I was born 38 years ago.  In America.  An African-American.  My parents were married but divorced when I was about six years old.  I recall the divorce.  I still have vague memories of my dad driving my mom and I across country in a U-Haul truck with an orange Pontiac hitched to the back.  I remember eating foul canned liver with a red devil printed on the label as we parked somewhere to wait for the rain to subside.  That was a dark night.  I lay in the cab of the truck, my head on my mother’s lap, my feet on my dad’s.  I was the child of divorce, but not a wayward forgotten child.  I knew my father and I knew that my father loved me.

We stayed with friends for some time until my mother found an apartment and a job.  Then we lived life alone together, until, on occasion my mother met a man she liked and would introduce me to him.  I was this tot barometer pretty much thinning the herd until she settled on one man (that she did not marry) who I did not like very much for a long time.

Eventually we moved to “the hood”.  Brookside was a brick housing project comprised of about (I’m guessing here) 30-45 buildings of about 10 or more apartments each.  I believe Brookside was probably once an upscale housing development for white folks that eventually turned brown.  Believe me, it wasn’t just the people that turned Brookside brown, but all that came with it.  The darkness of poverty, teen pregnancies, violence, and drugs.  The desperate stupor that can come over a group collectively was present in Brookside.  It was like a smoke cloud that has long since descended.  The people within the cloud no longer notice the haze.  The people outside the cloud can’t see in.  But, that stupor never seemed to touch the kids.  We were happy; playing games into the night during the summers, smacking on Now&Laters that we bought at the corner store owned by Italians who liked to compare the darkness of their sun-bronzed skin to ours in the summer.  We were happy and innocent, despite it all, until puberty.

Isn’t puberty an ugly time?  Potentially so, anyway.  Yes?  There are so many ways for it to go wrong.  Especially in that environment, which can be as unwholesome as stagnant waste water.  Your body and mind coming of age in a place where so many are corrupt and oversexed.  Try being a budding teen girl there.  It can be hell.  If you aren’t careful, if you don’t have diligent parents (and my mother was as much as she could be) there were people who made it their business to know you, before you could know yourself.

So, how does one come out of that environment a whole, sound, competent individual?  Only Allah knows.  But you can.

Recently, someone dear to my heart and life told me in a fit of anger, “You have to reform yourself.  You still have vestiges of that old life in you.  You have to purge it.”  These words touched something in me.  And I admitted out loud that absolutely, I have those vestiges.  I can not help it.  Now, not being able to help it doesn’t mean going with it and living in that moment, that sickness, but it does mean that as long as I am alive, I will be actively converting each and every thought.  I will be comparing each and every feeling.  I will be questioning each and every action and reaction I have to be sure that it is in line with what Allah would have of me.  And isn’t that the way it should be for most people?

Born Muslims (as this near and dear to my heart person is) often have the luxury of never having been tainted by the mental and spiritual sickness of a life in unbelief.  Couple that with poverty, suppressed thinking, racism (yes, it still exists), and simply not knowing because you were never taught better, and you have a recipe for possible failure.  I had it better than most.  I was my mother’s only child, and she worked.  We never received food stamps, or to my knowledge any other government hand out.  My dad paid child support, and as old as I am today, I can not recall in even the vaguest memory, my father ever telling me “no”.  I had all that I needed and I had most everything that I wanted.

I met and married my husband at the age of 19, and became a Muslim shortly after that.  While I know he likes to take credit for my reversion, I must admit, that after reading Malcolm X at the age of about 17, I knew that Islam was the only viable path for me, no matter how imperfect a Muslim I may be.  I pray five times daily.  I am a hijabi, and I make certain efforts to ensure that my children will be better than I am/have ever been in all the ways that matter.  I fast during Ramadan.  I try to do kindness to others, Muslim and non-Muslim.  And when I say, do, or even think a wicked thing, I immediately make tauba in the hopes that Allah will pardon me.

That said, I am still so incredibly imperfect… There go those vestiges again.

When I seek counsel with Allah , I often ask Him to make me a better person.  But still I wonder to myself, exactly when will I be released from the yoke of my previous existence so that I can be a whole, sound, and worthy Muslim?  Only Allah knows, but surely, if it ever happens, won’t I know it too?  The next question.  Will it ever happen?

It is at these times that I have to remind myself of the times of Prophet Muhammad .  Look at the lives of his companions, and kin.  They were like me, like the convert here in the west.  Surrounded by the sickness of hatred and racism.  Sunk in the mire of a culture that is spiritually bankrupt and devoid of guidance.  And here I am, a virtual castaway constantly looking for a way to at the very least maintain my identity when advancing it seems so difficult.  It is these vestiges that make me more able than the foreign born Muslim to navigate this culture.  I know better what to expect, and therefore, I know what to avoid and what to embrace.   But, similarly, it is like being an alcoholic locked in a bar where everyone is drinking beer.  I know to ask for a soda or a glass of water, but how long can I remain in the bar without being tempted to take a sip of that which is unlawful.  The smell is there, the sound of it permeates, the pretended joy it brings ringing in my ears. 

Let’s be clear.  Islam is the best thing that has ever happened to me.  Embracing Islam, Islam embracing me…this has given my life clarity and power, direction and perception, contentment and peace.  The vestiges?  The ruling on this is still out.  Is this a blessing or a curse?  Do I use it to better direct my path or do I fight to rid myself of it at all costs?  I don’t have the answer to this.  But, it scares me, knowing what I know, having seen the things that I have seen.  It steals the innocence.  It can muddle the clarity, turning all things brown and indistinct. 

Just as I should not be proud of some quality in myself over which I have no control, such as the color of my skin, or the texture of my hair, how can I be ashamed of a past over which I had no control?  Should I be ashamed of those vestiges, the ones that mark me as having once been an unbeliever, a housing project dweller, a woman who had it not been for the beneficence of Allah might have been the 16 year old pregnant statistic - the ones we like to look down upon and wag our fingers at?

Are those vestiges part of my very blueprint?  They act as my compass, saying in the internal voice, “Up to here and no further!”  And I listen, most of the time.

Those vestiges.  What to do about them?

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As if the backwards “B” scratched onto her cheek wasn’t clue enough, so many white folks jumped onto the bandwagon and started pointing fingers at the non-existent black man and more symbolically at the one running for president.  The authorities say that Ashley Todd, the accuser, is mentally ill.  Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t.  That said, the thing that I think is really ill, the willingness of the McCain camp to push this story without ever verifying its truthfulness.  And then there are the do-do heads who support McCain and in their desperation to grasp at straws tried to ride this story like a sled down a snowy hill.

Then what do we hear?  Its all a hoax.

Anyone else see the shells on the floor, the bits of mud, the feathers?  Those desperadoes who couldn’t wait to lend this bit of debauchery to the un-American terrorist Obama and his camp, now have egg and mud on their faces and are eating crow until they gag.

Most disturbing, is the fact that this invisible attacker just happened to be a black man.  A big black man.  So here we go again, setting fire beneath fears and prejudices that should no longer exist.  All a white girl has to do is say that she was beaten and sexually assaulted by a black man and we instantly land ourselves in Lynchburg, Nowhere.  A black man is still the easy likely suspect, still the convenient scapegoat.  Then add Obama to equation, the former madrassa student, the secret Muslim, the cohort of terrorists, and the opposition has proved their point.  The point being that Obama isn’t a fit for the presidency of this country.

No, not really.  It proves that racism is still strong in the spirits of the people of America.  It proves that desperation knows no bounds when it looks like a black man, who’s father was an African and a Muslim, might actually clinch the presidency.  If the polls are right, it looks like this may actually happen.  It looks, Insha Allah , like we are really watching history in the making. 

And guess what?  A black man did it.

Khaalidah

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Well that isn’t all that we can do.  I have heard, on only a very few occasions a bit from our candidates about personal accountability.  Being the wealthiest nation on earth (are we anymore?) comes with some responsibility, not just to the world in which we live, but to ourselves.  Affluence (which so many of us take for granted never realizing that we are) should never make us so comfortable with our lives that we forget how to live with a sense of frugality.  We should know how to derive comfort from the simple things.  We should know how to do without, how to make due with little, how find success in the things that are intangible. 

As we strive to fill our lives with the things we think we need, a newer larger car, designer clothes, bigger homes in more affluent neighborhoods, a wall mounted plasma screen television, the mp3 players, the snazzy colorful gadgets and cell phones, we unwittingly crowd out the things that really matter.  Time with our families, time for our faith, time for our studies.

We have become so preoccupied with this life and as a result, so many of us have lost precious time that could have been devoted to preparing for the next life.

There are obstacles, this I know because Allah has promised them.  My most favorite ayats from the Qur’an states:

Surah Ankabut 29:1-6

1. Alif Lam Mim.

2. Do men think that they will be left alone on saying, We believe, and not be tried?

3. And certainly We tried those before them, so Allah will certainly know those who are true and He will certainly know the liars.

4. Or do they who work evil think that they will escape Us? Evil is it that they judge!

5. Whoever hopes to meet Allah , the term appointed by Allah will then most surely come; and He is the Hearing, the Knowing.

6. And whoever strives hard, he strives only for his own soul; most surely Allah is Self-sufficient, above (need of) the worlds.

If we will live in this world, we will be tested in terms of our faith, our families, our livelihood…  None of us will be exempt.  In my own life, I have been able to identify so many of the challenges that Allah has put before me, but Subhanallah, who am I?  I know nothing.  and so, there are countless other challenges that have been set before me that I had no idea were there.

This all gets me thinking, yet again (perhaps this is a continual test for me, Allah knows best) about loving for the sake of Allah , forgiving for the sake of Allah , and acting for the sake of His pleasure.  This has been a recurring thought for me, and Insha Allah , I will find success in this aspect of my life.  May everyone else also learn to master their own nafs toward  receiving the favor of Allah .  Insha Allah .  Ameen.

So, back to the election.  Obama has my vote.  I am all for change, but even more than that, I am all for being proactive.  If I want to see change in my life, in my spirit, in my soul, I must learn to master my nafs, my anger, and even my love.  I must also learn to take part.  I can’t sit down on the sideline and let life happen.  I must vote, and raise my voice and earn this blessing that Allah has given me: Life.  May Allah continue to be kind.

Khaalidah

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Check it out:

http://sharonb643.vox.com/library/post/when-youve-got-a-nigger-running-for-president.html?_c=feed-atom

Khaalidah

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Have you seen the news clip where the little old white lady says to McCain, “I just don’t trust Obama.  I’ve read about him.  He’s a, a, a, a Arab.”  WHERE DID SHE READ THAT?  You and I both know that Arab is code for Muslim.  And unfortunately in the case of bigoted white America, concerning Barack Obama, Arab is code for nigger. 

Arab=Terrorist=Muslim=Nigger. 

Well, when you put it that way, “He’s an Arab,” somehow this makes it easier and more PC to say  you could never vote for him to be your president.  Even I, who by the way is American born and raised, wouldn’t vote for someone who isn’t an American, regardless of their religious leanings, because that just wouldn’t seem right to me.  But this insistence that he is other than what he claims to be is getting old and tiresome.  Yes?

The blame lies on the head of McCain.  His very subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) rhetoric concerning Obama and supposed ties to terrorists was enough to fan the flames beneath those who already had a simmering hatred for the black man who dared to become president.  During the entire election campaign, even the media appears to have been attempting to take a hesitant approach to the issue of race. 

If thou protest too much, or make too much of a big deal…one gets labeled as a racist or hate-monger.

Unwittingly, this is what has happened to McCain.  After unleashing the provincial Alaskan governor Palin on the campaign circuit, McCain appears to be trying to clean up the mess a bit.  Now, at his rallies, he is telling people that no (and I paraphrase), Obama isn’t a bad guy.  He isn’t the boogie man.  He isn’t a crazy Muslim radical.  He is a good guy, a decent family man that I respect.  I just don’t want him to become president because oh yeah, I can’t trust him either, because he started his political campaign in the living room a domestic terrorist.

Am I the only one who sees the absolute contradiction to that statement?  Can McCain have it both ways?  Well, he can try.  But now his town hall meeting supporters are booing him because he won’t follow their line of thinking (at least not out loud) when they chant things like “Kill him!  Kill him!  Kill him!” and “Off with is head!” in reference to Obama at the political rallies.  Are these campaign rallies or KKK initiations?  See why I am disappointed yet?

1.  The media needs to absolutely crucify (like my play on words here?) McCain for getting this entire ugly situation going in the first place.  Even those in the media who support him should divorce themselves of his divisive rhetoric and anger mongering.  Some of them have, but certainly not enough.

2.  It scares me to think that there are still enough of these types of people, ie. angry, racist to the core, ignorant of a true world view and understanding, hillbilly people to actually fill a town hall.

3.  There is a presidential candidate ie. McCain/Palin, desperate enough to resort to and accept the public support of the above mentioned people. 

Well, Obama is ahead in most all polls.  But I am still unconvinced that he will win.  While there are plenty of people who say, I like Obama and what he stands for, I believe that many of them (white folks in particular) will vote for McCain instead when in the privacy of their voting booths because they can’t vote for a black man.

Obama is either very brave or very foolish.  Even if he makes it to the White House, now more than ever, I fear that his  presidency will be all too brief.  We may end up with Joe Biden for president.

Remember the people shouting, “Kill him!  Kill him!  Kill him!”?

It only takes one fool to pull the trigger.

KHAALIDAH

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“Joe Sixpack and hockey mom.”  And there was that brief diatribe when she attempted to define what “real patriotism” is.  Well, while I consider myself to be part of “Main Street America”, I am not a hockey mom.  I am a science fair, honor role mom.  And my husband is no Joe Sixpack.  He doesn’t drink beer, Istagh firullah. 

As for patriotism, how dare she define that for me.  I believe in the good that my country possesses as well as its potential for future greatness, but not to the extent of agreeing with every failing policy and not to the degree of supporting a war mongering president.  I love my country, but like my children, I am willing to chide my country when it does wrong and vote accordingly.  And believe me, it won’t be fore the McCain-Palin ticket.

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disarmament

Definition:

1. The act of laying down arms, especially the reduction or abolition of a nation’s military forces and armaments.

2. The condition of being disarmed.

Used in context:

When the dark skinned hijabi entered into the room, the older Caucasian woman whispered under her breath to her companion, “Another one of those Arab Islamists.  That’s why I voted for Bush the second time.”  Her companion nodded in agreement.

The same dark skinned hijabi then introduced herself as the nurse would would be taking the Caucasian woman’s vital signs that day.  She smiled and joked with the Caucasian woman, who thought to herself that while she liked the dark skinned hijabi, and was extremely impressed with her flawless, accentless English, the fact was, she could never trust a Muslim.  Certainly as a foreigner, the dark skinned hijabi could not ever have the depth of patriotism for this great country that I do.  After ten minutes together, she felt enough at ease to say, “Can I ask you a personal question?”

The dark skinned hijabi shone a knowing smile at her older Caucasian patient, as she had heard that leading question more times than she could ever count.  She thought to herself, I hope she doesn’t ruin our nice conversation by asking something ugly and unacceptable.  The older Caucasian patient waited patiently and the dark skinned hijabi finally said, “Sure, what would you like to know?”

Suddenly the very bold and outspoken older Caucasian woman shrank shyly in her chair, which made the dark skinned hijabi cringe slightly because this was a sign that the question would be pretty bad.  But the older Caucasian woman plowed ahead, obviously having found her voice again.  “Well, I just wanted to know…. Are you from over there?”

“Over where?”

“You know, where your people come from.”

“Who are my people.”

“I don’t know.  The Arabs and Indians.  The ones that I see on the news.”

The dark skinned hijabi took a moment to reflect on this question.  She knew that the older Caucasian woman meant Muslims.  She did not want to make matters worse, but she certainly didn’t want to make this too easy on her patient.  Finally she responded by saying, “Well, actually I am neither Arab nor Indian.”

“No?”

The dark skinned hijabi shook her head.  “Nope.  I am actually from Maine.”

“Maine?” 

“Yes, that state way up north near the Canadian border.”

“What about your parents?  Are they from over there?”

“My mom is from New York and my dad is from Delaware.”

The older Caucasian woman’s lips parted slightly, but she could not seem to find her words.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”  The dark skinned hijabi decided to turn the tables.

Still a bit stunned the older Caucasian woman nodded slightly.

“Where are you from?”

“Uh, I am from East Texas.”

“And what about your parents?”

After a long silence the older Caucasian woman answered, “My father was from Germany and my mother was from Italy.”

“Wow,” said the dark skinned hijabi, “my people have been here longer than yours.”

DISARMAMENT.

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 I have a solution.  Turn off the television and open the Holy Qur’an. 

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Salaams!  Khaalidah.

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It just goes to show, however, how incredibly backward thinking can be.  What am I talking about?  Had I said something like, “No thanks, I’m on a diet.  I’m trying to get into this really nice dress.”  No one would be apologizing.  No one would be giving me that poor silly religious fool look.  I’d be getting the high five, the thumbs up, the “you go girl!”

I found myself today trying to explain to a non-Muslim what it felt like to fast.  I tried to describe the serenity that comes with shedding the heaviness of food, and delving as deeply as one can into one’s spiritual self during this blessed month.  I could almost see my words rolling away and falling to the floor.  Evaporating.  She didn’t get it.

I don’t expect every non-Muslim to know that it is Ramadan, but surprisingly so many of them do know something.  They say things like, “Oh, is it that Ramadan thing?”  Yeah, it’s that “thing”.  But I suppose that I am wondering exactly what people of other faiths are willing to do for their faith, their God, their way of life? 

I wonder, how would it be to not have a Ramadan?  How would it be to not have a special time each year when I can stop everything and truly reflect, and where everyone else is reflecting too?  Congregational reflection.  Mass reflection.  Communal reflection.

How would it be to never have this special time when the shayteen are chained and helpless against you?  How would it be to never have a special time when you know that your prayers are more likely above all other times to be accepted?  How would it be to never have a special time to regroup and release yourself from the silly things that chain us to this life, like food?  How would it be to never have a time to stop and say, “Wait a minute, is this really what my poor and hungry brethren are feeling each and every day?”

I can’t imagine.  But I do imagine that many of them are probably thinking that they do have their own special time.  Christmas.  Christmas?  But I suppose you’d have to be a Muslim to see just how flawed that comparison is.  There is no comparison.

So, half of Ramadan is gone.  Alhamdulillah.  We only have another two weeks left.  I am feeling a bit sad about it too.  I am afraid of what happens when Ramadan is over.  The same old gluttonous, decadent, nonsensical life?  I am more committed than ever to NOT go that route, to remain steadfast even in post-Ramadan phase.  I want to carry that good feeling with me all year round.  But if I don’t, Insha Allah , there will be another Ramadan next year.  See how great Allah is?  He is always on time.

Khaalidah

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