between faiths

I don't like the word convert. It sounds so...electrical. As if it were a matter of being plugged into a different socket.

[betweenfaiths-blog]

I'm starting to realize, as Ramadan approaches, that I am not going to make some sort of private transformation which will allow me to enter into a new faith community without a bump or a hitch. I need to come out of the shadows in order for any transformation (subtle or otherwise) to take place. Yes, I can read and study and even pray on my own (though I think even that experience is limited; there is an element to prayer that reminds me of dance/choir, the need to learn from and in proximity to other bodies/voices), but I cannot become Muslim (in the sense of a lived practice) completely on my own, and I cannot rely on faraway friends and even the few friends in the same city (who have their own schedules and circuits to maintain) to babysit me, especially when I have access to what is hopefully a somewhat inclusive community, right at my own place of work.

At some point this month, maybe even next week (more likely: the week after next), I need to take that first baby step and introduce myself to the Imam and at least find out what this community is like. If for some reason it is awful or not right for me, that's okay, but I need to start somewhere. It's not going to become better or worse the longer I wait to explore it. Most importantly, I want to have at least a little time to settle in before Ramadan begins...which means every day I say "not yet," is a day lost, whatever mental or spiritual preparation I may be making on my own. Community matters, especially now.

All that said, I am terrified. What if someone makes a comment about my clothes? What if people don't believe I am sincere? What if, what if, what if? I am prone to anxiety anyway - specifically social anxiety - and this will be me at my most vulnerable, exposing myself to a group of strangers who may or may not approach me with compassion or understanding, who will have their own concerns (and possibly even suspicions), who I will have to continue to see, no matter my initial impression, if I want to be a part of these spaces. Scary stuff.

I think these days the quality I need to pray for is courage. Courage, and trust.

And maybe a little memory - in college I was always a part of Islamic Society events, most of my friends were in the Islamic Society (that's what it was called on our campus), and these were the friends I was most comfortable with. Of course, there were people in the group with whom I disagreed, but they didn't define the space. This was a much smaller community of course, with no official Imam,  so it is likely to be a much different environment, but still: I should remember that there is a reason that I got to this point...it was a community (however rag-tag, scattered, and strange) that led me here. Now it is time to find a community of my own.

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Does anyone know where to find resources for new Muslims that include the Arabic script? I've studied and spoken Arabic for several years at this point, and because I also work frequently with a standardized transliteration system that includes diacritical marks, I find it very, very distracting (and beyond frustrating) to read haphazard transliterations rather than the original Arabic text. I feel like I am reading some sort of bizarre misspelled text and then have to guess/work my way back to what the Arabic might have been. Not very pleasant!

The resources I am thinking of are: guides to du'a, hadith, and guides to memorizing common suras to be recited during salah, though if you can think of other resources that would be helpful, I am all ears! I'd like to find either websites or actual books, rather than smartphone apps (though those are nice, too) because I already spend way too much time hunched over a tiny screen. :-/

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I want to make a joke here. Is that okay? Or is this a strictly serious space? Here it is- I keep getting ads for Christian singles, "meet a man who will honor you and God," and I have to laugh, who says all this focused advertising is working? Gmail knows I am a minister's daughter, but doesn't know my mother is the minister, doesn't know that, two years ago, when she sensed I was thinking this stuff over, told me a story about an old friend who converted to Islam, who seemed happy and peaceful and had beautiful children. So what if she told me this story because she really liked M, wants to be a grandmother, and always gives me the opposite of strong-independent-woman advice. I still needed that story, not then, but now. Ah, but yes, the joke, the funny thing! Well, I have to say the mysterious Facebook potential-wife-prowlers are much better at mining data than these advertisers, because I've been getting "Dear Sister," messages on Facebook since before I even realized I was heading toward conversion. Touché, "brothers," you got me. Still not going to answer any of you.

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I keep thinking back to this interview I did in the beginning of 2011 (I’m sure the date is in my notes), with a woman who had become Muslim several years prior and described her conversion as realizing that she “was already Muslim.” I think this phrase has been poking at me ever since then, and I’ve written more than one journal entry puzzling it out.

At the time I was annoyed, I remember even feeling somehow threatened by this statement because it seemed to follow that if she - this woman who (at that time) had almost no prior exposure to Islam, who could not even begin to read the Qur’an in Arabic, who had no lived experience of the Islamic calendar, its holidays, who had not sat and lived and breathed and ate and talked and existed among Muslims long enough to see and feel the many things this faith is and can be in practice, in life…if she was already Muslim then, then what was I?

I who had already had to explain a few times to people that I was not Muslim. I who had not missed an Eid in 5 years, who felt time differently in Ramadan, who existed somehow most comfortably in a world of friends who excused themselves politely to pray, who came back looking refreshed. Who felt a calm come over me, too, when I was present. Who regularly imagined what I would change and what I would not “if” I converted. Who felt it necessary to list reasons not to convert. Who reminded myself what kind of reactions I could expect from certain family, certain friends.

Perhaps it was not only M’s anxieties over religion that came into play that year, but my own. I was not ready to convert or rather not ready to see myself as Muslim, and yet I kept knocking into things that challenged me, asking, well, what are you then?

I tried to go to church and managed to go somewhat regularly. I found meaning in it (and familiarity, the songs of childhood), but it was a meaning without a future. When I saw families gathering at the front if the church to become members, to baptize their children- I knew I would never do the same. I knew I would only ever be passing through, and also knew that when this is true for a Christian you are always unsettled and uncertain, because the church is the center.

Well, and eventually the running gave way to seeking and searching and the seeking and searching gave way to walking and somewhere in that space was the answer, yes, you are, you have been for some time now, “already Muslim.” Maybe first it reached me intellectually, then spiritually (or was it the other way around? I remember, still, the moment of reading that God created you from a blood clot, taught man what he knew not, the way the English rhyme lodged in my gut), and now this phase is recognition, consciousness, followed by embodiment. Practice.

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I am surrounding myself with required reading these days, but I don’t feel overwhelmed. I’m comforted, somehow, to know there is such a community of books, of words. Asma Barlas. Lesley Hazleton. Tarif Khalidi. Others, too. At the same time: feminist theory. It goes hand in hand.

I’ve moved the books I want to be permanent companions onto my public Anazon wish list- a gentle hint to family who go looking there. Not an announcement. No announcements, or not yet.

On Monday I saw my friend, the one I mentioned here. Telling her was somehow more momentous than the conversations I had with two other close friends (one Muslim, one Christian). It feels official. I don’t know if I will answer the question, “Are you Muslim?” with an outright yes. I think I will answer it with a smile that means yes, an involuntary smile.

* * * That said, my period has just started again and so I am delving into these auxiliary texts, or I will be now that the first agonizing day is over and my brain is somewhat functional despite the heat. There is something special about this rhythm of prayer and retreat from prayer, though I also think, ah, I was just getting used to the first rhythm. Maybe I will try to wake up early, carve out a ritualized time for these other readings.

It is so hot already- I wonder how I will manage in Ramadan. I have to make sure to address these long-neglected health issues first (I am only recently insured), but I hope I am able to fast anyway and that it is not such a rough first experience that it becomes a negative one. I hope that I will eat with friends more often than I eat alone, and that the meals I make alone will also hold meaning. I hope it will all be a part of this ‘beginning a process of becoming.’

I must remember to be patient with myself above all and to trust.

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I have been quiet here since that lost post, a plea, a prayer. The morning afterward I woke up with the strength I needed. Wiped that slate clean, said the no I needed to say. Rescued, really. It was a prayer answered immediately, completely. A blessing to feel that cared-for, that clear. In the wake of some family-related sadnesses I had retreated into myself, a dull fog of pain. Still reaching this way for strength but uncertain I could begin a new path in this state. Things are improving and I remind myself that I don't have to wait to be perfect, I don't have to wait to be anything 'first.' This is about beginning a process of becoming. At the same time: remember to take one step at a time. Do not take on extra guilt. Train the body and mind in new rhythms, don't call the gaps in your efforts sins. Look for guidance, support, and encouragement, not punishment, I looked up prayer spaces where I work (I work at a university) and found contact information for the imam. I'm hesitant to jump into a new community, to put myself in front of unpredictable reactions, skepticisms. But I am reaching toward a future (near, I hope) where I will feel able to enter these spaces with calm. Prepared to be gracious with those skeptical and suspicious of me, warm and receptive to others. Kind and firm in receiving/turning away self-appointed advisors. I think one danger for converts is getting so many strains of advice that it becomes overwhelming, or accepting and applying advice before developing an independent understanding of the matter in question. It's not that I believe I am above guidance or that I will never seek guidance (I do, all the time, through reading, prayer, and friends I've come to know as wise); just that I am wary. At the same time, there is a low rumbling of excitement: my first (real) Ramadan. I want to prepare myself, not only my heart but practical matters, like finding people nearby to share Iftar with. This week I should see my convert-friend. I hope we will be able to talk it through.

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There are these moments when I realize the terrifying extent of my own weakness. I feel I am staring into a bottomless pit full of all the awful things I have allowed to happen to myself, the times I have known what I did not want and accepted it anyway, how I know what I am worth but give myself away to people who can't even see who I am. Prayer, prayer, prayer. I never want to say to friends: I need you. I don't remember the last time I said this to my mother, even in acts or gestures, my stepmother but only in part, and always knowing that it is a dangerous bargain. That there is a cost. But I do, I do, I need! I have books, yes, and prayer and art and music, but I need these friends, I need to know not not only that people love me but that they are here. It's always when I forget that that I betray myself in some way.

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Thunder outside.

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Often, when someone is telling me about something that is Sunnah, it also sounds like a practice of self-care. Clean your bed before sleeping in it. Smile.

I can become overwhelmed, easily, by lists and tasks, and it is possible this is a clinical issue, but it is also soothing, when I am able, to do these things. Even to think of them, not as admonishments, not as missed stops on a to-do list, but gentle nudges toward love…for the self, for others, for God. A sense that all of these are intertwined and interdependent.

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This weekend I stay inside, read all night and all day. I read Maya Angelou’s The Heart of a Woman, and today I am reading Lesley Hazleton’s biography of Muhammad, The First Muslim. These are things I need to read.

I relate, somehow, to orphans, though the weight of a broken, toxic family is different, there is also the weightlessness of unbelonging. Of never knowing when you will be a child and when you will be a stranger.

My brother is back from the West Coast, trying to learn how to live with a depression part-inherited, part-imposed, without becoming either of these specters: his parents.

I think sometimes- my siblings each come from one broken, uprooted family. I come from two. Fled from one to the other, from danger to danger. I wonder- I think it is a kind of miracle- how I have grown up open hearted, able to love. And yet I know there is a lot in me, still, that is broken, fearful, expecting judgment and criticism at every turn. I withdraw often, I wonder if I will love this most: my room, my own room, my bed, my books. Maybe that would be okay? I am not sure. I’ve always wanted more than that.

I learned something this weekend that my sister never told me, that there was a summer when her mother (my stepmother), held a knife over her. Her own daughter: legs already long, hard from years of dance (ballet, tap, jazz) face still round, even chubby. Not yet thirteen. A child.

I bristle at the slogans, “love your mothers,” the admonishments to understand, to have patience. This is what others told us when we tried to say our home was not safe. It always became the story of an ungrateful child.

There are often campaigns encouraging children to speak up, to ask for help. But children do speak up, they ask for help, they tell the truth of their lives, and adults simply tell them that they know better.

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Assalaamu a'laykum! I just read your question about finding different type fonts and designs of the Qur'an. Have you thought about going into a masjid/mosque? Or an Islamic bookshop? My heart always flutters when I come across a collection of different Qur'ans. I know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover but beauty is beauty! =) If going to the mosque or a book shop seems too public a statement at the moment it's completely understandable. Hope you're doing amazing!

Wa'alaykum as-salaam! Thank you so much, first, for the kind wishes & understanding. You've hit the nail on the head about public statements- I'm not sure I'm ready for that step yet, but, all in due time, God willing. There is this element of vulnerability that comes with stepping into a space like an Islamic bookstore or a masjid and making your seeking obvious. I'm not sure how to navigate that yet. It could be that I am being cautious to the point of paranoia, of course. Because I speak Arabic, have lived in Egypt, and already spend a lot of time in majority-Muslim circles (or: have spent, I'm not especially social with groups lately, much more with individuals), I've already had several encounters with a) the pushy convince-you-to-convert type b) the assumes he/she is the first person to talk to you about Islam type and c) the skips everything else and starts talking to you about hijab type. Not to mention the people I sort of let into my inner sanctum when I first explicitly discussed converting over a year ago, who were often not what I would call supportive, this including the converts among them. I think it is hard for a lot of people to envision this as anything other than a drastic change, which scares them. And although it is definitely a change, and a significant one, it's not- this is not the story of someone who came to rock bottom and was 'saved,' it's something that has been growing for a long time and is already evident in a lot of small ways. I was thinking about the idea of converting long before I even admitted to myself that it was a serious question. I don't want my early days to be filled with defensiveness, so I have been trying to be very strategic in the steps I take. I do have one friend who is a convert and also happens to be my art-museum/gallery-ogling buddy, a graphic novel-lover, and fellow bibliophile, so I'm planning to bring this up when I tell her. :-) Which I think will be very soon, God willing. I actually get this flutter of excitement when I think of experiencing Ramadan as a Muslim this year...I think it's why I never did the fast-to-see-what-it's-like thing. It always seemed too casual, and how can you do something like that casually?

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Question I don’t know who to ask:

Where to find copies of the Qur’an (Arabic) with more varied designs, even type-face? Everything I find at a glance seems to be that same heavy green, dark blue. I think of so many beautiful mosques, tiles (yellows, blues), Islamic art, calligraphy, there must be a Qur’an with a cover, a type-face that speaks to me in that way.

Design matters. Craft matters. Presentation matters. Think about how some adhans reach you better, deeper than others. There is an aesthetic that finds you and an aesthetic that turns you away. Not the same for everyone.

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It's decided: I'm done with the Kamran Pasha book. If I go back it will be out of a compulsive need to finish reading every book I start. Too many physical descriptions, the Prophet (pbuh) described as fair, fair, pale-skinned- no. Aisha describing her own physical beauty, even as a child, the slim waists of other women, and always, constantly berating herself. I will come back for an Aisha historical novel when it is written by a woman, and one who has done her research. Instead: Lesley Hazleton's The First Muslim. I read the first page and felt relief: much better.

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I’m a bit torn right now. I don’t want to come into this faith (in a more public way), with such a heavy heart, and so I feel the need to keep the change to myself for a while, not only to protect but to prepare and to calm myself. But I find that not having taken official steps also becomes a kind of an excuse, or even an obstacle, because you cannot excuse yourself to perform prayers you don’t want others to know you are performing.

I do think I will take maybe a week more of contemplation, prayer, reading and reflecting. It’s not just out of vanity (or some lingering association between religious conviction and happiness). I have experienced, already, suspicion that a conversion is not being undertaken for the right reasons. I think if I present myself, heavy with this broken heart, that could happen again and I don’t feel equipped to deal with that.

What is interesting to me is that a year ago, I myself was concerned that it was a broken heart leading me to Islam, and only in an attempt to reach the lost love. But now, broken hearted again, I know. I know it’s my own heart, broken, healed, or mending, that has been led this way, that has had this faith growing inside all along.

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I am reading Kamran Pasha’s novel about Aisha, Mother of the Believers, now and am not sure how I feel about it. I heard a long interview with him several months ago and decided to get the book after that. The prose doesn’t grab me, but I still feel it is or can be an entry point..a way to bring stories into my blood. I think of all the Bible stories I heard, read, and sang growing up. Consumed in so many different ways. I like this idea of absorbing, of trying to catch up by absorbing the same stories in different styles, voices, media, and from different perspectives. But I don’t love it as a book, which is regrettable, and it is long.

Before this, I read Isabelle Eberhardt’s In the Warm Shadow of Islam in its English translation (which drops the “Warm” from the title). It is a special, compelling text and yet it is also punctuated and permeated by these unabashedly -racist doesn’t even seem to do justice to it- dehumanizing, disdainful descriptions of the black Africans she encounters, and even the Jewish people of the area. So again, I don’t know. This book (minus those parts) is more beautiful, more enriching than the newer title, but there is literally poison in it, and that seems to cancel the rest out, or almost.

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There has been so much hurt in just these past few days, and at the same time these strong intimations of peace. My stomach keeps flip-flopping in confusion. I’ve been very concerned with keeping myself busy in the past week, with not wallowing. But now I feel a need to claim some time and fill it with slowness, even laziness. Not to wallow in pain but to take myself back, and even to let some of these memories wash over me, without clinging to them or fighting them off.

I don’t know if it’s possible for me to do this, but I do feel it is a day for withdrawing, for remaking my private space, for taking rest now that rest is possible.

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I find myself thinking, again, about names. I have never met anyone else with my name, and that has made me fiercely possessive of it. It has also changed my name from a symbol or a word to my identity, myself. My friends sometimes use my name as an adjective to describe actions, behaviors, turns of phrase that are particular to me. Loving and losing men with very common names has made me consider the possible humility that comes of having a name you know has been attached to many other faces. I've been grateful, on one hand, to find the sting of a name less painful when I see it, everywhere. And on the other hand I have been pained to hear the name of the lost love everywhere around me, a frequent reminder. I wonder if any of them have heard my name again, and if they had, what it stirred in them. I sometimes think I would prefer for my daughter not to have the humility of a common name. Maybe it is especially good and important for a woman to be the only owner of her name, to tell others how to say it and to decide who is allowed to abbreviate it and when, to learn how to defend it. And maybe it is especially important for men to have this humility, to know they are one of many. I don't know. I'm a long way away from having children anyway, though if I ever find myself rushing into marriage it will be for this reason. I am sometimes confronted with waves of deep sadness when I consider how far I am from this possibility- motherhood. Half my mourning for A. is the mourning of our hypothetical children, a wish he expressed early on. It is such a shame he turned out to be so much less than I saw in him; I was nursing that wish as if it were itself a child.