As salaam alaikum,
Phew! Thankfully, I caught myself from almost making the same mistake I did 7 years ago. Nothing major, but something that cost me one solid year of heartache when things didn't work out as expected...
But as I found myself unwisely walking home alone after a party that was no longer fun because none of my friends were hanging out with me anymore in favor of the dudes they were dancing with...I came to this not very inspired conclusion.
Muslim men, so far, have been my downfall.
I mean, not the numerous brothers who I have been friends with...I'm talking about all of the cases where somehow, I've crossed the line with them from friendship to...what the hell is this-ship.
The big one, of course, always and forever will be MQ. I don't know what was wrong with that kid...so many inappropriate things. I'm not talking inappropriate like Satan being the third type inappropriate, I'm just talking about how the things he said should have never been said to a young potentially-swooning Muslim girl, like, not at all.
But then again, he (and I, for that matter) didn't know how Muslim I was in terms of my level of propriety, what I deemed was appropriate, my aspirations for gender relations.
I mean, it was because of him that I joined the MSA and had the courage to move forward in my development as a Muslim. The journey was all mine, though. I attribute a lot of things (too many, actually), to that then boy, but my personal journey to Islam in college is not one of them, catalyst though he may be.
There were also some negative things about my befriending/what-the-hell-is-this-ing him. I mean, granted, I went through the stage in high school when I felt I was too fat, but with him I experienced the first time that I didn't feel beautiful because I was black.
You don't understand, like, coming up in a black nationalist family, my aunt telling me to color everyone brown because brown was beautiful, the color of my skin and my mother and father's skin, realizing how happy I was that I was born black one day at my grandmother's house at age six, all of this stuff...I would have chosen the brown baby to be the best if they'd given me the doll experiment!
And here I was, having gone natural (my hair) at age 18, but now I was 19 wearing my short fro that had shrunk in the rain, going to the IASA (Indian American Student Association) show with my best friend, and there he was...and the way he looked at me, I don't know...it was like he realized I was black, really, as he saw the short kinky hair on top of my head.
And it was like I wasn't the same after that.
I previously was never one to worry about my hair's length. I let my mother fuss over that, tsk tsk tsk over that. I couldn't be bothered. I was just like, my hair is what it is. It doesn't like to be straight, I resolved, so I stopped getting chemical treatments to straighten it one day. Then all of my hair fell out. I didn't especially care.
But then, there was that look, and in one moment I wondered what I would for the next several years...was I pretty enough?
Was I small enough, was I fair enough, my eyes attractive enough, my hair long enough...for him.
For the first time in my life, I avoided the sun during the summer. I used to like my natural summer bronze that came on not from intentionally tanning, but just being out in the summer. For at least three years after that, I hid from the sun. This year has been the first year in a while that I've embraced my darker summer color, really...
Was my hair long enough? To demonstrate that my hair was longer, I started blow drying out my little afro puff. As a result, I lost a lot of hair, had to start over, and it took me a while to be comfortable with my hair in the natural conformation again.
And, like I'm going back to a time when I was 15, I'm all of a sudden worried about my weight again...
That, and from that whole experience, I learned the hard lesson that there are some ethnicities of Muslims who hate black people, though they've had little contact with them, and/or they don't want their children/family members ending up with them.
So that was him. This recent dude who I met two days ago is a brief example. He was Muslim, I was Muslim, he knew I was Muslim, and then he kisses me on the cheek? When is that ever appropriate?
I'm almost wondering if I'll end up with a Muslim man who brings me down a notch. I don't know. I feel like the really religious Muslim men don't want anything to do with me because I'm a little bit at the fringes. I feel like the ones I have more of a chance with have major Muslim character flaws (ex. social drinking) and yet, when it comes to marriage, they're more culturally Muslim than otherwise, and therefore will end up with someone of their own culture, anyway...
...which, invariably, is never my culture.
I don't know. Maybe this theory is unfounded and is the artifact of walking home bitterly with no coat in 50 degree weather. I really, actually had only one bad experience...
But I never, ever want to be near someone who makes me dislike myself that much ever again. Ever.
...in reality, I don't know what to do with my life from this point out. That's the real issue.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Muslim FAIL
As salaam alaikum,
Heh.
So, first I was almost served alcohol by a fellow Muslim. Yes. Oops. Thank God for my Daddy's super olfactory powers.
He felt really bad about it, though. But then he made up for it by kissing me on the cheek.
And I was like, exclamation point, then I was like, hrm...
Womp womp womp.
It's funny, I write about this "Muslim at the fringes" stuff in my story ("A Rose Much Desired"...yes, plug again), but when it happens to me in real life, I become, like, the haram police...
Inappropriate, bro!
I can't say too much because, like, I'm no angel (heh, grand understatement of the evening), but seriously, those two together means I spent tonight celebrating...
Muslim FAIL!
...this wasn't the substantive blog I promised, actually. This Ramadan was excellent for a lot of things, and I'll talk about those later.
Hehehe.
Oh, and I discovered this Wordle sight on another sisters' page, and I Wordled my story. I put one version up on facebook...here's another that's also cool (joking myself once again...)
The conformation of this is very interesting and telling about the story in some odd way. If you find an intersting word or name, ask and I will tell! But I will not give a punch line!
I also did one for this blog:
Computer? Really? Interesting conformation for this one, too...
I think I've had too much caffeine tonight. I need to do homework (!!) tomorrow...it sounds so funny, but it's true! I haven't had homework in a year! I guess it could be worse...
Heh.
So, first I was almost served alcohol by a fellow Muslim. Yes. Oops. Thank God for my Daddy's super olfactory powers.
He felt really bad about it, though. But then he made up for it by kissing me on the cheek.
And I was like, exclamation point, then I was like, hrm...
Womp womp womp.
It's funny, I write about this "Muslim at the fringes" stuff in my story ("A Rose Much Desired"...yes, plug again), but when it happens to me in real life, I become, like, the haram police...
Inappropriate, bro!
I can't say too much because, like, I'm no angel (heh, grand understatement of the evening), but seriously, those two together means I spent tonight celebrating...
Muslim FAIL!
...this wasn't the substantive blog I promised, actually. This Ramadan was excellent for a lot of things, and I'll talk about those later.
Hehehe.
Oh, and I discovered this Wordle sight on another sisters' page, and I Wordled my story. I put one version up on facebook...here's another that's also cool (joking myself once again...)
The conformation of this is very interesting and telling about the story in some odd way. If you find an intersting word or name, ask and I will tell! But I will not give a punch line!
I also did one for this blog:
Computer? Really? Interesting conformation for this one, too...
I think I've had too much caffeine tonight. I need to do homework (!!) tomorrow...it sounds so funny, but it's true! I haven't had homework in a year! I guess it could be worse...
Friday, September 10, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
O Que Será/What Could it Be
Salaam,
The woman I stayed with while in Brazil introduced me to this song, and I didn't understand it at the time...too many words, went too fast. But a few months (or maybe a year) after I left, I listened to it again, and wow, it is a really beautiful song.
I like this rendition the best, though the audio isn't the greatest. It starts after 1:29.
I translated this a while back, and started working with a translation such that I could sing it in English...nothing is as good as the original, though, always.
I found it! Awesome...look at the last stanza especially...wow!
What could it be that does this to me?
That crushes me inside, what could it be?
That I wear on my sleeve, what could it be?
And that rises to my face and makes me blush
And that jumps into my eyes to betray me
And that opens my heart and makes me confess
What no longer has a way to hide
And that isn’t a right for anyone to deny
And that makes me beg, makes me plead
What has no measure and never will
What has no remedy and never will
What has no recipe?
What could it, could it be?
That exists within us when it shouldn’t
That makes us unsure, that is rebellious
That is like a drink that doesn’t satisfy
That is like being sick from a party
That not even the Ten Commandments will reconcile
Nor any of the ointments will alleviate
Nor any spells, any alchemy
That not even all the saints, could it be?
What has no rest and never will
What does not tire and never will
What has no limit
What will it be that does this to me?
That burns me up inside, what could it be?
That disturbs me from sleep, what could it be?
That agitates me with the shivers
That kindles the passion within me
That drenches me in sweat
That leads all of my nerves to pray
That leads all of my organs to cry out
It’s a horrible affliction that makes me beg
What has no shame and never will
What has no control and never will
What has no reason
This is my translation. There are probably others out there.
Paz!
The woman I stayed with while in Brazil introduced me to this song, and I didn't understand it at the time...too many words, went too fast. But a few months (or maybe a year) after I left, I listened to it again, and wow, it is a really beautiful song.
I like this rendition the best, though the audio isn't the greatest. It starts after 1:29.
I translated this a while back, and started working with a translation such that I could sing it in English...nothing is as good as the original, though, always.
I found it! Awesome...look at the last stanza especially...wow!
What could it be that does this to me?
That crushes me inside, what could it be?
That I wear on my sleeve, what could it be?
And that rises to my face and makes me blush
And that jumps into my eyes to betray me
And that opens my heart and makes me confess
What no longer has a way to hide
And that isn’t a right for anyone to deny
And that makes me beg, makes me plead
What has no measure and never will
What has no remedy and never will
What has no recipe?
What could it, could it be?
That exists within us when it shouldn’t
That makes us unsure, that is rebellious
That is like a drink that doesn’t satisfy
That is like being sick from a party
That not even the Ten Commandments will reconcile
Nor any of the ointments will alleviate
Nor any spells, any alchemy
That not even all the saints, could it be?
What has no rest and never will
What does not tire and never will
What has no limit
What will it be that does this to me?
That burns me up inside, what could it be?
That disturbs me from sleep, what could it be?
That agitates me with the shivers
That kindles the passion within me
That drenches me in sweat
That leads all of my nerves to pray
That leads all of my organs to cry out
It’s a horrible affliction that makes me beg
What has no shame and never will
What has no control and never will
What has no reason
This is my translation. There are probably others out there.
Paz!
Police at Iftar and Cultureless Muslimah
As salaam alaikum,
Well, HLM (Harvard Longwood Muslims) had their last iftar Friday night. This was the first year that I wasn't able to make each iftar...one because I wasn't in Boston, and the other because I was with my parents. I mean, I would have taken my parents (free food), but I think that would have been an overwhelming and not enjoyable experience for my father, haha...and probably not for me, either. And stressful for my mother, because she hasn't belonged to a Muslim community since the days of the NOI (1970s). Yeah.
As we were praying, there were a couple of little kids running through the isles that I was trying to ignore/not collide with, and I had a feeling that it'd be like this if I ever made it to ISBCC for Jummah (I may start going to HLM Jummahs, since I'm back at Longwood and have that break before my Gender and Health class...). Anyway, poor kid was terrified and start tapping his mother (who was next to me), saying, "Mom, mom, there's a scary police man here! He's watching, he's going to get us!"
I didn't pay too much attention because...well, I was trying not to, anyway, but sure enough, after Maghrib I got up, my scarf around my shoulders to see an officer of sorts...I didn't stare at him to see if he was security or police, but he was there, arms crossed, watching as we prayed.
And you know, I could henceforth erupt into a rant, waxing philosophically, reflect on how outlandish parties were held by my medical school classmates, kegs were smuggled in, and the only time the police came was when some jilted student who had to be in the hospital early the next day got angry and passive aggressively called on them...but we know how it goes, yeah? I'm actually surprised that hasn't happened before.
After all, my extended (very extended) family at one of the reunions that I could make, was gassed by the police during their Sunday dinner after church because they were called on a noise violation or something at the hall they'd rented. Granted, this was the South, but though I was upset I wasn't surprised. Same thing...I'm not surprised about this, and I don't think most people even noticed, but it was unnecessary.
But then again, when you have Americans thinking that no gathering of Muslims is free of violence (as I heard of one assembly in Chicago...wow, they must live in a terrified world), I expect nothing less.
To shift gears dramatically, also during the iftar, I had a couple of really interesting interactions that I think will be summarized by paraphrasing a conversation that was had between two of the sisters at my table. I met this sis, Maliha, Friday who is in my concentration. Another sister at the table who was a dentist (forgetting her name right now...) started this line of conversation with Maliha that went something like this:
"So Maliha, where are you from?" "Oh, I'm from India, actually..." "With a name like Maliha, I would have expected you to be Arab!" "[Maliha gives an explanation of her father's choice for her name.]" "And where were you before now?" "[Maliha tells where she's lived]" "You know, looking at you, I wouldn't think you were Indian." "Oh, I get that all the time!" "Yeah, I'd say you were maybe...Persian, maybe even Turkish." Another sister, Safia, gets into the conversation, "Maybe it's the way that she ties her scarf, too." "Yes, I think that's it."
This conversation is not an isolated incident. During the last couple of iftars, the group I usually hung out with has been busy doing rotations and have not been able to attend. As a result, I sat at a different table each time and met new people. I realized this was a rich experience and while I'm sorry I didn't do it earlier, I have an entire additional year to do it, since I've decided to prolong my education with this public health degree, so I'm not too sorry.
But anyway, maybe this conversation would seem normal for Muslims who actually have a culture, but for this cultureless Muslimah, it was quite an overwhelming and seemingly tedious conversation!
I'm not calling myself crude and therefore uncultured...I'm saying, I don't have a culture. I've been reminded of this several ways. For one, all of the very Nigerian students in my public health school class have forced me to recognize how American I am, from claiming that I mispronounced my own name (I took that as a major affront!) to reflecting on my American accent. Then, I'm a third generation American Muslim. Before that, we were Southern Baptists...before that, we were a conglomeration of African religions as slaves. On my father's side, he was Faith Tabernacle, a denomination of Christianity that I know for stressing faith ("We live by faith, not by sight," and "Faith without works is dead" type of thing)...before that, the only story I hear is of in 1900, my grandfather was in the arms of my great-grandmother as she ran from the white men (the British). So who knows what religion they were. My grandfather was a Faith Tabernacle pastor...his is an interesting story that I would be digressing too much to tell.
Anyway, all of that to say...my Muslim "lineage" doesn't run deep, certainly not as deep as those of most Muslims who attend the iftars.
So I get a very similar ethnicity probe when I come to iftars. "What is your name?" "Chinyere." "[pause] Wait, say that again?" "Chinyere." "ChEEN-yeh-ray?" "Yes, awesome. What's your name?" "[they say their name]." "Nice to meet you!" "Likewise. [pause] Such a(n) [adjective] name. What ethnicity is it/where is it from? What does it mean?"
And I end up having to tell an abbreviated version of my life's story because my name isn't a Muslim name. Which is fine...I like talking about myself (should be rather obvious by now), but man, how fascinated by (if not fixated on) ethnicity and culture are we!
I am cultureless. Yes, I am American, I was born in the US, but seriously? So many of our customs are borrowed from other people's cultures, anyway...what we have that is unique is an artifact of industrialization and the bastardization of cultural practices from every immigrants home country, and bam, made in the USA. But my Islam is cultureless. On Eid (and at my first nikah/Jewish wedding), I don't wear "my country's" Muslim woman attire...I end up inventing an outfit of my own, usually made up of a dress and pants. If I were ever to host an iftar, I'd end up making my own bastardized versions of Dominican and Nigerian food...with maybe pasta and fried rice thrown in, which in themselves are cultural knock-offs.
The thing is...I guess I could adopt someone else's culture, but I don't want to. After all of this time of stressing about whether or not I have a culture, I really don't care as much anymore, but I kind of like the American mut feel to my existence. I think it's beautiful, actually, a gift from Allah (swt), much as I am (as that's what my name means in Igbo, God's gift).
I'm teasing, but the fact remains...that is my name.
Anyway, I do actually enjoy making up my own outfits, cooking other people's cultural food, cooking "soul food" and experimenting with Nigerian food. I like speaking two languages of people I am not at all related to. I like dreaming up my own customs and gatherings, making them real once I have a family of my own.
I like the idea of incorporating American and Nigerian culture into my eventual wedding ceremony with whoever I end up marrying...we'll have to substitute palm wine for like, white grape juice or something, and then, we'll like, jump a broom after the nikah...something like that.
I always say if life throws you crap, make lemonade, but the fact of the matter is, life isn't throwing crap. Facing every adversity--or in my case, idiosyncrasy--and reacting accordingly is in fact a blessing that is purposeful and meant to make us stronger people...and sometimes to make life more colorful. I'm not worried at other people turning up their nose at my bastardness. Let them turn their noses up even higher, so that I may know who they are and avoid them.
Somewhere out there there's someone who will appreciate my culturelessness...that's all I'm waiting for, though not with bated breath.
...and my misuse of this word has just ascended to dangerous heights. I'd better get to sleep while I'm a little head...
A little...
Well, HLM (Harvard Longwood Muslims) had their last iftar Friday night. This was the first year that I wasn't able to make each iftar...one because I wasn't in Boston, and the other because I was with my parents. I mean, I would have taken my parents (free food), but I think that would have been an overwhelming and not enjoyable experience for my father, haha...and probably not for me, either. And stressful for my mother, because she hasn't belonged to a Muslim community since the days of the NOI (1970s). Yeah.
As we were praying, there were a couple of little kids running through the isles that I was trying to ignore/not collide with, and I had a feeling that it'd be like this if I ever made it to ISBCC for Jummah (I may start going to HLM Jummahs, since I'm back at Longwood and have that break before my Gender and Health class...). Anyway, poor kid was terrified and start tapping his mother (who was next to me), saying, "Mom, mom, there's a scary police man here! He's watching, he's going to get us!"
I didn't pay too much attention because...well, I was trying not to, anyway, but sure enough, after Maghrib I got up, my scarf around my shoulders to see an officer of sorts...I didn't stare at him to see if he was security or police, but he was there, arms crossed, watching as we prayed.
And you know, I could henceforth erupt into a rant, waxing philosophically, reflect on how outlandish parties were held by my medical school classmates, kegs were smuggled in, and the only time the police came was when some jilted student who had to be in the hospital early the next day got angry and passive aggressively called on them...but we know how it goes, yeah? I'm actually surprised that hasn't happened before.
After all, my extended (very extended) family at one of the reunions that I could make, was gassed by the police during their Sunday dinner after church because they were called on a noise violation or something at the hall they'd rented. Granted, this was the South, but though I was upset I wasn't surprised. Same thing...I'm not surprised about this, and I don't think most people even noticed, but it was unnecessary.
But then again, when you have Americans thinking that no gathering of Muslims is free of violence (as I heard of one assembly in Chicago...wow, they must live in a terrified world), I expect nothing less.
To shift gears dramatically, also during the iftar, I had a couple of really interesting interactions that I think will be summarized by paraphrasing a conversation that was had between two of the sisters at my table. I met this sis, Maliha, Friday who is in my concentration. Another sister at the table who was a dentist (forgetting her name right now...) started this line of conversation with Maliha that went something like this:
"So Maliha, where are you from?" "Oh, I'm from India, actually..." "With a name like Maliha, I would have expected you to be Arab!" "[Maliha gives an explanation of her father's choice for her name.]" "And where were you before now?" "[Maliha tells where she's lived]" "You know, looking at you, I wouldn't think you were Indian." "Oh, I get that all the time!" "Yeah, I'd say you were maybe...Persian, maybe even Turkish." Another sister, Safia, gets into the conversation, "Maybe it's the way that she ties her scarf, too." "Yes, I think that's it."
This conversation is not an isolated incident. During the last couple of iftars, the group I usually hung out with has been busy doing rotations and have not been able to attend. As a result, I sat at a different table each time and met new people. I realized this was a rich experience and while I'm sorry I didn't do it earlier, I have an entire additional year to do it, since I've decided to prolong my education with this public health degree, so I'm not too sorry.
But anyway, maybe this conversation would seem normal for Muslims who actually have a culture, but for this cultureless Muslimah, it was quite an overwhelming and seemingly tedious conversation!
I'm not calling myself crude and therefore uncultured...I'm saying, I don't have a culture. I've been reminded of this several ways. For one, all of the very Nigerian students in my public health school class have forced me to recognize how American I am, from claiming that I mispronounced my own name (I took that as a major affront!) to reflecting on my American accent. Then, I'm a third generation American Muslim. Before that, we were Southern Baptists...before that, we were a conglomeration of African religions as slaves. On my father's side, he was Faith Tabernacle, a denomination of Christianity that I know for stressing faith ("We live by faith, not by sight," and "Faith without works is dead" type of thing)...before that, the only story I hear is of in 1900, my grandfather was in the arms of my great-grandmother as she ran from the white men (the British). So who knows what religion they were. My grandfather was a Faith Tabernacle pastor...his is an interesting story that I would be digressing too much to tell.
Anyway, all of that to say...my Muslim "lineage" doesn't run deep, certainly not as deep as those of most Muslims who attend the iftars.
So I get a very similar ethnicity probe when I come to iftars. "What is your name?" "Chinyere." "[pause] Wait, say that again?" "Chinyere." "ChEEN-yeh-ray?" "Yes, awesome. What's your name?" "[they say their name]." "Nice to meet you!" "Likewise. [pause] Such a(n) [adjective] name. What ethnicity is it/where is it from? What does it mean?"
And I end up having to tell an abbreviated version of my life's story because my name isn't a Muslim name. Which is fine...I like talking about myself (should be rather obvious by now), but man, how fascinated by (if not fixated on) ethnicity and culture are we!
I am cultureless. Yes, I am American, I was born in the US, but seriously? So many of our customs are borrowed from other people's cultures, anyway...what we have that is unique is an artifact of industrialization and the bastardization of cultural practices from every immigrants home country, and bam, made in the USA. But my Islam is cultureless. On Eid (and at my first nikah/Jewish wedding), I don't wear "my country's" Muslim woman attire...I end up inventing an outfit of my own, usually made up of a dress and pants. If I were ever to host an iftar, I'd end up making my own bastardized versions of Dominican and Nigerian food...with maybe pasta and fried rice thrown in, which in themselves are cultural knock-offs.
The thing is...I guess I could adopt someone else's culture, but I don't want to. After all of this time of stressing about whether or not I have a culture, I really don't care as much anymore, but I kind of like the American mut feel to my existence. I think it's beautiful, actually, a gift from Allah (swt), much as I am (as that's what my name means in Igbo, God's gift).
I'm teasing, but the fact remains...that is my name.
Anyway, I do actually enjoy making up my own outfits, cooking other people's cultural food, cooking "soul food" and experimenting with Nigerian food. I like speaking two languages of people I am not at all related to. I like dreaming up my own customs and gatherings, making them real once I have a family of my own.
I like the idea of incorporating American and Nigerian culture into my eventual wedding ceremony with whoever I end up marrying...we'll have to substitute palm wine for like, white grape juice or something, and then, we'll like, jump a broom after the nikah...something like that.
I always say if life throws you crap, make lemonade, but the fact of the matter is, life isn't throwing crap. Facing every adversity--or in my case, idiosyncrasy--and reacting accordingly is in fact a blessing that is purposeful and meant to make us stronger people...and sometimes to make life more colorful. I'm not worried at other people turning up their nose at my bastardness. Let them turn their noses up even higher, so that I may know who they are and avoid them.
Somewhere out there there's someone who will appreciate my culturelessness...that's all I'm waiting for, though not with bated breath.
...and my misuse of this word has just ascended to dangerous heights. I'd better get to sleep while I'm a little head...
A little...
Thursday, September 2, 2010
History of the Invisible Muslimah
As salaam alaikum,
So in searching the files on my old computer, I also found my first computer journal, which I began when I was 14 and continued, I think, until I was 16, after 9/11. I considered that to be a major turning point in my identity and my very being, I guessed, so I continued with a new computer journal which I called "Freestyle," in which I developed a more stream-of-consciousness style of writing that I think is apparent today.
[This whole exercise reminds me that my personality falls within the cluster B traits of personality disorders - borderline, histrionic and narcissistic...this, of course, falling on the narcissistic side...but then again, what else is one's own journal?]
I realized in reading a few things, however, that I'm the same person, over and over again. I'm more mature now, yes, I've experienced a handful of things, mostly school related, traveled a couple of places, but at base, I'm the same person with the same values. Take a look at this that I wrote 10 years ago:
Hahahahaha! Same themes predominate. The interesting thing here is that I didn't say that I was Muslim, although I allude a couple of times in my journal to preferring a Muslim. At this point, I was aware that I was evaluating which religion would be easier based on society, which was probably Christianity at that point, and I was not calling myself either or, since I wasn't really practicing either. I was Muslim inasmuch as I didn't eat pork and I tended to dress more modestly...I didn't show my legs in public, at least, and short sleeved shirts with dipping necklines seemed daring to me, though I had, like, minimal boobage. I believed in God and I did not believe in Jesus (as) as son of God...but I didn't know of very many Muslims outside of my family, so I grasped hold onto every example of a Muslim that I could in making this decision.
And little over a year later, November 2001, look at the following...parse through the craziness, like, having six children between my late 20s and mid 30s...
Haha, I could totally make a timeline in my personal Muslim history...
1988-1991: At intervals when my mother had a conference for work, I would attend my aunt's Islamic School in Flint, MI. I remember the young boys leading salat and thinking that the men who came to pray Jummah in our building (because it also doubled as a masjid) were scary because they were so big and tall.
1996: Celebrated Eid with my grandparents and aunt. Decided that I was Muslim.
1996-1998: Identified as Muslim; found it painful to be the only one in my school, the only black kid who didn't attend church.
1998-2001: New school district; was not sure that I actually wanted to identify as Muslim, and therefore avoided conversations about religion altogether. Most people assumed I was Christian.
2001-2002: Realized, again, that Islam was my religion...the only religion it made sense to fill out on college applications, the only one I saw fit to raise my children, and I kind of just went from there.
2002: I think sometime after Ramadan that year, I told my best friend I was Muslim. She didn't believe me at first, a fact that she will probably still deny to this day, but it was fair enough for her to doubt.
2003: By Ramadan (my first practiced Ramadan...my mother had been fasting Ramadan since I was little at this point...I don't even remember her observing Ramadan when I wasn't, but it was true all the while I was at home), all of my close friends knew I was Muslim, and I gradually let other people know...like, my roommates in college, etc.
2004: I told the first Muslim outside of the Rahmans (Ayesha and her sisters) that I was Muslim. This was MQ, therefore, my first brother-crush...predictable, but it's not so chicken-and-eggy because I liked him before I knew he was Muslim. Joined the MSA and was no longer uncomfortable revealing to people I was Muslim (thus I've been like this for only 6 years).
2005: I told my father that I was Muslim (or rather, "will never be Christian.") Worst moment in our lives to that point, so yes, we are a blessed family. But it was bad at the time.
2006: Began wearing hijab early this year. Traveled abroad with it and did my med school interviews with no problems.
2007: Paused hijab by graduation, went off to medical school. Actually have a group of Muslim friends to hang out with and attend Eid prayers with, which in all this time, I never had. It was pretty awesome.
...!
Yeah, nothing that earth-shaking has happened since then. Not that I haven't been moving forward in my faith and practice...but I was a little bit more stagnant than I was in college, as my goal upon entering college was to become "more practicing" now that I wasn't in the house with my parents anymore. And so it was.
I've come a long way...haha, and maybe in another 10 years, I'll have gone another long way...maybe.
Insha'Allah.
So in searching the files on my old computer, I also found my first computer journal, which I began when I was 14 and continued, I think, until I was 16, after 9/11. I considered that to be a major turning point in my identity and my very being, I guessed, so I continued with a new computer journal which I called "Freestyle," in which I developed a more stream-of-consciousness style of writing that I think is apparent today.
[This whole exercise reminds me that my personality falls within the cluster B traits of personality disorders - borderline, histrionic and narcissistic...this, of course, falling on the narcissistic side...but then again, what else is one's own journal?]
I realized in reading a few things, however, that I'm the same person, over and over again. I'm more mature now, yes, I've experienced a handful of things, mostly school related, traveled a couple of places, but at base, I'm the same person with the same values. Take a look at this that I wrote 10 years ago:
"It was so hard finding a solid identity during my preteen years because my mother is Muslim and my father is Christian. During my preteen years especially, I began to consider which religion I wanted to be part of. Instead of taking into account the various principles of each religion I began to see which one would afford for an easier life here on earth, not which one would give me an easier ticket to heaven. Not only will my husband and I share the same religion, but also we will have to have somewhat the same moral beliefs. This way, our children will be sure which path both parents prefer the children to take, instead of having to go one path or the other. I want to make sure I have my children praying and depending on God for their needs at an early age, because I was twelve before such a relationship was established. I know this will help them tremendously. " - July, 2000
Hahahahaha! Same themes predominate. The interesting thing here is that I didn't say that I was Muslim, although I allude a couple of times in my journal to preferring a Muslim. At this point, I was aware that I was evaluating which religion would be easier based on society, which was probably Christianity at that point, and I was not calling myself either or, since I wasn't really practicing either. I was Muslim inasmuch as I didn't eat pork and I tended to dress more modestly...I didn't show my legs in public, at least, and short sleeved shirts with dipping necklines seemed daring to me, though I had, like, minimal boobage. I believed in God and I did not believe in Jesus (as) as son of God...but I didn't know of very many Muslims outside of my family, so I grasped hold onto every example of a Muslim that I could in making this decision.
And little over a year later, November 2001, look at the following...parse through the craziness, like, having six children between my late 20s and mid 30s...
"When I turned sixteen, I wanted to be a renaissance woman, and I wanted to do everything when I was in my prime—when I was young. I wanted to go to school and become a doctor right after graduating from high school. During the summers and stuff I wanted to travel around the world and see all of the things that I had learned about in Western Civ and English and History and Spanish class. And then, if I had time in between classes, I would maybe act in a movie, and after all that I would get another of my ideas published. And hopefully by my early twenties I will have found my true love and married. I want to keep the Igbo running in my part of the family, but I also want to keep a uniform religion, Islam, to keep it easier for my kids not to be divided between two different religions. Oh yeah, and I wanted to have six kids and have my first before I hit my thirties and my last before I am in my mid thirties, or at least not into the late thirties so I won’t still have young children when I am old and so I won’t have to risk any adverse health affects of having children at my old age. My time was limited, and I have to start early, and get this all over with so at the latter end of my life I could relax and do the things I wanted to do." - November 2001Just two months after September 11, and I'm identifying as Muslim...just because, I think, that event made Muslims more visible than they had been before and it forced me to examine myself and my religious identity and come to a conclusion, a conclusion that I guess many other Muslims and non-Muslims came to as well. I think it would be another year before I finally tell my best friend, who is Muslim, that I am Muslim...and another year or two after that before I tell a Muslim outside of my group of friends, the infamous MQ, that I am Muslim...
Haha, I could totally make a timeline in my personal Muslim history...
1988-1991: At intervals when my mother had a conference for work, I would attend my aunt's Islamic School in Flint, MI. I remember the young boys leading salat and thinking that the men who came to pray Jummah in our building (because it also doubled as a masjid) were scary because they were so big and tall.
1996: Celebrated Eid with my grandparents and aunt. Decided that I was Muslim.
1996-1998: Identified as Muslim; found it painful to be the only one in my school, the only black kid who didn't attend church.
1998-2001: New school district; was not sure that I actually wanted to identify as Muslim, and therefore avoided conversations about religion altogether. Most people assumed I was Christian.
2001-2002: Realized, again, that Islam was my religion...the only religion it made sense to fill out on college applications, the only one I saw fit to raise my children, and I kind of just went from there.
2002: I think sometime after Ramadan that year, I told my best friend I was Muslim. She didn't believe me at first, a fact that she will probably still deny to this day, but it was fair enough for her to doubt.
2003: By Ramadan (my first practiced Ramadan...my mother had been fasting Ramadan since I was little at this point...I don't even remember her observing Ramadan when I wasn't, but it was true all the while I was at home), all of my close friends knew I was Muslim, and I gradually let other people know...like, my roommates in college, etc.
2004: I told the first Muslim outside of the Rahmans (Ayesha and her sisters) that I was Muslim. This was MQ, therefore, my first brother-crush...predictable, but it's not so chicken-and-eggy because I liked him before I knew he was Muslim. Joined the MSA and was no longer uncomfortable revealing to people I was Muslim (thus I've been like this for only 6 years).
2005: I told my father that I was Muslim (or rather, "will never be Christian.") Worst moment in our lives to that point, so yes, we are a blessed family. But it was bad at the time.
2006: Began wearing hijab early this year. Traveled abroad with it and did my med school interviews with no problems.
2007: Paused hijab by graduation, went off to medical school. Actually have a group of Muslim friends to hang out with and attend Eid prayers with, which in all this time, I never had. It was pretty awesome.
...!
Yeah, nothing that earth-shaking has happened since then. Not that I haven't been moving forward in my faith and practice...but I was a little bit more stagnant than I was in college, as my goal upon entering college was to become "more practicing" now that I wasn't in the house with my parents anymore. And so it was.
I've come a long way...haha, and maybe in another 10 years, I'll have gone another long way...maybe.
Insha'Allah.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Revamp of Old Stories?
As salaam alaikum,
I need to back up my computer before badness happens.
Anyway, I was just going through my old computer, essentially, which was my desktop before that whole thing crashed, going through my documents to try to find some of my old compositions from back in the day. Of the things I've saved onto this computer include my diary from back in the day and "Sisters: Body and Soul," a story that I wrote when I was 15 years old. Like most of my works as a teenager, I never finished it after I grew into a new developmental stage and no longer felt the subject matter relevant, but sometimes I wonder...could I not go through, completely revamp what is written of the stories, change a few plot lines, edit it, and produce a finished product?
That's essentially what I've done with "A Rose Much Desired" now nearly three years after I wrote most of the manuscript. Insha'Allah I'll be able to finish that project soon.
But yeah, "Sisters" was the story the Jamison sisters and how they came to live together and how the eldest of them ended up raising her sisters. I think I must have recently watched The Ditchdiggers Daughters with the way the story is set up. The story begins in 1994. The eldest of the sisters, Azalea, 18, gets kicked out of her house shortly after graduation, which Azalea understands to be because of her secret relationship/engagement to her former high school sweetheart, Leonard, while her parents cite her sexual activity, particularly in the house, was not the type of influence they wanted around her younger sisters, particularly 12-year-old Clarisse. So Azalea, who wanted to live with her boyfriend, now fiance, anyway, moves in with Leonard to an apartment building off campus. Azalea is to attend the School of Art and Design at the same place where Leonard is going to be a junior in the upcoming school year.
They live together for a while, but Clarisse eventually ventures summons her sister back to the house after months of her not speaking to either of her parents informing her that their mother, Leone (yeah, that name is really close to Leonard...didn't think that much of it at the time!), has fallen ill, though she didn't want the little ones (Tobi, 7 and Melinda/Mindi, 3) to worry. Ends up, Leone has been diagnosed with cancer (I can't remember what type) that is fairly advanced, and with the urging of her husband, they're going out of state for her to be treated in a special center. Since the girls father, Shane, would be off at work most of the day and frequently visiting his wife out of state for the duration of his treatment...
...and that's about as much writing as I got to, haha. As it was, I think I was going to have Shane and Leone to ask of Azalea that she temporarily watch her sisters, let them move into the apartment that she had downtown, until Shane could take some time off of work or until Leone was able to transfer her care back in state and come home. I think I'd change a few things about this to make it less...I don't know, to reduce the suspension of disbelief a little.
As a result of the three younger sisters moving in, Azalea and Leonard end their engagement and break up, though their relationship was already on the rocks before that. Azalea becomes depressed after the breakup but doesn't have time to deal with her own emotions because meanwhile, her sisters have been handling their mother's absence badly. The youngest, Melinda, has stopped talking and has frequent night terrors and Tobi has been acting out in school. Clarisse, to fill the void, shares a bedroom with her older sister, which forces Azalea to have to leave the apartment sometimes for her own emotional breakdowns.
I mean, I could go on about the plot of the story, but there are pretty much three main time points. The first is 1994, when the sisters first come to live together. The second is 1997, three years later, and the sisters are still living in the same apartment building. The last one, which I cut out of a previous edit, was fast forwarding to the future by 20-24 years (can't remember how much), as the sisters visit the site of their old apartment and reminisce.
It's very much characteristic of the stuff I wrote around that age...it was highly impersonal, whereas one of the narrations of RMD is pretty much my life with a few names, logistics and details changed. I dealt with themes that were probably too adult for me (at age 15)...for example, Azalea eventually can't handle her rent alone and becomes late in the payment for a couple of months. After being threatened with eviction from her landlord and having nowhere to go (several plot holes here, but I wasn't that mature of a writer), she ends up arranging to exchange sexual favors with her landlord until she's able to pay rent. Somehow, Clarisse finds out about this and, after urging her to stop and to start asking people for help...the relationship between the sisters is never quite the same, a theme that will carry over into the next portion, 1997.
...yeah, I don't know where I got my ideas from. I didn't watch movies or television shows that had these themes... I mean, I wasn't anybody's baby. I was 15.
I do remember my mother reading the first scene, in which Azalea wakes up in the arms of her sleeping boyfriend after having snuck him into the house and oversleeping the time needed to sneak him back out of the house and my mother remarking, "How does she know about this?"
I'm just impressed that I could write such things accurately...having had no experience in, heh, that field of relations whatsoever. The thing about that is...as a kid, I was precocious in the things I understood...as a 25-year-old, I draw all of my "experiences" from the stories of others. I've actually still lived very little life of interest to write about...but enough life that I don't have to rely on stories entirely crafted from my imagination.
Anyway, that's "Sisters." One day, I just may take it and start all the way over and see where it ends. Originally, Leone was supposed to die, which is why the sisters continued living together, but that's a huger plot hole than what I eventually decided on...that Leone would live but continue to require rehab for a while after her treatment ended. I liked Leone's character too much in the end.
And there is a happy ending for the ill-fated Azalea! How can there be but a happy ending? She's raising her little sisters.
Hahahahaha...
Once I'm done with A Rose Much Desired, I can move on to...the next one, as it were. I don't have any story ideas brewing now, but if I do by November, I will be making an appearance with NaNoWriMo again, insha'Allah!
Okay, time for a nap...;-)
I need to back up my computer before badness happens.
Anyway, I was just going through my old computer, essentially, which was my desktop before that whole thing crashed, going through my documents to try to find some of my old compositions from back in the day. Of the things I've saved onto this computer include my diary from back in the day and "Sisters: Body and Soul," a story that I wrote when I was 15 years old. Like most of my works as a teenager, I never finished it after I grew into a new developmental stage and no longer felt the subject matter relevant, but sometimes I wonder...could I not go through, completely revamp what is written of the stories, change a few plot lines, edit it, and produce a finished product?
That's essentially what I've done with "A Rose Much Desired" now nearly three years after I wrote most of the manuscript. Insha'Allah I'll be able to finish that project soon.
But yeah, "Sisters" was the story the Jamison sisters and how they came to live together and how the eldest of them ended up raising her sisters. I think I must have recently watched The Ditchdiggers Daughters with the way the story is set up. The story begins in 1994. The eldest of the sisters, Azalea, 18, gets kicked out of her house shortly after graduation, which Azalea understands to be because of her secret relationship/engagement to her former high school sweetheart, Leonard, while her parents cite her sexual activity, particularly in the house, was not the type of influence they wanted around her younger sisters, particularly 12-year-old Clarisse. So Azalea, who wanted to live with her boyfriend, now fiance, anyway, moves in with Leonard to an apartment building off campus. Azalea is to attend the School of Art and Design at the same place where Leonard is going to be a junior in the upcoming school year.
They live together for a while, but Clarisse eventually ventures summons her sister back to the house after months of her not speaking to either of her parents informing her that their mother, Leone (yeah, that name is really close to Leonard...didn't think that much of it at the time!), has fallen ill, though she didn't want the little ones (Tobi, 7 and Melinda/Mindi, 3) to worry. Ends up, Leone has been diagnosed with cancer (I can't remember what type) that is fairly advanced, and with the urging of her husband, they're going out of state for her to be treated in a special center. Since the girls father, Shane, would be off at work most of the day and frequently visiting his wife out of state for the duration of his treatment...
...and that's about as much writing as I got to, haha. As it was, I think I was going to have Shane and Leone to ask of Azalea that she temporarily watch her sisters, let them move into the apartment that she had downtown, until Shane could take some time off of work or until Leone was able to transfer her care back in state and come home. I think I'd change a few things about this to make it less...I don't know, to reduce the suspension of disbelief a little.
As a result of the three younger sisters moving in, Azalea and Leonard end their engagement and break up, though their relationship was already on the rocks before that. Azalea becomes depressed after the breakup but doesn't have time to deal with her own emotions because meanwhile, her sisters have been handling their mother's absence badly. The youngest, Melinda, has stopped talking and has frequent night terrors and Tobi has been acting out in school. Clarisse, to fill the void, shares a bedroom with her older sister, which forces Azalea to have to leave the apartment sometimes for her own emotional breakdowns.
I mean, I could go on about the plot of the story, but there are pretty much three main time points. The first is 1994, when the sisters first come to live together. The second is 1997, three years later, and the sisters are still living in the same apartment building. The last one, which I cut out of a previous edit, was fast forwarding to the future by 20-24 years (can't remember how much), as the sisters visit the site of their old apartment and reminisce.
It's very much characteristic of the stuff I wrote around that age...it was highly impersonal, whereas one of the narrations of RMD is pretty much my life with a few names, logistics and details changed. I dealt with themes that were probably too adult for me (at age 15)...for example, Azalea eventually can't handle her rent alone and becomes late in the payment for a couple of months. After being threatened with eviction from her landlord and having nowhere to go (several plot holes here, but I wasn't that mature of a writer), she ends up arranging to exchange sexual favors with her landlord until she's able to pay rent. Somehow, Clarisse finds out about this and, after urging her to stop and to start asking people for help...the relationship between the sisters is never quite the same, a theme that will carry over into the next portion, 1997.
...yeah, I don't know where I got my ideas from. I didn't watch movies or television shows that had these themes... I mean, I wasn't anybody's baby. I was 15.
I do remember my mother reading the first scene, in which Azalea wakes up in the arms of her sleeping boyfriend after having snuck him into the house and oversleeping the time needed to sneak him back out of the house and my mother remarking, "How does she know about this?"
I'm just impressed that I could write such things accurately...having had no experience in, heh, that field of relations whatsoever. The thing about that is...as a kid, I was precocious in the things I understood...as a 25-year-old, I draw all of my "experiences" from the stories of others. I've actually still lived very little life of interest to write about...but enough life that I don't have to rely on stories entirely crafted from my imagination.
Anyway, that's "Sisters." One day, I just may take it and start all the way over and see where it ends. Originally, Leone was supposed to die, which is why the sisters continued living together, but that's a huger plot hole than what I eventually decided on...that Leone would live but continue to require rehab for a while after her treatment ended. I liked Leone's character too much in the end.
And there is a happy ending for the ill-fated Azalea! How can there be but a happy ending? She's raising her little sisters.
Hahahahaha...
Once I'm done with A Rose Much Desired, I can move on to...the next one, as it were. I don't have any story ideas brewing now, but if I do by November, I will be making an appearance with NaNoWriMo again, insha'Allah!
Okay, time for a nap...;-)
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