Rayya Elias's Blog

The weather dropped to an all-time low and I left a couple of warm blankets in the back seat, made sure that all my clothes were laundered and brought inside, and took comfort in knowing that someone was watching my car at night so at least I wouldn't get ripped off again.

grew up watching my father sparkle whenever my mother was in the room. He was in constant awe of her, whether she was rolling enough grape leaves to fill a whole pressure cooker or dazzling onlookers as she danced the Charleston at a party.

when I look back on my own experience as a child and pre-teen who was bullied after moving here from another country, it occurs to me that the adults in my life -- even those who loved me -- played a part in the bullying too, whether subtly or directly.

My mother would put on the coat, look at herself in the mirror, and smile. "You see, when it is good quality, it lasts," she would say.

My family left Syria in late 1967 after nationalization started taking place and moved to Detroit. My father was a firm believer in education and economic growth for his family, which is why he chose the United States and not Lebanon, or Brazil, which is where other family members were living.



It's really hard for me to wrap my head around what is going on in my homeland. People often ask me how I feel about Syria, and frankly, it confuses me. I've never been opinionated about politics in other countries, and especially regions as complicated as the Middle East. All I know is that when I was a kid and living in Aleppo, it was beautiful, civilized and a wonderful place to grow up. I rarely saw the religious tension (I was raised christian), or political strife that people often talk about now, but of course that was in the 1960s.



I've gone back and visited Syria with my family many times since we moved to the United States, but never had I seen it the way I did a few years ago when I went with my dear friend Shawn, a handsome, sophisticated, well traveled, gay Canadian man. We met my family for Christmas and New Year of 2009/2010 and it was amazing. The most glamorous holiday either of us had ever experienced. We spent evenings in fabulous restaurants in Aleppo, eating the most extravagant food, and sight-seeing the great Citadel and famous Souks. We spent time walking around the city and meeting people who were charming, civilized and generous. We visited with my family in neighborhoods that brought back fond memories from my childhood. After Aleppo, we traveled to Damascus and attended a friend's daughter's wedding at the Four Seasons, which was so sophisticated and grand it put all other parties or weddings to shame. When we came back from our vacation after visiting Syria, Lebanon and Jordan, we were both so taken with the region that all we spoke about was going back, and taking other friends to share in the experiences that brought us so much joy. It was shocking and extremely upsetting that just a short while after our return all the problems started. Shawn would call me disturbed about the footage that was on the news about his now beloved country. "I wonder what happened to those sweet children that we met from the Armenian school," he would say crying in disbelief as we watched the city fall into ruins.



I'm constantly asked about my feelings and opinions about what is going on in Syria, and my answer is always, "I don't know." What I do know is that my heart grows heavy when I think about it because I don't care about the politics so much -- only the people that I love. My 85-year-old aunty and her son who live in Aleppo, and are unable to get electricity or food on a regular basis, are in constant fear for their lives. My other cousins who live in Damascus have already had the windows in their flats blown out, and don't have a way out of their situation. The land and people that I love are being torn apart, and no one has the answer, even if they think they do.



I'm going to write a short note below to convey my feelings. This may sound elementary, but it's honest and straight from the heart.



Dear Syria,

I love all of your people. You are an old soul, so please heal your wounds, rebuild your character, find your beauty and grace, and come back to us in peace.



Love,

Rayya Elias





Rayya in Syria

My family left Syria in late 1967 after nationalization started taking place and moved to Detroit. It's really hard for me to wrap my head around what is going on in my homeland. People often ask me how I feel about Syria, and frankly, it confuses me.

I can tell right when I meet someone whether or not we're gonna be able to work together. It's a common language, a sense of humor, a meeting of the minds about past experiences and especially lyrics. If I can key into someone's lyrics, then I know exactly what to do with the direction.

If I see a pair of shoes I want, I may set aside a personal principle or two in order to have them. My life story and circumstances can be told by tracking the shoes that I've worn up until now.

Let me start by saying that I'm a shoe whore. I use the word whore not because I get paid to have sex with shoes (although I may have thought about that once or twice), but because, if I see a pair of shoes I want, I may set aside a personal principle or two in order to have them. But really, it's much bigger that that. My life story and circumstances can be told by tracking the shoes that I've worn up until now. The type of shoes I bought and wore were very indicative of my life during my decadent fashion years, punk rock and new wave phase, the many ups and downs to follow, and the stable portions of my life as well.



I've been attracted to shoes since I was a kid growing up in Syria. My parents would often ask us what we wanted as gifts for birthdays or Christmas, and even at the age of 2 or 3, I'm told, I always asked for a new pair of shoes. This could be because I broke both legs very young -- first my left leg, at 2, jumping off a couch; then my right leg, at 6, on the bars of a swing set at school -- and both times I was stuck in a bed for weeks or months with traction weights to heal the break. Perhaps it was then that I first became infatuated with shoes, after staring at my bare feet for much too long. The vehicles that got me up and out, first into the rest of the home, and then outside and beyond. I've also always loved fashion, though -- trying on and taking off new identities, becoming someone else for an hour or a day or a year. What better way to do this than through shoes?



We had a tradition in my family that on Christmas Eve, we would put our old shoes by the fireplace, and when we woke in the morning, we'd find brand new shoes that had replaced them. The new ones were usually stuffed with chocolates, and maybe one other gift for each of us. I remember the shoes more than anything else, because that's what I looked forward to the most. I remember my Te'te, my grandmother, telling me that a new pair of shoes at Christmas would help us have a fresh start: a new beginning to travel for the new year. We were a pretty well-to-do family, living in a huge flat in Aleppo with all of the conveniences of modern life and technology, but the thing I loved most were my shoes. From the white booties when I was little to the black patent leather Mary Janes when I got a bit older, I cherished them all, and even when they got old and worn or didn't fit my growing feet anymore, I wanted to hold onto them and keep them in the back of a closet, where, like page markers, I would pull them out and reminisce about when I'd first gotten them, and how they'd made me feel.



When I was 4 or 5 years old, my mom told me, I started to sleep with every new pair of shoes she bought me, even after I'd worn them on the dirty streets. She had to make a rule that I was allowed to have shoes in the bed only before I wore them outside. But I could still keep them next to my bed, so I could look at them as I was falling asleep. This was weird, I knew, but I didn't care.

My mom saw how important my shoes were to me, and because I had a meltdown about taking them all with me when we moved to the United States in late 1967, she allowed me to pack most of them even though space was tight. When I was dealing with kids who bullied me while I was learning how to speak English, pulling out a pair of those shoes from Syria helped me to find a peaceful place and remember happier times. As I got older, shoes helped in yet another way: I was styling hair for magazines and was very into fashion myself, but I was also heavy-set back then, and most designer clothes didn't fit me. So expensive or weird (or both) shoes were my way of being stylish, extravagant and sometimes outrageous.



When I went to Europe in the 1980's, I had to buy extra luggage just to bring back all the shoes I bought. The Creepers I picked up on Kings Road that helped polish my punk rock look; the black suede booties that later would be manufactured into a huge pair of platforms for one of my performance pieces; the pointed granny boots I acquired in Paris at a shop on a cobblestone side street; all were relevant and important to me. And all made me feel like a star when I wore them.

In my late-twenties, as my life got increasingly difficult in New York and I began spiraling down, I spent most of my money on the drug habit I'd acquired after dealing with a major heartbreak. I stuck to wearing the same pair of Dr. Martens while I indulged day after day, running and hustling after my drugs -- often for months at a time. These boots were tough, and comfortable, and secure, they never let me down. When I was mugged in Alphabet city many years later, I wished I'd had those Doc Martens on, 'cause they were stable and I could've probably ran. But I had on NaNa Platforms, which caved when three teenage boys came at me from behind; I fell and broke my ankle in three places. I even got my nickname, Harley Loco, because of a pair of biker boots I wore during -- yes -- a brief stint at Riker's Island: Harley because they were biker boots which I never took off, Loco because I acted crazy to keep the inmates from messing with me. When I finally got clean, these were the only boots I'd managed to keep. They were a symbol of both where I'd been and how far I still had to go: I was starting a new life, and it was difficult from every aspect. The durability of those boots reflected to me how durable I had to be to get my life back in order. At two years sober, I bought my first pair of Prada boots. They were $400, and I thought I would have a heart attack as the woman swiped my credit card. But I stood on my feet four full days a week then -- cutting hair -- and I convinced myself that wearing those boots was like having a foot massage while I worked.



Though I've parted with my childhood shoes at this point and lost most all the ones from my difficult years, I've been actively collecting shoes and boots again for the past fifteen years, and by now, I probably have over three hundred pairs. Once again, I can reach into one of my closets, pull out a pair of shoes, and remember precisely the situation that prompted me to buy them. I can visualize which partner I was with when I wore them, or which family member or friend had admired them. Happily, I'm no longer overweight and I can buy designer clothes if I choose, but getting me into a department store is the tricky part -- unless, of course, they happen to be having a sale on shoes.

If I see a pair of shoes I want, I may set aside a personal principle or two in order to have them. My life story and circumstances can be told by tracking the shoes that I've worn up until now.