Self-reflection during Ramadan 

There are two ways of being tired of eating during Ramadan:

  • One is when you wake up in the middle of night during Seheri and try to shove down as much food as you possibly can so you can keep your fast; even though just four or five hours ago you ate a full course meal.
  • And the other one is at Iftar when you’re full after two bites and can’t eat another morsel, despite the fact that the stomach has been crying for food for the past 16 hours.

Both times you end up just looking at the food more than you actually start eating it.
Not because the food doesn’t look appetizing but because both the mind and body are too tired. The mind is too sleepy and the body is just not hungry. As I stare at my food, there are a lot of things going in my head. At least that is what it looks like if someone were to see me. Maybe I’ll tell you one day. That is, if I ever can remember what in the world I was thinking about.

“The first time I was ever called ugly, I was thirteen. It was a rich friend of my brother Carlton’s over to shoot guns in the field.
‘Why you crying, girl?’ Constantine asked me in the kitchen.
I told her what the boy had called me, tears streaming down my face.
‘Well? Is you?’
I blinked, paused my crying. ‘Is I what?’
‘Now you look a here, Eugenia’-because Constantine was the only one who’d occasionally follow Mama’s rule. ‘Ugly live up on the inside. Ugly be a hurtful, mean person. Is you one a them peoples?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ I sobbed.
Constantine sat down next to me, at the kitchen table. I heard the cracking of her swollen joints. She pressed her thumb hard in the palm of my hand, somthing we both knew meant Listen. Listen to me.
‘Ever morning, until you dead in the ground, you gone have to make this decision.’ Constantine was so close, I could see the blackness of her gums. ‘You gone have to ask yourself, Am I gone believe what them fools say about me today?’
She kept her thumb pressed hard in my hand. I nodded that I understood. I was just smart enough to realize she meant white people. And even though I still felt miserable, and knew that I was, most likely, ugly, it was the first time she ever talked to me like I was something besides my mother’s white child. All my life I’d been told what to believe about politics, coloreds, being a girl. But with Constantine’s thumb pressed in my hand, I realized I actually had a choice in what I could believe.”
― Kathryn Stockett, The Help