thezmab

Algerian. American. Texan. MD Candidate.

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Last night/early morning my father and I drank two gallons of mint tea in small arab teacups until the sun rose. He told me stories of his youth, of failures that became incredible life opportunities, of the journey that brought him here. It comforted me in many ways. It’s rare, for an Arab father to share vulnerable stories of youth, but my father sees me as somewhat of a storyteller. Tell my story, he says. In a strange turn of age I’m old enough now to have sips of tea, talk candidly about this life, of these blessings, of futures, of winding down and winding up, of continuing to climb on the shoulders of these giants. I’ll share these stories one day, when I find the words to do them justice. - [My father lost his father when he was twelve. It was the Algerian Revolution, my grandfather was fighting for Algerian resistance, and the French killed him. My father was twelve when he had to grow up. He worked to provide for the family, accumulated pennies carrying pails of water so they could have bread to eat when the sun set. He clung to education. He knew it was his family's way out. He pressured all of his siblings to achieve, taught them that with a book and a pen, with knowledge of the world, they could become something. There was no choice-they had to. That conviction got him, the son of a martyr from a little village in Algeria, a full scholarship to the University of Texas in Austin. The rest-the story of how we came to be from the continued sacrifices of my father-continues. To this day he refuses to take anything from us. That you are successful, that you never forget from where you came, that you are courageous, and fearless, that you stand for yourself and your identity, that you give back to the world, that you love, that you praise God, praise God, praise God, is the only things he asks from us. Happy Father's Day to the man I can never thank enough for making us who we are and for giving us the opportunities of a lifetime.] - This morning I woke my dad up to get Father’s day brunch. He laughs and says you look like you didn’t get a blink of sleep last night. I rolled my eyes and replied my memories contain something far, far greater.

caption I came up with: life after he ghosts you. what y’all got 😂

twenty-five | another rotation around the sun i am overwhelmed—today I became a final year medical student. celebrated the end of a holy month that brought me peace (Eid Mubarak, loves). welcomed a new future that simultaneously excites and terrifies me (think: not marriage). it’s symbolic to me, that all these pieces of my puzzle are coming together to mark my quarter of a century. i have been celebrating/crying all day. i’m drinking my cup of coffee/courage, gazing out my window at the Houston skyline. twenty-five is building empires. it is young enough to still be naive, but old enough to realize you don’t have time to waste not taking risks out of fear. you don’t have time to waste not taking shots because of a chance of failure. it is fine-tuning who you are and what you want while still trying to figure it all out—it is still being flexible, but doing so without self-compromise. it is still self-love and self-confidence, but with exquisite refinement. it is being well into adulthood, well into being a woman, and gingerly settling into your skin, your space, your existence and making a home. it’s having a heart that desires to be, to do more, and knowing everything is still at your fingertips. opportunities still await you. the sun still rises, casts its rays on your empire. aging is positively elegant. twenty-five is simply basking in it.

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