by Ayesha Mattu
I call back another minute later, and my sister answered the phone with a kind of elongated hey, stretched out extra long in that I-know-what-you-did-last-night kind of tone. I cursed at her immediately in a half-playful, half-sororicidal fashion, demanding truth and explanations.
The taqueria. They met in line. We had just talked about this specific taqueria, the night before—how I love it, how Sofiya loves it, how the whole fam loves it—did I put it in her head?
“Your friend happens to know Samir—they went to Al-Ummah together, in ’96.”
I was beyond belief. Zarah knew this, and I sensed she was graciously holding back her pleasure at my suffering. Isma’ili summer camp? Upstate New York? Fifteen years ago?
“What’s the damage?”
“Me, Samir—Pops was there, too. Don’t worry, we’ve already agreed not to tell Mom.”
She read my mind. This was bad enough. Definitely can’t tell Ma. Things were already turning for the worse. Telling Ma would introduce a wild card into an already fragile situation. The explosive potential energy of mentioning The Fabled Isma’ili Chokri could very well blow this whole thing apart.
On the phone with my sister still, the call-waiting screen popped up, reading SOFIYA. I took a deep breath, but not deep enough, and inadvertently answered with that same stupid hey my sister had just used.
Cosmic Kismet
So it’s not as bad I think: Zarah and Pops kept it cool, and apparently Samir, in a rare case of animation—brought on, perhaps, by fond camp memories—was a bit charming himself. The worst of it is in my head, as the soul search for The Meaning of All This commences: is this a simple coincidence? A cute cosmic joke? Foul play, or maybe conspiracy? More than anything, where can I find some privacy in the -ism? Is that even possible, or else, the point? I feel an acute sense of dread: the shrinking space of my formerly independent potential love-interest-type situation.
The coup de grâce à la Paola, of course, would become the-end-as-we-know-it of this hapless love, but it was truly the irony of Ma’s sense of spiritual-religious responsibility that set everything in motion toward an irrevocable end: a mundane Sunday closet-cleaning, a phone number found, remembrance of a promise, and a love-shattering phone call.
I imagine it sounded something like this:
“Hello, is this Sofiya? Ya Ali madad, darling, my name is Shamim Aunty, from Alameda jamat khana. How are you doing? . . . Good, beta. Well, Sofiya honey, I met your mother a few months ago . . . Yes, right, when she was visiting. She gave me your number and I’ve just now found it . . . I know, funny . . . Well, she said that you might need a reminder every now and again to come to jamat khana, and I promised her I would call you, so darling, you should really try to make it some Friday . . . Mmhmm, yes, I know . . . mmhmm . . . of course. You live where? Oh perfect! My son lives in Oakland, he has a car, his name is—”
Again, SOFIYA—a text this time—which reads, thirty-six hours after Friday night: I think your mother just called me.
Bapa’s Chai
Navroz always packs the house—a fire hazard of a Persian New Year celebration, where 130 murids squeeze into the tiny office-park-cum-masjid, capacity 70. I know she’ll be there, and I consider joining Samir in the parking lot to sit this one out. We hadn’t spoken in weeks, vis-à-vis my precipitous drop off the planet. Just thinking about the bullshit sincerity of the clichéd excuse—I’m just not in that place right now, or You’re just too good, or the immortal I don’t want to get attached—was making me sick with anxiety. To lie so unabashedly, and to cloak it in earnestness: it seems almost sacrilegious to wield such dunya banalities in a place so expressly concerned with cultivating a healthy sense of deen.
She’s standing right by Bapa’s percolator, and moving in this time elicits no familial Avalanche (their absence most likely spurred by a fiery tirade at the dinner table on the topic of “Minding One’s Own Business,” by Yours Truly). We get some air outside, the steam of our chais rising from Styrofoam cups into the cool March night. Behind the strained, excruciatingly robotic small talk, Sofiya’s eyes are calling: So are you going to say it, or am I?
I want to say it all, I want to paint a picture of my mental landscape so vivid that it would surely rescue me from my current (presumed) status as Another Asshole Who Didn’t Call. I want to tell her about how I can’t deal with the ways in which the -ism looms so large. That I want to stand up from prostration and speak directly into the big, scary face of Tradition, and say, Hey, bow toward me a little bit, like I bow toward you! Just give me some room, and I’ll do this my way, and I’ll do it with good heart and a right mind, like you taught me! But is this really a conversation to have with an institution? Or is it a really about my mother? As in Ma, I love you, but I’m a grown-ass man and you can’t play a major part in my love life, albeit by utter cosmic accident.
So I don’t: I don’t say any of it. My heart and mind go cold like this chai in my hands, and I spout off some spurious excuse-for-an-excuse that impresses no one and leaves both of us feeling ashamed and sad.
I slink back through the front door of the office-park-cum-masjid, into the warmth of bodies created by endless uncles and aunties standing too close to one another; into the warmth of knowing that Ma and Pops and Zarah and Samir—abashed and perhaps afraid of me for tonight—linger somewhere out of my line of sight; into the warmth of Bapa’s gaze, who signals to me, sticks his finger into my cold chai, shoots me an indignant glance before he dumps it out, and pours me a hot, fresh cup.
Who I Needed to Be
By Yusef Ramelize
The day I lost my virginity it was hot and humid. The inside of the one-bedroom, fourth-floor apartment felt like a sauna. It was dark and my face was wet with sweat as she began kissing places that hadn’t been kissed before. I could taste the sweat on her neck when I kissed her back. The salty taste made me want to throw up. I hesitated, but then continued, curiosity and desire surpassing my wanting to stop. She took a condom out of her dress pocket. I could tell she was experienced and was surprised by how much she wanted me.
We met at the beauty salon where I had my first full-time job, as a barber. The salon was located in a rough part of Brooklyn, New York. I was just out of high school and she was the twenty-one-year-old aunt of one of my regular clients, a seven-year-old boy. She was always well dressed and seemed kind and friendly in our brief conversations. In addition to our usual pleasantries, she made flirtatious comments hinting at her interest.
“Yusef, you have such nice eyes!” she’d say as I smiled bashfully. “I love our conversations, we should hang out sometime.”
A few weeks later, I took her up on her offer and invited her over to my mother’s apartment after my mother left for work. After only a few minutes and sentences we ended up on the kitchen floor.
My pants were around my ankles. I was curious and felt I had gone too far to stop. Each breath she took was long and passionate. She bit me on my neck and my ear. Then, in a flash, it was all over. I froze. She was talking to me, but everything sounded garbled and distant. It hit me. I had lost my virginity.
I was completely overcome with guilt and shame. I pushed away from her and ran into the bathroom. I went to the sink to make wudu and immediately dropped to my knees in prostration, begging God for forgiveness. “Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim,” I said. I recited every prayer I knew, bowing, prostrating with my hands raised toward the sky. When I glanced back, I saw an extremely confused look on her face. She put on her clothes without saying a word and walked out. That was the last time I ever saw her. I had neglected to tell her two things: I was a virgin and I was a Muslim.
I hadn’t thought those two things would matter. But losing my virginity to someone I didn’t love and to whom I wasn’t married made me feel empty. That day, I realized how deep my faith ran and glimpsed the importance of love before intimacy.
Growing up, there weren’t a lot of conversations about love or sex in my household. My family shaped my first messa
ges about love during my childhood, and my father had the biggest influence on me.
When I was younger, I wanted my father to show me affection to prove that he cared for me. I don’t remember him ever giving me a hug. I don’t remember him telling me that he loved me. He owned several businesses, and worked a lot, so we rarely spent time together. What I remember of our time together is mainly beatings, punishments, and fear.
One of my most painful memories occurred when I was seven. My father was extremely upset after my sibling accused me of doing something I hadn’t done. He burst into the bathroom while I was taking a bath.
“How many times have I told you not to come into my bedroom without asking!” he shouted.
“I didn’t, Abu! I wasn’t in your room.” I cried.
He was furious. Every time I declared my innocence it made him even angrier. He dragged me out of the bathtub by my hands. The water dripped from my skin, leaving a sudsy trail down the hallway. I was screaming, trying to get loose, but my father’s grip was too strong to break. He dragged me into his bedroom and grabbed the nearest belt. There was never a shortage of belts around the house, as much as I tried to hide them. He held me up in the air with one hand and beat me until his arm was tired.
Then there was the emotional neglect. It made me feel like I was invisible to my father and, eventually, to everyone else around me. Nothing I did mattered or could make a difference. I was angry, full of hatred, and emotionally detached. Because I thought my father didn’t love me, it was hard for me to love him.
My father died of prostate cancer in 1992, when I was fourteen. In his last few hours on earth I didn’t stay by his bedside to say a prayer. I didn’t hold his hand before his last breath. Instead, I was in the next room wishing he had shown me the love I’d always wanted. I couldn’t let go of the pain of having a father who didn’t love me even while he grasped for life.
Grieving friends and relatives traveled from all over to say their final good-byes at my father’s funeral. Yet, as one of his three sons, I just couldn’t find the love in my heart to fully mourn. Tears filled everyone’s eyes around me, but I couldn’t let go of all the hurt inside.
After my father died, I moved from Trinidad to Brooklyn, to live with my mother. It wasn’t until I was sixteen—two years after my father passed away—that his death hit me. I dreamt I was running from someone, but I couldn’t see his face. My heart was pounding. The faster I ran, the faster the person behind me ran. Just when I thought I had gotten away, the road ended and I fell off a steep cliff. As I went over the edge, someone grabbed my hand and pulled me back up onto steady ground. At first I couldn’t see the person’s face, but as he pulled me closer, I saw that it was my father.
I woke up in a cold sweat. The grief finally hit. I started crying that morning and didn’t stop until sunset. My eyes were bloodshot and I ended up missing the whole day of school.
When my mom came home from work, I told her about the dream. This wasn’t the first time we had spoken about my relationship with my father, but speaking with her that day helped me to understand things about Abu that before that moment I hadn’t been ready to accept.
“Sometimes a father’s love goes way beyond the words and the things that his children might see,” my mom said with tears in her eyes. “Everyone has a different way of expressing love. Of course, some ways are healthier than others, but sometimes parents repeat what they learned from their life experiences and struggles. That doesn’t mean that your father didn’t love you.”
I thought deeply about all the things my mom said, the things my father did and didn’t do, who he was and who he wasn’t. It helped me to realize that though my father hadn’t loved me the way I wanted him to, he had loved me in the best way he could. I couldn’t condone all he had done, but I decided to let go of the fear and pain that had held me back for so long.
By accepting my father, I began my journey toward understanding love. In order to satisfy my curiosity about women, sex, and love, I had turned to TV, movies, magazines, and videos. But these things had given me an incomplete view of love. After I lost my virginity on that kitchen floor, I didn’t feel satisfied, enlightened, or loved. There was something missing. I realized that my life was full of fear—fear of failing, of not being good enough, and of not being worthy of love. I questioned everything, how I talked, looked, even how I stood. This insecurity affected most of my romantic relationships. I had asked myself why women didn’t love me but never once questioned why I didn’t love myself.
This realization was a turning point for me. I needed to clear my own path toward a relationship and toward Islam. My biggest challenge in my relationships with women was the contradictory expectations I had of them. This was most true in the area of religion, where I wanted Muslim women at times to behave like non-Muslims and was disappointed when non-Muslim women didn’t behave like Muslims. I needed to shift my focus, and started by asking myself, Who do I need to be in order to meet and attract the person that I’m looking for?
As a first step, I knew I had to improve my practice of Islam. I began by seeking a community where I could build a network of Muslim friends who could help me progress with my deen. Although I attended Jumma regularly, and had bounced around to different mosques, I had never found a community where I felt comfortable. One Ramadan, while attending Friday prayers, a friend reminded me about the importance of the last ten days of the holy month. He suggested that I attend tarawih at the Islamic center on Ninety-Sixth Street in Manhattan. So on the twenty-seventh night, I stood in prayer from dusk until dawn.
Even though we had prayed all through the night until the morning prayer, I wasn’t tired. This was the first time I had experienced something so exhilarating and transporting. I felt so connected to God and grateful for what He had provided. The sun had just risen and it was time to head home. While I was waiting for the train, I saw a group of Muslims on the platform who had also just come from the mosque. We entered the same subway car and I joined their conversation. They were members of the Islamic center at New York University, and they introduced me to the community I had been searching for, one that was accepting, compassionate, and understanding. They opened their doors to me when I needed it most and created a learning environment for everyone regardless of their degree of religious practice. This was a space in which I knew I could grow.
Eventually, with a new outlook, new connection with God, and new community to support me, I finally felt ready to find my mate. Now, in my late twenties, I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend or something merely sexual. I was ready for marriage and wanted to connect with someone who was Muslim and wanted the same. Meeting my wife, then, wasn’t just a matter of time or circumstance; it was a part of process that had begun when I was a teenager.
I met Samira on a Facebook group page called the African American Muslim Marriage Connection. A Muslim couple had started the page in hopes of connecting Muslims who were seriously looking for a partner. After a couple of months and a few failed connections, I saw a picture of a young hijabi with a gorgeous smile. She seemed happy, pleasant, and approachable. We shared similar backgrounds: both of us were African Americans from big New York families, were raised Muslim, and enjoyed Caribbean music and dancing.
What gave me major pause was that even though she was originally from nearby Harlem, she was living in Muscat, Oman. I was living in Queens, and there was an eight-hour time difference and more than seven thousand miles between us. My previous experiences with long-distance relationships had been bad and I’d vowed never again to consider someone who wasn’t in the same area as me. But something about her smile finally made me reach out.
I “friended” her and sent a simple message introducing myself. We started with short e-mails, which eventually turned into really long e-mails. After some time we started Skyping. Our connection was unlike any I’d experienced before. She had all the qualities that I’d mentally listed as desirable in a spouse, down to the little, silly things. Our conve
rsations felt so natural, like I could tell her anything—and I did! To work around the time difference, I would get up at fajr and be with her all morning while she finished praying isha and wound down her day. We would often watch each other fall asleep on Skype, not wanting to miss a second of each other’s lives.
After a few months of sleepless nights and daily communications, she told me she was returning to New York for her sister’s wedding. I took that week off from work so that I could be available whenever she had a free moment. When I received the text that she’d arrived, I was overwhelmed with excitement and nerves.
After months of talking on the phone I was going to finally meet the woman who had captured my heart from seven thousand miles away. I had everything planned: a lovely brunch at Sugar Cane—one of my favorite Caribbean restaurants—in Park Slope, a romantic stroll in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, followed by a trip to Max Brenner, one of the best chocolate spots in Manhattan. As I was parking I got her text, “I’m here :).” This was it.
I crossed the street to the restaurant and saw her waiting in front. All I could think about was how I wanted to hug her and not let go, but I wanted to make a good, halal first impression. So I greeted her and let her make the first move. She gave me a quick hug and we stared at each other for a few seconds, both in awe of seeing the other in person.
Unfortunately, the restaurant was closed. I started to panic a little, but suggested that we walk to another restaurant two blocks away. I was so enraptured that I took us in the wrong direction. Six blocks later, she pointed to an Italian bistro with nice outdoor seating: “Is that the restaurant you were talking about it?”
I had no idea where I was.
“Yup, that’s it!” I said, relieved that I didn’t have to admit I was lost.