Teens, Lock-Ins, and Park 51

By Julie Maxwell, a close friend and fellow True Blood enthusiast...

I'm not a writer, I’m an observer. I watch interactions unfold between people. I enjoy sitting back and noticing the small things no one seems to take the time to notice these days. I listen, I react, and I give advice. Rarely do I decide to speak up but it seems the events unfolding in the world around us have awakened a voice I try to keep quiet.

I’m a Christian youth minister. I work with 7th to 12th graders. I talk to them about their problems, I laugh with them and I walk with them on their faith journey. I don’t talk about myself or my views and frankly I like it that way. The youth I work with are bombarded with so many opinions and voices that I am shocked to find they still can speak with their own voice and think with their own minds. The depth of our young people’s understanding of the world around us is astonishing.

Recently we held a lock-in at our church, where the youth get to run around until they are exhausted and make new friends and eat way too many sugar laden snacks. As we were playing a large group game, one of the older youth looked at me and said “I just don’t understand why people are having such a hard time with this New York thing”. I asked if she was speaking of Park51 also known as the Cordoba House and she just nodded and looked sad. I told her I didn’t understand either and she asked what we could do. What she could do. What we should do. I didn’t have an answer.

I went home and I realized I needed an answer. I needed to let the people in my life know what is happening is not right. What is happening could be bigger than any of us imagine if we don’t put a stop to the vitriol hate and ignorance spreading before us. With that thought I realized I knew what could help. Education. Constant, consistent education about what the Cordoba House is, who Imam Feisal is but more importantly, who the Muslims that I consider friends are. The similarities we share, the differences we hold but more importantly the humanness we posses. For to me, that is what may really be going on - that people can’t grasp the humanness of the other and instead of debunking their own ignorance, they decide to label the unknown as evil and call it a day.

I do not think we have an easy battle ahead of us but we what we do need to do is listen. We need to stop hearing what we have in our hearts and listen to those who don’t understand why hating Muslims or blaming Muslims is wrong. We need to talk to each other and not over each other. We need to have conversations that are hard and frustrating and hope that at the end of the time we spend arguing and understanding, we come out together with love in our hearts for our friends and neighbors who realize their ignorance. By listening and respecting, we can break down barriers that cause people to listen and respect in return.

I have faith in the goodness of humanity and I will not back down or let that faith grow quiet. I’m ready to ask the tough questions and am prepared to give my answers. It’s time to speak out and speak proudly and speak humbly. We have a lot of work to do.

How To Be An American Muslim

By Hafsa Arain. Originally published in Threshold 2009, DePaul University's art, literature and multimedia magazine.

You are ten years old, and your mom tells you that you cannot wear shorts anymore. You don’t really understand why, but you listen to her anyway. In sixth grade, you have to get a special note to get out of swimming.

“What for?” asks the gym teacher, a buff man with graying hair.

“Religious reasons,” you say.

In ninth grade, you are sitting in World Cultures class, and the teacher asks you how to spell “Qur’an”.

“K-O-R-A-N, right? Koran?” she asks, staring you in the eyes.

When there are hot dogs for lunch, you pack your own from home. During Ramadan, you don’t eat anything during the day. When everyone asks you why, you just pretend you’re not hungry.

“Are you sure you don’t want some of my sandwich?” they ask nicely.
You grow taller. Your hair is longer, blacker than it was when you were younger. You begin to notice your skin color, its darkness. You resent it. Everyone else starts drinking, starts dating, starts smoking up. You can’t do any of that. You can’t go to the Homecoming dance, not even with your friends because they’re all wearing sleeveless dresses and you’d look weird with a sweater on.

You’re in eleventh grade when the boy who sits next to you in English stands shyly by your locker after class one day. You pretend not to be flattered when he stammers while he speaks, and tells you that you’re smart and interesting. He smiles at you, and you check your watch hesitantly. He asks you what you’re doing on Saturday night, and you pretend you’re not going to be watching a movie with your sister. He wants to keep talking.

“I’ve got to catch the bus,” you say suddenly. He frowns before walking away, and you feel awful. You want to go, because it would make you just like everyone else. But you can’t go, because you’re not like everyone else. When you tell your sister, you pretend it wasn’t such a big deal, except it was. Because it was the first time it happened, and it was also the last time. It was the last time because when you grow up, you tell boys they can’t ask you out unless they’re Muslim, too.

When you are at home, you don’t pray five times a day, because it never feels right. You don’t talk about being Muslim, you just are. But you are not Muslim like your God-fearing grandmother, who lives half the world away, fingering her prayer beads and reading the Qur’an. You want her instead of your dad, who has grand existential theories about life and religion, but you can’t speak to her that well because you speak English and she doesn’t. So your whole construct of her is of everything not said between you two.

When you graduate high school, it feels liberating. You feel older and wiser, and surer of yourself. You move into the dorms in college, and you feel free as you wave your parents away from your life. And then you see the beer runs, the fake IDs, and suddenly you can’t participate in college either.

You sit in your classes, and you learn that race is social construct. That race isn’t the color of your skin. White professors profess in front of discussion based classrooms, and a bunch of white heads nod in agreement. You nod, too, but you feel robbed of something. Only you can’t place it very well.

When you get your fake ID, you go to bars and clubs, and you drink Diet Coke. When boys don’t hit on you because you are sober, and Pakistani, and fully clothed, you pretend not to care. You laugh with your friends, but it’s more like laughing at them because they can’t say your name after an hour into the party. You hold their hair back when they throw up in the bathroom at the end of the night.

“You’re so cool for not drinking,” they say at the dingy bar, “I really respect that.”

You look back at them with confusion. They say this as they take sips from their mixed drinks, or slurping their champagne. Ten minutes ago, they were walking to the White Hen, excited about pre-gaming.

When you go home on the weekends, you don’t tell your parents that you were at a party last night. Even when you only drank the leftover cranberry juice everyone else was mixing into their vodka. You don’t tell them about the knee-length skirt you wore once, and felt guilty about for a month. You want God, but He’s hard to find in the sour smell of alcohol and overwhelming guilt of lies. Your life is full of lies. You lie to your friends, who don’t think your left out at all. You lie to your mom and dad. You lie to your grandma when she asks you if everything is okay. Sometimes, you want it to be easy. But then your grandma tells you that it’s never easy. It’s always hard, being a Muslim.

When you read the Qur’an, you are crying. And you want to remember everything you did wrong, but you did it all for a reason and you can’t forget the reasons. Because you still want the same things you did in high school, but you want to move on. You want to grow up.

You don’t want to be American anymore – anything else will do, because when you watch the footage from the September 11th attacks, you feel guilty, even though you didn’t do anything wrong. When people call you a terrorist because you’re walking down the street with your aunt who covers her hair, you feel like yelling but it doesn’t feel right to say anything. You have a strange taste in your mouth – it feels metallic and the knot in your throat grows but you don’t want to cry on the street in front of every body, and you don’t belong anymore.

But you never belonged to anything – the mini-skirts, the tank tops, the hot dogs, and mispronunciations of your name. You didn’t belong in Pakistan, where you can barely speak to anyone, and you feel strange for wearing jeans and t-shirts. You don’t belong here, where everyone treats you like a visitor, but you’re not a visitor. You are permanent.

You feel alone. So you write poetry and short stories and you read books. You write pages and pages about being different, and your friends call you emo. You write about the social constructions of race, and how just a simple social construction has changed your life. You read books by Jhumpa Lahiri, and you feel centered. You read poetry by Rumi, and you remember why you call yourself a Muslim in the first place. You watch the world through train windows, through TV screens, through Internet pages. You read about Israel and Palestine, and it makes you angry. You read about the Afghanistan-Pakistan border and it makes you furious.

It all makes you furious – the fact that you’re Muslim and not anything else. Because everyone else can fit in just fine, because they can drink whatever they want and date whoever they want, and be whatever they want. You wish this piece could be about whatever you want, but it can’t be because this is who you are. Because you have to stand for something, be the representative of the idea. You can have to talk write specific things, say specific things, and be a specific person because you are an American Muslim.

And now, you’re told that you must reflect and think about the past. You have reflected, and you have seen where you don’t belong. You have seen everyone clearly beside yourself. And now, you look straight, forward into the future, and you welcome it with open hands. You take with you your Muslim identity and step into the light, to a place where you will finally belong, if only because you made it so.

Let's Talk!

This blog is changing. Instead of writing about random musings, I've decided to focus my efforts on one message: Muslim Americans are part of the pluralistic family that is America.

Now that message may seem quite simplistic and not particularly interesting to you. One look at a newspaper or new channel will speak to it's urgency. Anti-Muslim biotry is growing around us, it is clearly evident in the events happening around Park 51, and at mosques in cities, suburbs and small towns across America.

We can react to this growing sentiment is many different ways. We can be passive and wait for it to pass. We can ignore it and not acknowledge its existence (until it comes for you). We can pack our bags and go somewhere else. Or we can speak up, take action, and create real community with our neighbors.

I've decided to speak up. Here's my a part of my story of what it means to be Muslim & American.

I grew up with an Indian passport and a home address in Doha, Qatar. One of many expatriate families of South Asian origin in the Middle East. Home was neither here or there. Sure my family was Indian, but my values came from growing up in a city filled with people from all over the world. Friday morning breakfast (Sunday morning equivalent in a Muslim country) at our house consisted of filafel, hummus, pita, eggs, fried haloumi, and foul (mashed dried fava beans cooked with olive oil and garlic). We didn't always eat curry. We didn't always dress in traditional clothes. English is and always has been my first language.

So for the first 15 some years of my life, I didn't really have a place to call home. Chennai, the souther-Indian city my family was from, was alien and uncomfortable. My brother and I stood out when we went to the "homeland" for summer holidays, with our "NRI" (Non-Resident Indian) accents and lifestyle. Everything was different. Our "Indian-ess" was different from India itself. On the other hand, Qatar was a place we could never permanently call home. Getting Qatari citizenship status was not a possible option for most expats, and with no options for Universities or higher education in general, my time in Qatar seemed to have an expiration date.

Apparently, my father had seen this coming. While visiting his brother in Chicago in the early 80's, my parents applied for greencard to migrate to the United States. But given that we hadn't heard ANYTHING from the U.S. Government by 1990, my family had begun preparations for my graduation from highschool to mark our move back to the "homeland" aka India.

And then it happened. The 1992 bomb blasts in Mumbai and riots in many cities that marked the beginning of a new chapter of communal violence between the Hindu and Muslim communities. I remember watching the news as events in Mumbai unfolded, I remember that queasy feeling that filled my insides as we waited for updates on our friends stranded in their Mumbai homes, hoping that the mobs wouldn't come looking for them.

Two years later we received notice of our approved green card status. Within a couple of years, I found myself as a Junior at Carl Sandburg Highschool, taking A.P. English and joining the speech team. It took me 3 months to "Americanize" my accent, to learn what "homecoming" was, and to figure out my place in the jungle we call an American High School. At Sandburg, I met Indians who were more "Indian" than me. I met Muslims who were more "Muslim" than me.

It was America that taught me the most about myself. Here I learned to put together my Indian-ness, my Muslim-ness, my secular-ness, and more. More importantly, all of these came together to form my American-ness.

Today my insides are again filled with a certain queasy feeling. There are voices in America that tell me that I do not belong here. Then there are voices who speak to the spirit and community that is America - you will hear from them here.

Stay tuned for a daily post from friends & family, from Muslims, Christians, Jews, Hindus and others, from humanists and atheists, from students and professionals. Let's talk. Let's discuss. Let's together make America a better place for generations to come.

Real Vacation: Day 2, Bio Bay

Ok, so continuing yesterday's saga...

After our discovery of the Muslims, Ali and I came home, changed and headed to the bio bay. Ok so what exactly is the bio bay? Well its this teeny tiny organism that is in the water, like hundreds of thousands of them. And in the dark, they glow on contact. According to our guide, there's about 300 - 700 thousand of these lil' guys in a gallon of water!

So, Mosquito Bay (they call it that for a reason) - is a protect environment, so the only way to take this tour is through kayaks or an electric boat. We decided to be brave and go with the kayaks. Now I was nervous, I mean me and Ali on one kayak? The guide assured us that it would not be an issue... so off we went.

There were about 14 of us, all couples. We parked our cars in the beach parking lot, and then loaded up in a van. It took us about 20 minutes to drive to the bay. There was no paved road, just dirt, the forest, the pot holes, and us. Once we got to the bay, we loaded up in our kayaks and starting making our way to the center (and deepest) part of the bay.

Mosquito Bay is about 8 times more saltier than the regular ocean. And you could smell it right when you get there. The evening began to become darker by the time we got to the center of the bay. Now I was really nervous. I mean, I love to swim. But swimming in an ocean full of creatures in the dark, is a whole other story. But I couldn't resist, so eventually I jumped in. And I'm SO glad that I did. There's no way to describe this experience except to do it! You're in the water, its pitch black, and everytime you move you're arms of legs, the water around you glows. It really glows! (Google the pics of it and you'll see, it actually looks like that!) What's more amazing is when you lift your arm or chest just slightly above the water, you see them individually - it'll tiny glowing specs all over you!

Now getting back on the kayak, well that was not so fun. It took all my strength PLUS Ali pushing my butt to get me back on that stupid thing. But finally, I was on, and we paddled back to shore.

It was a bit scary, but totally worth it! Totally.

Real Vacation: Day 2, Beaches, Burns, Bugs, and Bonds

It was not raining today. And thank GOD for that! So here it is:

After a refreshing nights sleep, we had only 2 things on our "to do" list for today: beaches and bio bay. And let me tell you, there is a lot that happened between those two "to do's".

So around 11, we head out to explore the beaches Vieques is famous for. Untouched, serene, and most importantly secluded. So we drove across the island (a whole 6 miles) to the Wildlife Refuge and started beach scoping.

First stop, Red Beach - although very beautiful, it was pretty crowded today. And by crowded, I mean there were about 10 people on it. So we kept going. Next stop, "Secret" Beach (that's what they call it on the map!) - now this was a beach I fell instantly in love with. Beautiful blue waters, wonderful calm waves, great shade, and mostly importantly, completely empty (well almost, one couple sat about a football field away from us). This was it. So we set up camp in an almost private alcove and relaxed away. The next two hours were bliss. Swimming, reading, lunching, and sun bathing. Need I say more? Of course the one thing that went wrong is that we didn't nearly put on enough sun block, so Ali and I are both mighty pink at the moment.

After about three hours, we decided to scale the rest of the beach before heading home to freshen up for our bio bay tour. So we drove around to the Blue Beach, the Orchid Beach, all beautiful, all amazingly secluded. If you are a woman who wears hijab, this is the island to go vacationing on.

On our drive home, we passed by that store I told you about yesterday - you know, the one with the Hijabi Woman and moon n' crescent on the sign? So we decide to stop and take a look. We go in, there's a couple women in there, and a LOT of shoes. So I ask the lady at the counter, "Is this your store?" She doesn't speak very much English, but manages to tell us that "Ratiba" is at her other store called "Washington" which is down the street. So we go down the street, and find the store. I walk in while Ali looks for parking. There's an old man sitting by the counter, he looks like a teddy bear with full white beard. "Assalamu Alaikum," he says, smiling. "Wa'alikum Salaam, Is Ratiba here?" He smiles, motions to say that she's coming. Then he says in Arabic, "Do you speak Arabi?" No, I reply. There's another lady at the counter, who speaks Engligh, I tell her that we saw the sign on the other store, and wanted to stop by and say hello. Just then, Ratiba drives up, and the teddy bear Ammu (that's what I'll call him from now on, which means uncle in Arabic) goes to park the car while she comes in. Ratiba takes one look at me and smiles. She recognizes me. But from where?

Flashback: On the way to Puerto Rico, our flight out of Chicago was delayed by 2 hours. While waiting for the flight, Ali and I sat across this woman and her son. They spoke in Arabic, smiled, and greeted us, like is normative for Muslims to do, even when you don't know one another. This was Ratiba and she was on our flight from Puerto Rico.

So once Ratiba and I have figured out how we know each other. We get to the details. She is a Puerto Rican convert, married to a Palestinian, Ammu. They have eight kids and have lived in Vieques for 37 years. They are the only Muslim family in town. Every friday they take the ferry to the main island for Jummah prayers. They are A.D.O.R.A.B.L.E.

Of their eight children, a couple live in Chicago. We inquired which suburbs or neighborhood they lived in. Ratiba can't remember the name, so decided to call her daughter, Hanaan. In a quick conversation over the phone, we discover that she lives in the suburb of... wait for this one... FRANKFORT. Yes, that's right, the boo foo lil' town of Frankfort about 30 miles south of Chicago. And she lives about a mile away from my parents. Um, yea. I don't even know what to call this... fate? Karma? Who knows!

True to Arab hospitality, they invite us over for dinner. So that's where we'll be tomorrow night!

More on the bio bay tour tomorrow, I'm too tired to type up that saga tonight... see ya!

Real Vacation

As I type this right now, I can hear a hundred different sounds outside my window. The wind, the bugs, and the waves. That's pretty much was Vieques sounds like all the time.

Ali and I flew into San Juan last night. This morning after an hour long cab ride and an hour long ferry ride, we finally walked on the island called Vieques. I was warned before I got here about the roosters, chickens and wild horses everywhere, but it still surprises me.

We were met at the ferry terminal by Ian, our gracious host, and drove to get our rental car. After unloading and freshening up at our fabulous "hotel" - actually its more like a little complex of condo units called "At The Waves" - we were off exploring the city in search of food and supplies.

As we were driving around looking for the super market, I saw the strangest thing. A store, with clothes and shoes mainly, a lady at the counter. The store front had a sign, in spanish of course, so I have no idea what it said. Next to the writing, theres a woman, covered in hijab along side a crescent and star. I did a double take. A Muslim clothing store, here on Vieques where only 10,000 people live? Seemed kind of unreal. I plan to swing by them tomorrow, so more on that later.

Ali and I finally did find the grocery store. We parked a block away, and started walking. As we cross the street, a truck that was passing by us stop. And the man driving motions for Ali to come near him. I was nervous, what the heck does he want with us? And then I hear the dude say to Ali:

"You speak spanish?" Ali: "NO." Man: "You feel comfortable here. If you need anything ask people." Ali: "Ok, thanks man." Man: "It's good to have you here, brother." And then he drove off.

Umm. What? Yea that's what I was thinking. Now that was a sharp contrast to the hospitality we received at a local restaurant later. First, let me tell you, this place was FILLED with American expats. I mean like the place was filled with people from all over the states. There was not one Puerto Rican in that room. And that room was cold. Just a hello and what would you like to eat. After trying to make conversation for a few minutes, I gave up. Thank god we had our order to go.

So we came back to our little prelude to heaven, and inhaled our lunch/dinner before we went for a walk along the beach in front of our place. It's the northern side of the island, so the sea is rougher, and the beach is pebbley. The sun was just beginning to set, and time was coming in. It was one of the most beautiful sights I have ever seen. But I have a feeling, I'm going to see a lot of those this week.

More tomorrow... hopefully we actually get to swim on a beach (God willing) if there is no rain!

Stuck in a moment

Alright, so I've yet again decided that it is time for me to write. And write often. The last year has been one of those moments I just got stuck in. The routine became more than a routine, it became a lifestyle. Wake up at 5:30-6:00am, drive to the south side where Ali would drop me off at the Red line before heading to his school, then I would take the train to Greek town where the IFYC office is located. Listening to my ipod, I hoped to get a seat every morning, so that I wouldn't have to stand for the 30 minute ride into the city. In the evenings, Ali would get off of school at 4:00pm and come get me around 5:30pm. Then we would sit through rush hour traffic until we got home about an hour later. Needless to say, I never have much energy to do anything on weeknights anymore.

Makes you tired just reading about it doesn't it?

Well, today was one of those mornings. I was sitting in the third car of the train and looking out the window to the jammed expressway when an unexpected song began to play in my ears. It was "These are the days" by 10,000 Maniacs. I was instantly transported to my A.P. English class, senior year at Carl Sandburg High School.

It was the first day of classes in August 1997. I was nervous. Another year to get through in suburban Orland Park, IL where my family had migrated to just over a year ago. Most of that day was uneventful. To be honest I don't remember much of it. There was something different about 7th hour. As I sat down at my desk, I started to look around the room. A few familiar faces, a few knew ones. Mr. B was sitting on his desk in the far corner of the room, guitar in hand. For a moment I hesitated, wondering if I was in the wrong class. This was A.P. English, wasn't it? As I pulled out my schedule to check the room number, Mr. B welcomed us. It was A.P. English, and I will remember it as the best high school course I ever had.

That sunny afternoon in 1997, we began our senior year with song "These are the days" by the 10,000 Maniacs. It wasn't the first time I had heard it. But as the lyrics went on, a sense of confidence spread inside of me, and the walls of that class became my sanctuary for the rest of that year.

Listening to this song on the train again this morning, reminded of that sense of being content and confident I had once discovered in that classroom.

I long to return to that place again.