An Ode To Mess
The official term for what happened to my family when I was young is gentrification, but there is no word in the Somali language for it. The people who love me most cannot understand this concept, so I try to refrain from using it. In English, you could attempt to break gentrification down to "people who do not belong forcefully move into space because they can," but that sounds a little on the nose. A little too close to what we call colonial rule, the subsequent civil war, and the displacement that followed. Over time, I have found that because of the forces of gentrification and colonialism, certain people become accustomed to instability. And when people are aware that nothing is promised to them, they tend to avoid settling down and establishing a presence. There is no time to take part in traditional acts of indulgence because you're always ready to flee, always in a state of constant mobility. The things that we do when we're comfortable that bring us joy are luxuries when you know, for various reasons, that space can be taken from you at a moment's notice (and sometimes, without any notice at all). In my life, there have been creative ways of dealing with this reality. For me, it's been world-building done by my mother. More specifically, it's her granting me permission to make messes.
The little apartment I grew up in was mine. In reality, it wasn't. An apartment, in a building constructed on stolen land, filled to capacity with people from other stolen lands, paying rents that could spike at any moment, forced to flee once again- could never truly be mine, but my mother convinced me it was—a cramped, carpeted, two-bedroom jungle gym for me to discover bit by bit, every day. While looking back fondly at my childhood, I can't help but realize that my habit of being incredibly frugal and gentle with things comes from knowing how quickly they could not belong to me anymore—prepared for displacement at a very young age. I was a well-behaved child who knew to be kind to objects, to people, to apartment buildings, because someone else might need them, or take them by force. Because I was aware that I would have to abandon them. I now realize making a mess is unwittingly powerful because it goes against the migrant ethos of "order" and "neatness." It directly challenges the "over-preparedness" and "put-togetherness" we regularly practice.
I imagine that my mother allowing me to make absolute, treacherous messes in the apartment was her way of trying to secure me one thing in this world, if even for a short time. It was her way of combating the uneasiness that comes with displacement, calming the fears that stop you from enjoying things fully. It was her way of saying, "Here, this is yours. Throw things around, spill juice, mess it up, and it will still be yours afterwards. It will still be whole, and it will forgive you for all of it." And she never let me think otherwise.
There was one thing in the apartment that was truly off-limits": A suitcase- the ultimate physical symbol for being equipped to leave. The suitcase was always in reach, but certainly not a toy. Perhaps it was the only thing in my house my sister, and I could not play with. My mother would let us make joy out of anything. "As long as you return it when you're done!" was the only rule. Pots, pans, rolling pins, the laundry basket, throw pillows. My imagination ran rampant. Scarves became princess-worthy gowns, strainers acted as helmets, empty bottles of olive oil were rocket ships. The brown couch in the living room was my dune. None of the worries from the outside could ever make it inside. I'm sure my mother had her own anxieties brought on by displacement, but those somehow took a backseat to her working on creating space for me to feel like I belong. As a child, I resented the suitcase because I could not make my sailboat or toboggan.
Years later, I would learn that the suitcase contained everything that made us real people, at least, to the government anyway. Social insurance cards, passports, birth certificates. It contained everything we would need if we needed to leave in a moment's notice. As a teenager, I jokingly refer to the suitcase as the "evidence." It is, in a sense, evidence that we exist. That we have established roots. Though, the real evidence of my family's lives cannot be reduced to state-issued pieces of paper. Nor do these possessions mean as much as we think they do in times of conflict. There are countless historical examples of bodies with proper paperwork still facing expulsion from their homes. The documentation does establish a small sense of attachment, but not the feelings of belonging my mother rendered.
To know my family, you'd have to be introduced to an outdated shaving-kit, next to brown-reddish hair dye and "safe for baby" shampoo next to an assortment of toys. A frugal gentleman, his wife who dislikes her gray birthmark and whose self-care comes in the shade "Warm Auburn," and their small children who are not particular fans of bath-time. These things, these signs of living, are tiny assertions of dignity and belonging. They ground me and keep me from succumbing to the altitude sickness that comes with displacement. I am glad my mother has hosted her own tiny rebellion by allowing messes to exist in our home. The true cure to diasporic anguish has always been a joy, and I am grateful for those, particularly my mother, for making joy for me even in the midst of figuring out their own belonging. I believe the greatest act of love, is world-building, and that is exactly what has been done for me. In dealing with displacement, I have found that being allowed to be disorderly brings me peace.
Submitted by Furqan Mohamed.