Love Is... Inconvenient
Learning a language, dodging white women’s tears, and wanting both the mountain and my own bed.
It has been two weeks in Oman. Two long, very short weeks that feel like a mini lifetime and also like I blinked and the hours accelerated.
There is a particular overwhelm that comes with being somewhere new, where you don’t know where the grocery store is, and once you find it, you wander the aisles hunting for cereal. The fruit is delicious but unfamiliar. You walk around smelling and tasting and checking prices, converting them in your head back to a currency you understand. You finally check out and realize you forgot something you need, but you decide you’ll go back another day.
You find a new gym and have to figure out how their classes work... Do you pre-register or just show up? Are there showers? Do you need to bring your own towel? Every day is something new. New words in class. New vocabulary you’re supposed to study after you finish, even though there are never enough hours. There is never enough time for emails, homework, a workout, food, a call home. By the time you get through half of it, it’s already late.
At least that is what my first two weeks here in Oman have felt like.
Daunting and exhausting and so beautiful. Exactly the kind of challenge I want more of for myself. There is so much to learn about who I am and how I see the world by stepping out of my comfort zone, and that is exactly what I am doing here.
In case you missed it, I’m spending five weeks in Oman studying Arabic intensively, five hours a day in class, five days a week. I decided to be selfish and invest in this purely personal pursuit. Something that probably will not make me more money, that is not going to make my life easier at home, but scratches some itch in my brain.
Tonight I sat in a Turkish restaurant across from my student apartment, with another student from the program. He asked what my impressions are so far, and I realized there are already so many stories I want to share, some good, some bad, and some in between.
First, the good. And there is so much good here.
Oman is a calm place. Omanis in general are extremely polite. They barely honk in traffic. Even in the middle of the city there is very little of the loud, sharp noise I am used to from DC or New York. My nervous system has unfurled a little here, even though I have been busy.
Things move slower. Time is flexible in a way that is really beautiful when I look at it as an American, who has been trained to believe that time is money and that a sense of urgency is somehow normal. There is a completely different approach to that here.
I’ve joined a women-only gym and realized that I do love some gender-segregated spaces, especially when they are my choice and informed by my needs or women’s in general. And here they offer a peek into a more intimate, almost hidden part of society, as many aspects of women’s lives here happen in relative privacy.
I even hired a driver to take me to the mountains and spent the weekend walking through ancient villages, asking a million questions about what people grow, what they eat, and how they live. I’ll be sharing more of that in a couple weeks once I get the clips uploaded via this shitty, truly shitty Wi‑Fi.
Now for the bad.
Three days into studying Arabic here I had my first experience that made my chest tighten in a way that felt all too familiar.
I walked into my language center, first thing in the morning, fresh from the shower, hair still slightly damp, brain barely awake. The room itself is simple. Small room. Big table in the middle. Big whiteboard. Our teacher was not there yet.
Another student was already sitting at the table. I had only met her the day before as we’re still in that intro period where people sometimes get swapped between classes while they figure out where everyone fits. I was one of those students swapped around. My impression of her was that she was distracted. Laptop open most of class, stepping out to take phone calls, probably working while studying.
Before I even put my bag down, she started.
She said she was going to talk to the administration about me.
She said it was not fair she had to be in class with me.
She said my Arabic was better than hers and I made learning hard for her.
Context: yes, I have more prior exposure to Arabic than her, but I am coming back after a seven‑year break. The class is still hard for me. The night before, I was up late making flashcards. I am pages deep in my notebook. I am rebuilding fluency from memory.
I mostly sat there and nodded because honestly, what do you say when someone who met you yesterday decides you are the problem with their education?
Then the teacher walked in and the floodgates opened.
Suddenly she’s crying and telling the teacher she cannot be in class with me.
She listed complaints that had nothing to do with me. She had been at the institute for months. She wanted to transfer centers but could not. The other class option was too big. She did not like the neighborhood because she wanted something more walkable.
But my name kept coming up. Over and over.
I think after the sixth time hearing my name, I stepped in. I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t curse. I didn’t even stand up.
I just asked her to please leave me out of whatever argument she is having with the administration. Placement decisions have nothing to do with me.
Oh, tears again.
Suddenly I was the problem in a new way. Now I was “mean” to her, “rude” to her. She demanded that I “agree to be nice to her.”
So I looked her in the eyes and, in the same calm voice, told her that I was being polite.
She doubled down and asked why I could not agree to be nice to her?
And I just said “no.” No to that entire manipulation.
I could feel my heart beating in my throat through the entire interaction, and I recognized that feeling. There is a very specific moment Black women know well. The moment where you set a calm, reasonable boundary and suddenly become the aggressor in someone else’s story.
The tears start. The tone shifts. The room tilts.
White women’s tears have a long and violent history of turning Black people into threats simply for existing without submission.
And yes, she never mentioned race. She didn’t have to.
After class, when she was not there, my teacher apologized to me. Our polite‑as‑fuck Omani teacher had just walked into this chaos and had been trying to understand how class had turned into a fucking tribunal.
It was a stark reminder that no matter where I am, the structures that shape our world, the isms and lessons I have tried my best to unlearn, remain with us.
And of course, there is a lot of in-between.
I have not slept well in my student apartment, tossing and turning as the hard bed seems to dig into every single curvy part of my body. The room when I arrived was dirty in a way that made me uncomfortable. I spent my first afternoon here scrubbing everything I could reach inside my bedroom. The rest of the apartment exists, but let’s just say I do not spend much time out there. Though the administration did say they’re sending someone to deep clean soon, so maybe that will change.
Then there is the in-between that is love.
Five weeks is not enough to get the language practice I want or to sink into the history and food and culture of this place the way I would like. I have already booked a ticket back in April, after I host our group trip to Jordan, to return for rose harvest season. I’m going to spend a day back on Jebel Akhdar, back on the mountain, watching roses be harvested and processed into rose water.
Still, every day I feel the pressure of not enough time. Class. Emails. Taking care of myself. Feeding myself. Staying connected with people back home.
If I were single, I think I would stay longer. If I didn’t have so many people calling me home, I would give up my apartment and wander. But I am not single and in fact I do have attachments.
Fuck do I feel the pull of those competing desires. The urge to sleep in my own bed, my soft soft bed. But then I daydream about spending a week in the south of Oman, exploring frankincense production in a region I probably won’t have time to visit this trip. Meanwhile, I miss snuggling with bae, laying my head on his heartbeat while we talk about nothing and everything.
Five weeks is not enough. But I don’t think anything would ever be enough because love is inconvenient af.
Community Care
The past few weeks we’ve seen urgent calls to do something, anything about the ills of America. And I agree. The time is now, but also the time is always. To call your reps. To protest. To show up how and when you can.
And for DC folks looking for an organization to commit funds to, might I suggest Consistent Money Moving Project (CMMP)? An incredible group of organizers collects funds regularly from small donations (literally even $5 a week) which are then pooled and distributed to locals in need. Distributions serve as predictable income that recipients can plan for, which is so so needed.
Happenings & Housekeeping
Supper club kicks off in March! The first event will open soon, so be on the lookout for an email with registration deets!
I’m also deep in the planning stages for 2027 trips. Another update coming soon and I’ll be sending out a survey for Founding Members to weigh in on a reunion trip.
1 Thing I’m Loving Lately
As much as I try to show up for my people, I am NOT good with dates and numbers. I forget holidays. I have booked plane tickets on the wrong date many many times. I forget what time I have to be places. Which means sometimes I also forget birthdays no matter how hard I try.
This year for the holidays I made an account with Postable and unknowingly solved my longstanding problem. First, I used Postable’s collect info feature to text around a link and friends input their addresses and birthdays using the link. Then, I used Postable to design and send out holiday cards. But more importantly for me, it sends reminder emails of folks birthdays and then I can write and send birthday cards (and gifts) with a few clicks. As someone who’s always on the road this is my new favorite tool!
Oh and another moment of good? Laying in bed this morning watching Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance on my laptop. I hope you’re taking the food with the bad wherever you are.
How pathetic that people are still so unevolved that they have to find a scapegoat for their feelings of inadequacy. The entitlement of believing that she should be able to dictate the terms of other people's existence is nasty work.
I love that you said “no.” Saying no and not accepting this behavior is part of the resistance.