Lifter of My Head

I’m a little unsure of how graphic & descriptive I need to be in giving an account of what it’s like to walk on the street in my town as a foreign female, so I’m going to take it easy on ya & hope we meet on a close-to-mutual level of understanding.

Per the name of this blogging endeavor, I dress both conservatively & modestly. You can ask my roommate—we just “ooohhh-ed” & “aaahhh-ed” at [what I would have previously called “pregnancy”] shirts that I got today. You know what I’m talking about. The ones that make anyone look like they’re expecting—or at least look like they wish they were expecting—with the sleeves coming either to the wrists or a more scandalous design of just three inches past the elbow. [Yeah, this is our life. Maybe yours, too.] Bottom line—I’m not trying to get any numbers out there on the streets. But somehow I get accosted, invited, complimented, insulted & nearly unlawfully assaulted by men’s words & stares during the entire span of my travels from building to building, be it across town or across the street.

Top Three Tactics for Finding Your Happy Place on the Street:

I’ve gone back & forth on keeping my hips & butt covered. I find that it rarely makes a difference—and it only makes a difference for me, personally. Regardless of my shirt, my assets will be seen, with seemingly x-ray vision, despite the length of my top. Never cleavage—of course. And arms? Well, I always have a long-sleeve cardigan with me in my neighborhood, but when I get to work, I’m free to wear short sleeves, praise God. But in the end, as long as you’re not overtly advertising what you’ve got going on, it’s pure subjectivity.

I used to be way against iPods, until I found that I was nicer & less tense walking down the street or sitting in a smoke/B.O./painfully loud, Koranic-singing filled taxi. Now I’m all for them. When Laura Taylor’s “Let Us Love and Sing and Wonder” comes on, my heart smiles & love releases. Sometimes I go for the angry Adele. Regardless, it makes me feel better & I am now a full supporter. [I only have one working ear phone, so I am confident that I am aware of my surroundings while providing myself with a soundtrack for the city.] It’s pure beauty.

I’ve always been an utter & complete supporter of sunglasses. Really huge & dark ones, actually. Having sunglasses allows you to watch things & people you wouldn’t normally be able to watch, while also being able to stare down men staring you down. Right now, I have none. Some kid I know broke them as he jumped on me. But I will surely pick some up soon, because when I have them, I experience pure freedom.

But with being in said circumstances for months & months, and with making many personal & material accommodations [often against my own will or better fashion-judgment], I have found that I have problems. Specifically, serious posture problems.

Upon arriving to this region, every American woman is strongly advised to not make eye contact with men. Well, if you’re a strong & highly-communicative woman like myself, this is just a ridiculous recommendation. And while I’m rarely caught without my sunglasses & having perfected the art of staring right through men without making eye contact with them, I’ve noticed that my posture has changed. For the worse, of course. When I’m trying to hurry through a part of town, or if a group of teenage boys approach me on the street, I’m likely to put my head down or watch the road. If I’m the only woman on the street & a man is walking towards me on the same side, I’ll cross the street just to avoid any possible forbidden proximity to him. [It’s really actually dramatic, but quite playful & sometimes necessary. I amuse myself with it, always bargaining & playing chicken with him non-verbally. I usually lose.]

A few months ago, I had had enough. I was done being docile & “weak,” always succumbing to a passive posture. [Insert many-a-tantrum & rant here.] I hated who I was becoming & Who I was drifting from just in my walking. I felt like I was giving into shame & fear, letting these lost men & the voices in my head speak into my life. I was done. I wanted to claim my identity & worth & walk in manner worthy of my calling, of my status, as a daughter of the King.

Psalm 24 really speaks to me… knowing that my Father is the Lifter of my head. I’m not to be ashamed & duck down, cowering in darkness, but to be a door which He may pass through.

“Lift up your heads, O gates! And be lifted up, O ancient doors.
That the King of glory may come in…”

He, too, lifts my head.

“I sought the LORD and He answered me
and delivered me from all my fears.
Those who look to Him are radiant,
and their faces shall never be ashamed.”
[Psalm 34.4 & 5, ESV.]

And while I had a Relational, mental & emotional grounding for a turning point in my posture, I knew I had to do something physically. So… I borrowed a 10-minute Yoga Solutions DVD from a friend.

Yoga is, like, supposed to elongate you & strengthen you & support a healthy posture, right?
Well, in my case it sent me crashing to the floor three times in 30 minutes,
produced bruises & left my ego wounded.
I wanted to strangle that skinny, chipper girl on the DVD
as she held poses way longer & better than me,
while talking,
when I’m clearly stronger & prettier than her.
I hate Yoga now.
[But totally respect it, since it completely schooled me in the privacy of my own home.]

Here’s a picture of me dominating the directions of a different annoying & skinny girl
during a charity-like Yoga class in a ladies’ gym here:

I’ve since given up on Yoga… Fail.

My friend, Margie, told me about the Bar Method & took me to a class.
I liked it—it was low-impact & I walked away feeling great & also like I hadn’t really worked out—
double bonus.
[We’ll see if I can walk tomorrow.]
The Bar Method is pretty much like ballet meets Pilates, who used to date Yoga.
[I think I might be in love.]

The only comments I get from my local friends here regarding exercise
is how I need to do it so that I can lose weight so that someone will marry me.
[This, of course, is said while they’re feeding me
too much rice, yogurt & cups of sugar with some tea in them.]
And also that I’m crazy for exerting physical energy
when not in a life/death situation.
I can’t win. But I’m enthusiastic.

It’s so important for me to work out—my rage & my body.
Endorphins are a must when living cross-culturally.

And so as I seek to improve my posture, from the inside out, I just have one last question:

Is it okay for me to say that the things I did for Love this week
involved Yoga in my living room
and a free Bar Method at a co-ed [???] gym?

Because that’s what I’m claiming…

Right before the [all-women] Bar Method Class with Margie.

[P.S.: Please disregard the really bad sunburn & tan-lines.
I was a tourist earlier this week,
so the sun was introduced to my skin… Don’t judge me.
This picture also serves as proof that I wear sunglasses. Often.]

When It's Hard to be an American

“‘Do I take any pleasure in the death of the wicked?’
declares the Sovereign LORD.
‘Rather, am I not pleased
when they turn from their ways and live?’”
Ezekiel 18:23

From growing up in America, I feel like most people are generally taught to avoid discussions on politics & religion. But I’ve embarked on a journey that’s lead me to today, to a land where the two are [almost] one. And right now, in my everyday life, it seems that I’m really only identified by my gender and these two things, anyways. So how can I avoid this? I can’t. I am forced to engage in it and navigate these fields, and therefore so are you.

Some historical and monumental things have taken place and are continuing to transpire,
and living in the region of the world that I do,

I am tiptoe-ing around,

waiting for THE response,

watching for THE reaction and

living in a state of anxiety about what “my” government is going to do.

After contemplating the idea of deleting all my [rude] American Facebook friends [save those living here with me] due to their ridiculously arrogant, insensitive & idiotic comments and reactions, I remembered that, “Oh yeah, I’m from America.”

Sometimes I just dislike Americans.

Until I remember that I am one.

And that’s hard.

I was most recently reminded of this while traveling in the desert.

As a wannabe resident alien, my skin crawls when I see… tourists.

My friends’ and my jaws ached after three days in the desert,

overwhelmed by the sheer size of backpacks,

the loud voices [with really unintelligent comments],

the serious lack of bargaining skills,

and the abundance of… skin, particularly… cleavage.

[I’m still recovering.]

And then I remember that what I see [and despise] in these tourists is much like how I’m seen by random locals. I’m associated with, no—totally identified by media and these tourist experiences. Sexually, politically, religiously, intellectually—everything.

And some days it’s harder than others.

Today [and the coming days, I’m sure] are going to be hard.

In terms of perception, safety, understanding, anxiety, mobility… it’s going to be hard.

And the thing I most struggle with is that I don’t know exactly how I’m perceived when I step out of my house. I’m ultimately at the mercy of God, I know that full well. But I also live in an awareness that I am also, to some degree, at the mercy of those around me. Where I live, someone can be mad at the West & just pick me. I don’t think this will happen because, in my host-country’s defense, they have an amazing track record of treating foreigners well. But I’ve been harshly accosted before because I’m so painstakingly and obviously American. [I think he felt better, though. And I didn’t understand most of it. I like being a part of therapeutic events.]

Quite regularly, I seek counsel on

how to appropriately and intentionally respond

to world and local events.

Today, I was in one of my over-feeding Arab homes and the kids wrapped me up, making the scarf I was wearing a hijab, a head covering [see video in sidebar]. It was all fun and games until one of the little boys, seven years-old, came to me as I was leaving. After he jumped on me and covered me in his shy, yet aggressive kisses, he implored me to wear my scarf as a hijab, even unwrapping my scarf to start the process.


“Friend! I’m not going to go outside with a hijab on,” I told him as I laughed.

“Yes. Yes, Miss Sarah, you must,” was his response.

“No, my friend, I mustn’t. I follow [JC] and the only people in this city who wear hijabs are women who follow Islam.”

At this point he started throwing a fit and going off at me in Arabic. Something about me being “shagra” [blonde] and “from America.” His mom stepped in and tried to calm him down.Ultimately it came down to the point that he was worried about me going outside without a hijab on—that something bad was going to happen to me because “that man on the TV died.”


In the end, I left without a hijab, but carried with me some heavy, mixed emotions.

I was delighted at his love and his desire to protect me.

I was alarmed at his level of understanding and application.

And… I was just creeped out by the potential reality of his concerns.

I don’t want to be suspicious, or scared, or on edge.

I like having a healthy level of trust and interaction with the people around me.

And so, I’m just waiting.

Asking for opportunities to be filled with grace and wisdom,

that my words and actions would be seasoned with salt and humility,

making the most of my time here, making the most of this time.

This time when it’s just hard to be an American.