been tight since. One of the sistas lived by me and she’d pick me up and take me to campus just to hang out. There were two amazing Iraqi sisters at SCU, one began teaching me how to read and write Arabic. I wanted to travel so I could learn to speak and read Arabic and understand what I read and recited from the Quran. Likewise, a bachelor’s degree was a dream but I was just happy to be able to learn and be in that environment.

But there were people who believed in me even when I was ready to walk away from the whole academic thing. Spring Break was the farthest thing on my mind. I was just trying to break in. Life circumstances positioned me in a place where I finally got my foot in the door. I went back to community college and was accepted into SCU. But that door shut closed on my foot and all a few quarters later. No Spring break, just a three year break paying off tuition bills and learning how valuable education was through my bull %*& jobs. I did visit my family in Jacksonville Florida, which coincided with Black College Reunion, so maybe that counts. During that Spring break I didn’t know a single student at BCR.

Three years later, I wasn’t thinking about Spring Break. Debt paid off, I finally received a decent financial aid package and went back to school to finish this time for reals. Finally I did the damn thing, graduating with honors. I had my Kente cloth and my three sets of honors ropes, and even a phat medallion from an honors society. So I applied to graduate school, I loved this stuff. They would pay ME to study? What? I would get to travel to cool places? I could write my books and teach? Two things I loved to do. But Spring break was not on my mind. Break? Give me a break, I was riding on some high achievement high.

I got into grad schools, 5 fully funded and two in the Bay Area. Who would have thunk? In the bidding war, Stanford offered more funds. I loved Cal, spent a summer there attending Arabic classes. I always loved the East Bay more than any other place in the Bay, and Cal offered me a really nice financial aid package. But Stanford offered to send me to the Middle East to study Arabic for the Summer. I felt like I was walking on clouds. 12 years before, I used to ride the bus from the East Side of San Jose to Cupertino, just hoping to make get out of junior college. So, getting into these programs was kind of wild. A former college drop out, who used to get picked up by TABS for skipping class and get kicked out of of Mt. Pleasant for scrapping now becoming a scholar?

Fast forward to my first year in the program. Grad school kicks everybody’s butt. Especially if a program commits 5 years to funding you. Spring Break last year? Man, I was just finishing up incompletes, praying that I’d pass. In my department, B is failing, B+ means you’re wack. A- means you’re scraping by, and an A means you are okay (maybe). I’ve been working my &^%$#@ off since I got here in Summer of 2004. This last summer, I went to Vermont for nine weeks and Morocco for a Month, both times to study.

Spring Break? I wish….academics don’t break. A few weeks ago, my advisor gave out the command that I needed to hit up some archives. “What are your plans for Spring Break?” I wanted to say, “Sleep without guilt” but of course I had nothing to say. Great! So then he said I should find some Arabic sources in Chicago or at the University of Durham in the UK. I’ve never been to either place. I had to look into it and see if it was worth my while. I also had to find friends and family who would front me until I was reimbursed by my department.

Today, I just bought my ticket from New York to London, leaving on March 25 and returning on April 1. My job is great right? It is amazing, I should be super happy. And a huge part of me is. I just purchased my ticket and I’m like “Whoa! London for Spring Break” (Well actually Durham which is a few hundred miles away) Nobody in my family has been to Europe nor North Africa. I am about to see the London Bridges yall! But I’m too tired for all that excitement. Maybe it will hit me as I cross the Atlantic. I’ll sleep on that flight, maybe even on that train. Until then no sleep for Aziza. But on the real tip, this is better than Spring Break. I hope I come back with some good stuff from those archives, inshallaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!