by Umm Zakiyyah
At first it was anger that she felt, and the need to blame someone. She and Kiki were the outcasts of the education system—the world. Angie because her intelligence and wit were packaged in brown skin, short hair, and a thick frame, something her “diverse” school was not ready to parade across the stages of honors programs and award ceremonies to be the recipient of awards her teachers would quietly, and apologetically, tell her she really deserved. Had she the blond hair and blue eyes of White Anna or the light skin and long hair of “mixed” Sonia, she would have, like they, held her certificate in her hands under the flashing lights of cameras. She would have her picture in the local newspaper, a big smile on her face that so innocently displayed the gap between her front teeth that prior to middle school she had no idea should be a source of shame.
Kiki was a rebel in every sense of the word, and solidified for her teachers, White and Black, why people “like her” were deserving of the juvenile delinquency that plagued so many people of color. People “like her” made it hard for the few—and they had actually said few—Black people who wanted to make something of themselves. If she misbehaved, they would sigh that sigh of feigned patience, and calmly call security, saying only, “You know, it’s her again.” Unlike Angie, Kiki had already given up in elementary school. Her parents had tried to make ends meet to give her the life they never had, and like so many Black people before them, their hearts recited the “White is right” mantra and thus placed Keiya in that world. Racial slurs, the smacking of spit against her face, the kicking of the back of her chair, the “go back to Africa” chants were all Keiya would remember from her second to eighth grade year.
Keiya’s competitive academic record prior to entering the White school actually served as proof to her parents that “our schools” are nothing compared to “theirs”. Never mind the lack of up-to-date books, a frustrated people suffering from the country’s disease of racism, not to mention the lack of motivated teachers. Black schools were terribly sub par because, well, they were Black. That Keiya began the “prestigious” school as a struggling C student and ended on academic probation was because Keiya’s education from kindergarten to first grade was so inferior to “real education” that it was almost impossible for her to catch up. Never once did her parents see the reason for her poor academic record to be the social and psychological abuse that made it impossible to, literally, pay attention in class.
Kiki told Angie she remembers no academic struggle in the White school, only the constant fear, from day one, that she would not make it home alive. Even her teachers turned a blind eye to what the other students were doing to her. When she was once so terrified that she sought help from one of the “nice” teachers, the teacher turned to her, a forced smile on her face, and said, “What did your parents expect putting you in a school like this?”
As early as fourth grade, Keiya gave up talking to her parents, who constantly blamed her for not working hard enough, not “looking past the inevitable racism” she was going to face in school and beyond. It was as if being spat at and called a monkey were as normal as the daily sunrise to her parents. “That’s just how it is,” they would tell her. Never once did they go to the school to complain about their daughter’s treatment. Never once did they question the assessment, “the diagnosis”, when teachers informed them that, in their estimation, Keiya was learning disabled. Her parents sought help through tutors, who tried without success to get Keiya to even pick up a pencil.
Kiki told Angie she had shut down, given up, even as she didn’t know that’s what she was doing. Kiki said she had no idea how she would have fared academically, because, frankly, the details of what the academic curriculum actually entailed remained a mystery to her. It wasn’t until high school that she realized that many school books actually taught things, and were not just part of the school background like the decorated bulletin boards and halls. That Kiki was not learning disabled was obvious to Angie. When they cut school, they would read stacks of books and discuss them for hours. To Kill a Mockingbird, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Pride and Prejudice, Of Mice and Men. Even encyclopedias and algebra books intrigued them, and they would sit behind a building reading through them as if they had discovered a national treasure.
Keiya’s tragic flaw was her fierce, “to hell with you” attitude. Angela knew it was just Kiki’s way of protecting herself on the streets, where life was dangerous. Kiki was short, barely more than five feet, and her thin frame made her appear scrawny in her chocolate brown skin. She was rumored to carry a knife, but Angie was probably the only one who knew that wasn’t true. Although her fist was lethal, Kiki was not a bully, and for the most part kept to herself, wearing an angry face only because it made others stay out of her way. If there was any weapon besides the miraculous strength God had put in her small fist, it was the diamond-less ring that she had stolen from a pawnshop.
The attack that would end in Kiki’s death was so sudden, so unexpected that the assailants were gone before Angie knew what had happened. Years later the scene would replay in Khadijah’s mind as she searched for clues to how it happened, and why she was able to only stand motionless in shocked disbelief, and watch. The image of Kiki clutching her wounded stomach as she collapsed on the sidewalk, first to her knees, then to her side, would haunt Khadijah for years. The attackers had escaped only seconds before Kiki fell to her side, their shrilly laughter having faded into the darkness and became an eerie echo in Angie’s mind. In the darkness, a minute after the attackers had gone, Angela recalled the sudden terror in Kiki’s eyes as she lifted her gaze and fixed it upon something coming toward them in the darkness. Terrified that the attackers had returned, Angie, who was now kneeling next to her friend and begging her to hold on, turned and followed her friend’s gaze into the streetlight lit streets, and saw nothing. Heard nothing—except the drumming in her own chest. The drumming that told her that something, something terrifying was coming near, even as her eyes betrayed this intuition.
The terrifying feeling continued to envelop Angie, and Kiki began to flail her arms to ward off the phantom, screaming and asking who they were and what they wanted. In trepidation, Angie stared at her friend, afraid to ask who, afraid to ask what. A moment later, the sound of choking and gargling exploded in her ears, and Kiki’s eyes began to widen until she stilled, the weight of her body pressing against Angie’s knees as Angie could only stare at her friend’s wide open eyes, her unmoving body, and her face, contorted, angry, and still.
Kiki was dead.
And Angie knew that it was not the ones who carried the knives who had killed her. But the world. The unjust world in which they lived.
No one was ever arrested for Kiki’s death, and Angie found that a perverse irony in the “justice” of the juvenile delinquent fate Keiya’s teachers had so correctly prophesized. Her teachers, all of them, came to the funeral and hung their heads in feigned sadness at the tragedy. The school closed early that day so that students and staff could attend. Even Anna and Sonia had come, and Angie wanted to spit at all of them. But she bore with tumultuous patience their hugs and expressions of condolence, which she knew were only precursors to the whispered good riddance sentiments they would later utter in the privacy of their homes. A good riddance masked in the shake of a head, a hand on the shoulder of a daughter or son, as they so eloquently advised their children to take Kiki as an example of what they should not be.
Like Kiki’s parents, they would never blame the true culprit. Slaves dancing at the announcement of pseudo freedom, they were too grateful for the crumbs they were eating under the table to realize the world was slicing bread for a feast. Kiki, like other Black “delinquents” before her, was to them a personal tragedy, a thorn in the side of those who truly embraced the American dream, and there was no one to blame but Kiki herself.
It was this heavy burden that Angela had carried into the masjid, thinking it to be a temple for the Nation of Islam. Instead she met Umm Barakah, whose brown skin was v
isible only through the slit in the black fabric she wore on her face, evidence that Allah had another plan. And Khadijah, till this day, was grateful for that.
After everyone had left Nusaybah’s apartment, Alika had interviewed Nusaybah for her multicultural research, an interview that ironically enlightened Alika more about herself than the sister she had interviewed. As she drove, Alika found herself analyzing her own upbringing in search of the role race had played in her life. Her parents had put her in White schools, shielded her from the harsh realities of inner-city life, and resided, at least for most of her childhood, in a lush, White Virginia neighborhood. They now lived in Mitchellville, Maryland, and Alika now wondered if the move had anything to do with race.
The multicultural research was proving an exhaustive experience, especially as she was becoming plagued with self doubts about her own sense of identity. She had always known racism existed, but she never imagined it as uncontrollable or monstrous. She thought of racism like she had been taught in school, something of the past that still cast a shadow on the present, and would disappear soon. Racists were backwards people of yesterday, and they certainly didn’t represent a system that formed the very fabric of her country. Racial prejudice was more evident in the damage to Black self-image and intra-racial relations in her view than any outside force could have achieved without the hands of Blacks themselves.
It had always been difficult for Alika to empathize with African-Americans who complained, too often, in her view, of racial prejudice and mistreatment from “the system.” She rarely voiced her opinion, but she would always feel as if she could not relate. She was raised to achieve—overachieve, and complaining was not in her or her parents’ vocabulary. She remembered no marked racism in all her years as a Black student in suburban White schools. Though she did recall a pervasive sense of being somehow different that she sensed had to do with her skin color. Other than that, racism was just a term in her sociology and history books. Her White teachers were very cordial, as were her classmates. If there was any underlying resentment of her presence, Alika was oblivious. Then again, if racism had been really prevalent, she wouldn’t have had the luxury of being clueless.
As Alika drove she attempted to analyze the reason for her nonchalance regarding racial struggles. Undoubtedly, the issue always intrigued her, which inspired her to do the thesis she now worked on. But her fascination was more from a historical perspective and relating the past’s influence on today. Perhaps it was because her family was an exception to the rule that inspired the naïveté. She never had to struggle, and she lived better than the average White family in America. Even if she had experienced mistreatment, she would not have viewed it as a setback because she had a spacious six bedroom home with a pool in the backyard to come home to. A hundred dollars was pocket change to her, even in elementary school, and for the life of her, she could not understand why Black people, often quoted in newspapers discussing Black youth, considered one-hundred-dollar basketball shoes expensive.
Why couldn’t she feel the dissatisfaction, resentment, or frustration expressed by so many African-Americans, including ones she interviewed who accepted Islam? Years ago she would have attributed their views to the inordinate amount of time they spent complaining as opposed to doing something about the problem. Why complain? Just work. Hard work pays off, even if you do have to work twice or even ten times as hard as Whites.
Were her sentiments evidence of racism itself? She had grown up around people who had the privilege to enjoy an existence in which race was of little consequence. Whites had not been plagued with racism, so why would her academic background reflect anything but that? Where would she have learned the true depths of racism that still pumped through the nation’s veins?
Alika’s mother was a victim of intra-racial colorism, and her father was too busy juggling two families on opposite sides of the Atlantic. When would they have talked to her about the issue? She was a senior in high school before she even learned what Alex Haley’s “Roots” really was, and that had been from a White friend who had seen the TV version and wanted to discuss it with her. She had been too embarrassed to ask what it was about, and it wasn’t until college that she saw the film and read the book herself. Malcolm X was also foreign to her, except that his face was on T-shirts and his “X” on the caps of angry Black youth. And that’s just how she thought of them. The only balanced, sensible leader in Black history had been Martin Luther King, Jr., whom she learned about during Black History Month in her school.
But why were her images of African-American history distorted like this? Was there something unnatural about it, or was it logical given her upbringing, which focused little on race at all?
Talking to Nusaybah inspired a new question altogether. Would she now, as a Muslim, be suddenly thrust into a world of racism that she successfully avoided as a non-Muslim? Was the ugliness of racism—like the embracing of polygamy—an issue that a Muslim felt obligated to acknowledge by her tongue, while her heart recoiled at the thought of addressing it head-on?
Fatigue overwhelmed Alika, and she wanted nothing more than to take a nap right then. This was too much to think about, especially as her personal life was draining her too. She had tried to put the prospect of marrying Ismael out of her mind, but it was no use. She hadn’t heard from him since the meeting at the imam’s house, so she had no idea where their relationship stood, or if it stood at all.
Good sense, and pride, kept her from dialing Ismael’s cell phone for a direct answer. If her wali deemed it time to cut off talking, then that’s what she would do. Besides, this break was turning out to be a breather. She actually needed the time and space to think things over. And there was certainly no rush to get married. Of course, she would, tomorrow, if it came to that. It was clear that she had no room to saunter in her thoughts if they were going to marry. There was no dating in Islam, and frankly, she liked it like that. Dating, she had always thought, was a dangerous game. Signing a paper to be husband and wife was much less risky than indulging in the, literally, life-threatening lifestyle of intimacy with whoever was your boyfriend this year, or month.
As she pulled into the parking lot of her condominium community, she felt optimistic and was grateful to have attended Nusaybah’s class. She had been feeling down about the whole polygamy idea, and she had even begun to feel guilty for agreeing to marry a married man. And that feeling was foreign to her. She didn’t even think her father was wrong to marry her Nigerian stepmother, and it struck her as ironic that she would have the feeling of guilt as a Muslim.
Hearing Nusaybah explain the life of this world put everything into focus, and Alika was at peace with her decision, knowing that Allah was not displeased. In the end, that was all that mattered to her, was all that mattered at all. Of course, she was human, not to mention her mother’s daughter, so there was a tinge of sympathy she felt for Sarah. However, it was not long-lived, because honestly, she had so much to consider for herself. It was Allah, not Alika, who made it permissible for a man to marry up to four women, so why should she feel guilt at all? It struck her suddenly that those who blamed the “other woman” coming in were in actuality struggling with accepting what Allah had revealed. The thought scared her, and she hoped, even if she were never to marry Ismael, that she would never struggle with anything in Allah’s Book. The one thing she feared most was losing out on the only good this life could bring—dying as a believer in Allah and His Messenger.
Chapter Eleven
Early Monday afternoon Tamika sat on the floor of her bedroom after praying Thuhr, her mind still on Dee as the power of Nusaybah’s class still settled over her. She could not comprehend the possibility of a person who had been raised Muslim, who had known Islam all her life, leaving the religion. Was it ignorance? Maybe Dee didn’t know the things Tamika was learning in class. That would explain her ability to leave Islam.
Since becoming Muslim, Tamika had often wondered if Dee had, in fact, died a Muslim. But she had re
cently given up on the thought, which was more a fantasy she had created in her mind. Perhaps, someone like Aminah could fantasize, but Tamika could not. Dee had told Tamika, frankly, she did not want to be a Muslim. Maybe sometime in the future after she married, but not right then.
It was a conscious apostasy, Tamika came to accept, however hard that realization had been. Strangely, the more she learned about Islam, the less admirable Dee became in her mind. Part of her felt guilty, but Tamika realized it was the natural result of gaining knowledge in her religion. Nevertheless, a part of her still ached for Dee. After all, Dee was fun to be around, and she was generous in a way Tamika had rarely seen. But even Dee’s stunning beauty and entrancing voice were fading in significance, and Tamika wondered if this was a divine poetic justice because of the life Dee had chosen over Islam.
Tamika stood, pulling the white khimaar from her head and stepping out of the skirt to reveal her T-shirt and jeans, and bare feet. She felt her heart thumping in her chest as she opened the walk-in closet and knelt, almost mechanically, and pulled open the tattered flaps of the cardboard box Sulayman had pushed to the side so that they would not trip over it while getting their clothes.
“Don’t worry about unpacking it,” he had told Tamika so nonchalantly that she never expected that he actually hoped she never would. “I’ll get to it later, inshaAllaah.”
In hopes of lessening the burden that work, school, and marriage had undoubtedly placed on his shoulders, Tamika had been mindlessly unpacking it three weeks ago when she noticed the familiar purple cloth cover she had seen dozens of times in the hands of Dee. When she opened the diary, it was an instinctive reaction, more to assure her that Sulayman and Dee simply shared the same taste in journals than to read Dee’s inscription in the front. “This journal belongs to: Durrah Gonzalez, A.K.A. Dee,” she had read as she felt almost faint realizing what she held in her hand.
