by Nura Maznavi
After my parents’ divorce, my siblings and I lived with our mother but went to our father’s Oakland home every other weekend. We’d go to the masjid, where I found immense joy in praying side by side with sisters, our feet touching. I loved going to the halal pizza joint, eating beef pepperoni, then running my fingers across the rayon scarves that my father sold after Jumma.
I also adored the popular R&B guy groups of the time: Immature and what was left of New Edition. I taped their posters to my wall, dreaming of going on a date with one of them, or even marrying them. I didn’t care about what their religion was or that, according to my father, I wasn’t allowed to date—I just loved their songs.
My father always said that when I was old enough, I’d have a strong Muslim husband. Dating was never mentioned. When I asked my father how I’d get to know the man who would be my husband, he said that a parent had to chaperone us. My mother echoed these sentiments most times, but with less conviction. She didn’t always include religion in her marriage prediction, just said she hoped I would end up with a nice, respectful guy.
As her relationship with her boyfriend (and my soon-to-be stepfather) progressed, I realized that my parents and others within my immediate community were not adhering strictly to the ideals they advocated to me. With Lil’ Kim blasting through my boom box speakers and the Qur’an sitting atop our mantel, I came to recognize the layers of our existence, even if I didn’t fully understand them.
During my teenage years and into my undergraduate career, I navigated a loose, confused understanding of religious and personal obligations, especially when it came to my body and sexuality. My mother maintained that because we were Muslim, I shouldn’t wear the cut-off halter tops that my friends wore, though tank tops were permissible. Dates weren’t encouraged, so secret “meet-ups” resulted. When I was ten, I watched from our apartment porch as my older sister French-kissed her “friend” on the round patch of dried-up grass downstairs. The kiss was sloppy and rushed, an attempt at romance before our mother came home from work. A strange mixture of excitement and disgust ran through me as I watched them.
That same weekend, we went to our father’s apartment. In the evening, when we were all settled in, Daddy went out to dance at Geoffrey’s nightclub. Alone in his apartment, my siblings and I created games to overcome boredom. “Step on back” was our favorite one; it consisted of someone’s running across the floor with a sheet draped over him or her, and others chasing that person to see if they could step on the sheet and make the other person fall. This caper resulted in laughter and painful carpet burns, but it was worth it.
I never thought my father was breaking any Islamic code by going out on these nights, just that he loved to dance. Whether he courted women during these excursions remains unknown, but I do know that he danced with women, and in my mind, there was nothing wrong with that. In the morning we’d go hear the imam’s khutbah, make salat, and buy mini–bean pies.
The next time I saw Theo, it was a wild, windy day in San Francisco. He didn’t tell me what he had planned for this date, only that I’d enjoy it. He swooped up to the curb outside the BART station in a burgundy Buick. Bob Marley wailed from the speakers as I got in the car. Two small wineglasses sat in the middle compartment between our seats. I squinted my eyes, confused as to why they were there.
Theo spoke of many things as he drove to our surprise destination, starting with a question that brought an immediate awkwardness into the car.
“So, do you consider yourself spiritual or religious?”
I didn’t know how to respond. I stated drily that I fostered a relationship with God.
He stated proudly, “I’ve been saved . . . What about you?”
I started to giggle because I didn’t know if he was joking or not.
“I’m not sure if there’s an equivalent to that in Islam.”
“Oh . . . you’re a Muslim.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
“Do you attend a mosque?”
“Yes, but not regularly.”
He nodded his head slowly, massaged his beard, and sang along with Bob Marley. Slight perspiration gathered on my forehead, and I started to feel like I was on a job interview. Theo spoke mostly of his love for God. Most of his sentences began or ended with “God,” “the Bible,” and matters related to Christianity. He briefed me on his previous stint as a New York City gang member, and how God had pulled him from that life just as a rival gang member had laid a near-fatal blow to his face. I was interested in his convictions and life experiences, but somehow that wasn’t enough for Theo. The fact that his fervor failed to convert me made things tense.
I thought back to the initial look in Theo’s eyes at the film festival—the longing that had radiated from them. He was looking for someone to believe in him, and to believe in God the way he did. Memories clouded my mind. I remembered high school, when my best friend insisted I was going to hell because I didn’t proclaim Jesus Christ as my lord and savior. Then a slumber party when I was ten and my friend’s father insulted me because I didn’t eat the pepperoni pizza. No matter the year—it seemed religious tolerance wasn’t a factor in some people’s minds.
As the car rolled through familiar San Francisco terrain, I could offer no more than halfway nods and smiles that masked my discomfort. How could I convey to Theo that while I respected his religious beliefs, I still had my own? How could I let him know, without seeming apathetic, that I wasn’t overly religious? Upon hearing his proclamation that he needed to find a wife to support him in his aspirations to become a preacher, I couldn’t help but let out a confused, but genuine, laugh. The absurdity of the car ride had become funny.
No matter how much Theo probed, I wasn’t going to give him the answers he desired—that I was interested in becoming a Christian, that I attended a church or masjid every week, or even that I wanted to. It wasn’t because I eschewed his ideals; it was because I wasn’t going to compromise my identity in order to make him feel better about his.
There I was, in the car, on a date with a man I hardly knew. Bob Marley was singing when we arrived at a beach. Theo picked up the two wineglasses in the middle compartment and opened my door, and we walked. The sand made our balance uneven, almost as uneven as the conversation we’d had in the car.
He laid out a lint-covered sheet and pulled two Subway sandwiches and a bottle of champagne from his backpack. The scene was like one from a movie, only I couldn’t drink a sip.
“I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Oh, yeah—I forget about that.”
An uncomfortable silence mixed with the wind, which plastered my dress to my legs. We ate warm sandwiches and watched the waves fight with each other. We talked more, this time about our world travels and how we both appreciated South Africa.
“I met some amazing people there, like this one woman who was a filmmaker. I should connect you guys,” he said.
I was relieved that the conversation was starting to veer away from religion and joined in without hesitation: “That’d be great, Theo. It’s amazing how complex the cultures there are. Most people speak about ten different languages.”
Theo and I practiced clicking our tongues, as is custom when speaking the Xhosa language. “The next time you go, you have to visit Cape Town,” he said. “You’ll love the ocean.”
I nodded and felt myself relax for first time that day. Later, when I exited his car at the end of the date, he looked into my eyes and stated, “God loves you.” He was like one of the televangelist preachers on late-night TV. All I could do in response was give him the same uncomfortable smile I’d had for most of the date.
I was left with an unfinished impression of Theo. I knew he loved God, but not much else. I wasn’t sure what response of mine could match his conviction. I saw that same look in Theo’s eyes: He wanted something from me, for me to be a “believer” the same way he was, but I wasn’t. I just walked away.
I haven’t seen Theo since that day.
/>
I’ve been walking away from him, and from the idea that I must lose myself in order to be with someone, ever since. I no longer perceive my nebulous spirituality and romantic life as faults. The waves of my identity are more complex than my simply being a “pious Muslim woman” or a “God-fearing Christian.” Now, at age twenty-six, I am thankful for my upbringing, which, though difficult to understand when I was a child and a teenager, helped me build a “both/and” perspective about people and the world. I had a Muslim father who read the Qur’an in the morning and loved dancing at night, a mother who kept a Qur’an on her mantel but had a boyfriend, and a sister studying Sufism and sneaking kisses outside our apartment. And we were all Muslims.
I like and love things and people based on passion, interest, and conviction, not according to categories and social boundaries. I sometimes think about what kind of wedding I will have if I do marry a non-Muslim man. Will we read from both holy books? Will we walk down the aisle or have the imam speak to us while we sit, as my parents did? And, like my mother, will I wear a sari or don a white gown instead? Will I jump the broom, as part of African American tradition, or have mehndi applied to my hands? I am aware of the potential clash—or the merging of beliefs—that will arise from my choice. I am willing to take the chance.
The Opening
Ayesha Mattu
In the name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate
All praise is for God alone, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the Worlds,
The Merciful, the Compassionate,
Master of the Day of Requital.
You alone do we worship, and to You alone we turn for help.
Guide us to the straight path,
The path of those whom You have blessed,
Not of those who are lost.
Al-Fatiha (The Opening, 1:1–7), Qur’an
It’s two weeks after 9/11 and I need to dance. My heart and mind are burned out by double sorrow: for that terrible day, and for the bitter end of a long relationship. I’ve got to get away from the relentless TV coverage and remember happiness again.
I call up Brian, my old college buddy. “A local funk band called Superhoney got a great review in the Metro. They’re playing at some place called Harpers Ferry down in Allston tonight. Let’s go.”
He says he’ll meet me there. I smile as I hang up the phone. He’s the kind of guy a girl can rely on to show up looking good enough to stir up the envy of other women, while being smart enough to hold sacred the delicate friendship between a woman and a man.
Riding the orange and then the green line to the club, I think about how I was supposed to be in Pakistan by now, visiting relatives during a sabbatical. But Logan Airport was still closed on the date of my departure, shortly after the attacks. When it came time to reschedule the flight, I found I couldn’t leave my country, not after all that had happened.
I also think about the man who, after spending years mired in indecision about me and everything else in his life, finally walked away. I start making resolutions about the future. From now on, I’m only going to date Muslim men, I tell myself firmly. At twenty-nine, I’ve never limited my love life in this way, but I’m heartsick after failed relationships with non-Muslims. And, after years of estrangement, I’m drawn to and curious about Islam again.
My spiritual search started a year ago and has only been accelerated by the events of 9/11. I was raised with the Islam of “no,” which had no place for joy or creativity, questions, or doubts. But since I discovered the ecstatic mystical poets of Islam—Rabia al-Adawiyya, Bulleh Shah, Hafiz, Rumi—I’ve realized that a deeply personal connection to a loving God and joyful Islam not only is possible, but is my birthright.
Up until now, I’ve avoided Muslim men who share my South Asian heritage as much as I have the Islamic faith. But I’m cautiously optimistic that somewhere within the diversity of American Muslim men—white, black, or of Arab, Asian, and other heritages—my soul mate awaits. Most of all, though, I just want a good man who will make it through my traditional Pakistani parents’ front door. How to find him is a question I don’t yet have an answer to, but as I walk into the club, I already know that this isn’t the best place to begin.
The venue is a bit too divey for my taste, vast and dark, with a large, elevated stage and filled with a casual crowd of what appear to be, disconcertingly, mostly Boston University undergrads. Brian and I, acutely aware of how even a few years stretch wide between the young and the younger, separate ourselves by sitting at the bar and talking about the events of the last two weeks while the band plays.
“I saw men in trucks circling the Common, waving American flags and yelling. I could understand where they were coming from. It’s not anti-Muslim, it’s pro-American,” Brian insists in his deep voice and matter-of-fact way.
The image makes me shudder. “I get it, but it makes me uncomfortable, like if you don’t wave a flag or yell, you don’t really love your country,” I respond. “It’s the first time I’ve ever felt how white Boston really is. Erin called me and said I should come stay with them all the way up in Milford. I think she was afraid I’d be lynched here just for being brown. And Muslim,” I add, almost as an afterthought; it’s a word for which I now have to figure out a place in my life again.
We sit with this thought for a minute, and though I wait for a reassurance, it doesn’t come. There’s so much about my country and circle of friends that I don’t recognize or understand right now. On the one hand, colleagues in the social-justice movement are organizing to protect local mosques and congregations, and on the other, a friend asked if I would hang an American flag outside my home to prove my patriotism. I have few Muslim friends to compare these experiences with, and most of the ones that I do have are secular, without the strong spiritual roots or religious depth to help me navigate the stormy waters in which I, like most American Muslims, am being asked to defend Islam and our Americanness.
I sigh and decide to lighten the mood because, after all, didn’t we come here to forget?
It’s at this moment that I notice him. He’s standing in a knot of friends, close enough for me to see clearly without the glasses I refuse to wear, but far away enough that I can steal covert glances at him. He’s gorgeous, but it’s something else that holds my attention. He is dancing alone, confident and graceful. Most guys in their twenties just don’t do that, not even after they’ve had their obligatory two drinks to loosen up. Heck, most people don’t do that, ever. Case in point: His friends stand around stiffly, drinks in hand.
It’s a pleasure just to watch him move. He reminds me how good it feels to have a body that’s young, and still alive after the recent tragedy. I can’t stop glancing at him, and soon enough, he looks my way. Too shy to hold his gaze, I will him to come over, assuming that my six-foot-three male companion will not be a lasting deterrent.
Surely at some point Brian will go to the restroom, I think, and then the tall, dark stranger will approach. But I’ve underestimated Brian’s Irish-Italian genes, which have fused together to form a superbladder, impervious to the vast quantities he is drinking. It’s getting close to closing time, and, though we’re still exchanging glances, the man has made no move toward me. Brian is still planted obliviously at my side.
My new resolution about Muslim men flies temporarily out the window as I try to formulate a plan to talk to the stranger. In a conversation with a more orthodox friend, I summarized our approaches to life as “I’m happy, and you’re good.” Tonight, the promise of an immediate thrill pulls me in again, even though I am becoming more aware that my actions rarely bring me long-term happiness.
I feel shy about approaching him myself, but it doesn’t cross my mind to enlist Brian’s help. As an “exotic” beauty in Boston, I’ve always been the one who is approached, never the one who approaches, so this is a novel situation. Before I’ve thought of my opening move, the man appears at the bar, standing behind Brian. Without thinking, I lean across my friend and tap the stranger on the
shoulder.
“Hello,” I purr smoothly. “I couldn’t help but notice we’re wearing the same shirt.”
The man looks down at his shirt in confusion. We are not wearing the same shirt. They are both baseball-style shirts, but his is gray and green, with some sort of sports motif, and mine is blue, with sparkly letters that spell out SWEETHEART. I am mortified. I feel a rush of sympathy for the men I made fun of over the years for approaching me with inane pickup lines. Why couldn’t I have just stopped at “hello”?
“Yeah,” he says with a kind smile, “they’re sort of similar.”
“I’m Ayesha,” I push on, heart racing and cheeks flushed, barely noticing when Brian finally realizes what’s happening and smoothly gets out of the way.
“I’m Brandy,” he replies—or at least I think he replies, in my confusion and over a spike of noise in the hall. Oh boy, I think to myself, now, that is not going to go over well with my teetotaling parents.
I realize my mistake a few minutes later, as the lights go up and I look down at his actual name—Randy—on the business card he hands me in exchange for mine. Thankfully, he still looks good in the sudden glare, and his hazel eyes and wide smile tell me that he feels the same way I do. I feel the tingle of potential, the excitement of something new, the attraction of a stranger and all the things that he could come to mean to me. The possibilities send blood rushing through my veins as I stand radiant and powerful under his gaze.
