My Shwayyah: In Memory
July is always a mash up month for me, where the elation of summer and the melancholy of mourning meet. The first day of the month marked 8 years since my daughter Octavia Shwayyah Rashid passed away. Despite the pain that inevitably accompanies the loss of a loved one, Shwayyah's life and death leave heavier imprints of joy on my heart. The oldest of my first brood of stepkids, our relationship was meshed with struggle as I wrestled my way through parenthood.
By the time she became a parent herself, we had reconciled a difficult past. Our relationship changed, and Shwayyah became my confidant, an inspiration. Shwayyah taught me.
She taught me that all of the kids I raised turned out pretty dope, despite my screwups, because my presence, intentions, and struggles to be a parent counted more than I could ever realize. She teasingly called me "Pops" because I was "getting old."
My daughter's death is sans tragedy. The only "bad" thing was how my ex wife maligned it, claiming Allah had killed her in deference to my her. And while this is simply prattle from a warped narcissistic mind, it's disgustingly held aloft by the alarming fact that Shwayyah's sister now capes for the very woman who lampoons Shwayyah's passing as some sort of curse.
Nonetheless, Shwayyah is mine to claim. Long before she passed, she ceased being my stepkid. She became mine, the offspring of my heart, the offspring of my resolve, the offspring of my struggles. Shwayyah's life and death are my pride and joy. I miss her but this is a small selfish pain. I am so glad she was here. I am so glad she is my daughter.
By the time she became a parent herself, we had reconciled a difficult past. Our relationship changed, and Shwayyah became my confidant, an inspiration. Shwayyah taught me.
She taught me that all of the kids I raised turned out pretty dope, despite my screwups, because my presence, intentions, and struggles to be a parent counted more than I could ever realize. She teasingly called me "Pops" because I was "getting old."
My daughter's death is sans tragedy. The only "bad" thing was how my ex wife maligned it, claiming Allah had killed her in deference to my her. And while this is simply prattle from a warped narcissistic mind, it's disgustingly held aloft by the alarming fact that Shwayyah's sister now capes for the very woman who lampoons Shwayyah's passing as some sort of curse.
Nonetheless, Shwayyah is mine to claim. Long before she passed, she ceased being my stepkid. She became mine, the offspring of my heart, the offspring of my resolve, the offspring of my struggles. Shwayyah's life and death are my pride and joy. I miss her but this is a small selfish pain. I am so glad she was here. I am so glad she is my daughter.
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