Aroosha Zoq Rana

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Aroosha Zoq Rana

(B.A. University of Michigan 2001)

My father always told me I was the son he never had, and more than a decade later, after the birth of my baby brother, he told me not to worry, because I would always be his first-born son. I laughed to myself at the thought of his first born son having such “manly” characteristics as long, curly hair, Bollywood-style eyebrows, and painted toe-nails.

Worried his first born would not carry his name onto future generations he gave me his Urdu takhallus, or poet’s name of Zoq, meaning taste, delight, joy, pleasure, because he wanted to make sure I would carry on his legacy, even upon marriage.

Every summer, he threw a party in Maine for his two “sons” and let everyone in attendance know the position I carried within the household. While the women prepared the food in the kitchen, I stood at the BBQ grill with him and my uncles. And in the evening he would pull me aside to discuss family issues and business matters, or simply share his life’s lessons.

I told him that I wanted to study languages and travel abroad, that I wanted to teach and do community arts education. At first he wouldn’t hear of it—a young woman in a strange land by herself? Teaching and performing? Why couldn’t I go to medical school as he had planned? I reminded him of his fateful decision to risk everything and come to a new country when he was my age, so why shouldn’t I travel and try new things. He replied, “Yes, yes—you are my first son. You can travel for a while, but then you must think about a real career and marriage!”

I invited him to a cappella performances in high school and college and started sending him my poems and rants. Last fall he came to a V-day event held at the Apollo Theater in New York for the world premiere of We Got Issues, a feminine power and politics piece that I performed in with 9 other women. Along with every invite came the stern questions of how could I be involved in all this when I had studies and a career on the line? To which I said, “Abu, you told me that writing poetry feeds your soul, why shouldn’t I do the same?”

When I told him about this writing project and the piece I intended to write, he just sat for a moment and smiled. Laughing he said, “You are my daughter. Even though you are my first son, you are my daughter. Just be careful who you share your precious words with.”

My father did what he could to support me and my work. He was so proud of me that he changed my gender—to what he considered to be the more powerful of the sexes. And although I argued with him about it time after time, I did not take offense because I knew that in time he would acknowledge me for being who I am—a woman—his first-born warrior woman.

My song will not lure you to crash your boat against the jagged rocks of desire

My henna covered fingers will not invite you to dance an uneasy step.

Nor will my smoky black-kohled eyes tantalize you into a trance.

My apple is meant to feed you—satisfy that abandoned hunger.

I will let you drop to your knees—for a second

Before my long fingers extend, beckoning, calling you to walk by my side.