Pattern and Forecast (Vol. 6)

This is the sixth entry in a series in which writers give a report on the weather. Any meteorological statements made may range from the personal to the scientific, from observable weather to the felt.Read the first entry, by Andrew Durbin; the second entry, by Amina Cain; the third entry, by Madeleine Watts; the fourth, by Andrew Durbin; the fifth, by Josephine Rowe.

“You’re a good man.”

My mother tells me I’m “a good man,” and I burst out into tears. It was a good cry, she shattered me a bit with the generosity of her statement. It’s rainy, the kind of rain that soaks your shoes; damp, cold, pissy, endlessly wet with displacement. I hate West Oakland right now, because the weather keeps me enclosed to what is close to me: my oversized heater, my battered laptop, my four other roommates. The only balm is that I’m observing Ramadan. It’s been over ten years. I vaguely remember going to mosque in Akron, Ohio. This is before 9/11 when Islamaphobia was a secret humming in the background of America. I return to observing this month in the most overt Cancerian sentimentality.

I get up every morning for suhoor, a meal that, for me, consists of chugging two giant mason jars of water, a green salad with tomatoes, and whatever leftovers I have from last night. Fasting during the month of Ramadan is considered one of the five pillars of Islam. It is a time to purify the soul, give to the poor, and practice self-discipline. I have 96 dollars in my checking account at the moment. I do not practice charity because I am the poor and working. Am I doing the requisite spiritual work if I can’t give? What intrigues me is that the day before Ramadan begins, May 4, is the known as the Haymarket Affair, which took place in Chicago, in 1886. It began as a peaceful rally for workers striking for an eight-hour work day, the day after the police killed eight workers. An unknown person threw a bomb at police killing eight police, four civilian, and wounding other. Eight anarchist were convicted as a result and International Workers Day commemorates this moment. I’m fascinated by how the number eight weaves itself thought this historical moment: eight hours, eight dead police, eight anarchists. I like collapsing the possibility of spiritual renewal into the kinetic power of revolutionary action. For some reason this informs my discipline towards a refined soul.

By the second week of Ramadan and I am at a collectively ran restaurant called Tamarrack in downtown Oakland. Located...