by Ayesha Mattu
When I wasn’t watching TV, I daydreamed. Often, I’d wonder what it would be like to be a grown-up like my father. Being a grown man meant having a job, being married, and raising a family. Sometimes, I imagined being married to Wonder Woman. I later learned that Wonder Woman was really an actress named Lynda Carter. So, I then imagined I’d marry Lynda Carter. But she was over twenty years older than me. If I couldn’t marry Lynda Carter, I imagined the next best thing: I’d marry a woman like her. I’d marry a white woman.
This was easier said than done. In Islamic Sunday school, the uncles and aunties were teaching me to be a good, practicing Muslim. I learned about the life of the Prophet and the lives of the Sahabah, about fiqh and shariah. They told me that Muslims weren’t supposed to date as they do in the West, that sex was for after marriage and so were other forms of physical affection. I wanted to be a good Muslim, so I avoided dating in high school. Even while I was being bombarded with images of love, romance, and sex in TV, movies, music, and literature, I knew that to be a good Muslim boy I must avoid romantic, physical relations with girls.
During senior year in high school, I was walking through the hallway between classes when Mary stopped me to ask, “How’s Beth doing?”
“I don’t know. Fine, I guess. How should I know?”
“She told me that you two were going out.”
“Wait, what? We’re going out?”
I thought about it. A bunch of us would all go to the movies in a group, but the last few times I went to the movies it was only Beth and me. When she said, “Want to go to the movies?” I guess she had asked me out. I didn’t know girls could do that. In the movies it seemed the guy always pursued the girl. Furthermore, I didn’t know that girls might be attracted to me. Beth and I went out a few more times and I wasn’t sure what to do now that we were a couple. Dating, like everything else, is a learned behavior and I didn’t have any role models to teach me what to do. I was trying to be a practicing Muslim and I didn’t want to sin.
Even though I liked it when Beth was physically affectionate toward me—holding my hand, hugging me, kissing me—I felt it was wrong. I didn’t know how to act or what to say. I was awkward. So when Beth called me one night to ask, “What are we?” I replied using humor as a defense mechanism. “Umm . . . Homo sapiens?” Needless to say, she moved on. I was relieved.
When I got to college, I studied the mating rituals of the indigenous population—my college classmates—like a cultural anthropologist. I eventually figured it all out—how to tell if a girl likes me, how to ask her out, all of that. And when I did, I started looking for pretty girls—white girls—who liked the “right” books, movies, and music. It seems that I was searching for the female version of me. Trying to find “the one” while also trying to maintain my religious beliefs was a struggle.
If I was looking for the female version of me, why didn’t I date an American-born Bangladeshi Muslim girl? Because they were inaccessible. Growing up in the Bangladeshi community in Chicago, all of us boys and girls were raised as though we were siblings or cousins. One of the uncles in the community once asked me, “Do you feel as though you can’t marry the Bangladeshi girls you grew up with because you think of them as sisters?” “Exactly,” I replied. “It feels incestuous. They aren’t romantic possibilities. It’s too weird. I’ve been calling all of you uncle and auntie. If I marry your daughter I’d be calling you Abba and Amma—it would be strange to have you as in-laws.” Besides, I thought, you are all so freaked out about dating, how are we supposed to couple up? You would all know if we were going out to the movies or for coffee . . . or who knows what else.
Since our Bangladeshi Muslim parents wouldn’t let us date, we all dated secretly—some sooner than others. We found boyfriends and girlfriends from outside the Bangladeshi Muslim community who were allowed to date. Because of this, a lot of the American-born Bangladeshis—both men and women—in my community began marrying outside our ethnic group and sometimes outside our faith.
By my early thirties, I realized that the aunties and uncles in my community wanted me to settle down. They feared that I might marry a non-Bangladeshi or worse—a non-Muslim. If I did, I’d be a bad role model for their children, who were younger than me.
The elders—including my mother, of course—began to be more proactive, asking, “When are you going to get married? I know a nice girl for you.” At one Bangladeshi wedding I attended, an uncle sitting at the table with my parents suggested that I walk across the banquet hall and talk to a few unmarried girls. Wow! This was a drastic turnaround. When we were adolescents, there would be gossip about “dating” and how it could lead to “sin.” Now, this uncle wanted me to actually pick up girls at a Muslim wedding?!
That wedding was a turning point. I was becoming disillusioned with dating white girls because issues of religion and culture would get in the way. The girls were great and open-minded, but often their family members weren’t as enlightened. It got to be a drag when I had to explain multiple times to the father of one girlfriend that it was the holy month of Ramadan and I was fasting. “Are you still not eating?” he’d ask. “How long are you going to do this? It’s ridiculous!”
I decided I wanted to find a girl who had similar religious and cultural values—a Muslim woman who was born and raised in the U.S. A woman of Bangladeshi descent would be all the better. But where was I going to find this woman? I didn’t meet Bangladeshi Muslim women randomly. I had to be set up through aunties or through the rishta process, which I was wary of. Would I get to know the woman properly?
Despite the mechanical nature of the rishta process, I still hoped to fall in love with one of the girls that I talked to. This was the American part of me, the part that believed in romantic love—the part that grew up on Romeo and Juliet, West Side Story, Fiddler on the Roof, When Harry Met Sally, and dozens of pop songs about love and romance, from Elvis Presley to Michael Jackson.
At the same time, I believed in the love story that was my parents’ marriage. My parents didn’t have the standard Western romance—they didn’t date before marriage, hold hands, and make goo-goo eyes at each other. After my father established himself as a physician in the United States, he returned to Bangladesh to marry. His aunts sent word to my mother’s family that a Bangladeshi doctor from America had come back home to marry. My maternal grandfather thought my father seemed calm, polite, educated, and soft-spoken—the kind of man who would make a kind and gentle husband. My mother decided to let her parents choose for her—she figured that they knew better, and she also had faith that Allah would surely bring her a good husband. In our faith, marriage is not just about the love, infatuation, or attraction that the couple feels, but also a blending of tribes/families. It was decided that the two families were compatible. One week later my parents were married.
In marriage, they came to deeply love each other. I once heard a Muslim woman describe the difference in marriage customs between the East and the West: in the West, couples start off hot and then cool off, but in the East couples start off cool and then warm up. This is what happened for my parents, so I believed that it might be possible for me too. I prayed to Allah to find me a compatible wife/soul mate/life partner/best friend who was good for me. This prayer gave me the energy and the emotional strength to endure the challenging process of finding “the one.”
Still, the rishta process wasn’t easy. I was quickly rejected by many ghotoks, bachelorettes, and their parents because I was: short, overweight, old (I was thirty-four when I started to take the process seriously), modest or frugal with respect to wardrobe, too Muslim, not Muslim enough, had artistic aspirations, was not an MD, MBA, or PhD, and was living at home with my parents (I stuck around to help my mother take care of my father while he was ill).
I was mostly talking to American-born Bangladeshi Muslim girls outside of Chicago because there were only three American-born Bangladesh girls in Chicago who were of an appropriate age for me. I wasn’t interested in two
of them and the third wasn’t interested in me—because I was an artist, she was afraid we’d live a life of poverty.
The rishta process began to take a toll, with one rejection after another.
“Why don’t you go back home and find a nice girl to marry?” my friend Farooq suggested. “When I was finally ready to marry, I went back home and found a nice, simple, religious girl—a good Muslim girl. I married her and brought her here to America.”
That was easy for Farooq to say because he was born in Bangladesh. For me to marry a girl from Bangladesh would be more challenging. Would our different upbringings and life experiences lead us to want different things? Maybe she wouldn’t want a career and would think life was all saris and gold bangles, dinner parties and shopping sprees, summers in Bangladesh visiting her parents instead of accompanying me on more culturally eye-opening trips to Johannesburg or Shanghai. Maybe she’d be shocked or annoyed if during a business dinner one of my clients ordered wine. Or, would she overcompensate like the girls from Bangladesh who learned to party hard, drink, and wear skimpy clothes?
How would I even get to know a girl from Bangladesh? I had spent the previous four years talking to Bangladeshi girls all over North America. It was hard enough to get to know them while juggling work, activities, and different time zones. How would I get to know a girl on the other side of the globe? And I definitely didn’t want to be someone’s only path to a green card!
“Would you marry a French girl?” a Bangladeshi friend asked.
“Well, yes, if she was hot! Joking aside, yes, I’d consider marrying a French girl if we shared the same values and passions in life.”
“So, why not a girl from Bangladesh? All of your hesitations about a Bangladeshi girl would apply to a French woman too, no?” My friend had a point. When my mother and I found out we had to go to Bangladesh to take care of some property that I’d inherited, I told my mother to contact my cousin Shaju to set up some dates with eligible girls.
Shaju had assured me that, through her network of friends and ghotoks, she’d be able to introduce me to dozens of girls and that all I had to do was just say the word. But, Shaju helped me meet just one girl on that trip. As I was preparing for the end of my visit, Shaju told me that through one of her ghotoks she learned of a girl who was pursuing her MBA in Canada who happened to be visiting Bangladesh too; she was from a good family and was a good prospect. She also told me that the girl’s family had inquired about me.
“Are you interested in meeting her?” Shaju asked.
“Sure.”
Two days before returning to Chicago, Shaju, her older brother, Musa, his daughter Noor Jahan, and I drove to an upscale mall to meet The Girl and her mother. I wasn’t even told The Girl’s name. Noor Jahan was giddy. She was nine years old and felt very grown up for being invited. I love Noor Jahan, but she made me nervous. During my entire visit in Dhaka, she’d been poking my belly—I had a potbelly—and calling me “fatso.” I had hoped to hide how heavy I was with my outfit, but wouldn’t be able to hide it if during a conversation with The Girl, Noor Jahan poked me in the belly and I giggled like the Pillsbury Doughboy.
It was Ramadan, so none of us was eating or drinking, but the ghotok decided that we should all meet at a snack shop on the second floor of the mall. We arrived to find the ghotok—chubby, in her fifties, wearing glasses and a white hijab—sitting alone at one of the snack shop’s dozen or so Formica tables. Shaju walked up to her first and gave her salaam. When I gave her my salaam, she looked me up and down and said, “You’re not very tall.” Ouch. I was in trouble. The ghotok hadn’t known what I looked like—my heart sank.
I too had come to the date blind. I had no idea what The Girl looked like. But that was okay as I was desperate to meet someone . . . anyone. But, if the ghotok didn’t know what I looked like, that meant The Girl and her family didn’t either. No matter how smart, witty, charming, or accomplished I was, she could reject me if she did not find me attractive. She might think that I’m fat. I am fat. Not horribly fat, but I could stand to lose twenty pounds or so. And, like the ghotok said, at five feet six inches I’m not very tall. Bangladeshis are not tall people, but everybody seems to want a tall groom for their daughter (maybe they’re planning to breed the short gene out). Thank Allah that I wasn’t bald!
We all stood up as they entered the snack shop. First, the brother of The Girl walked in and introduced himself. Then The Girl, her mother, and aunt walked in and sat down next to Shaju and the ghotok. The Girl was taller than me—at least five feet eight inches. She was wearing flip-flops to decrease her perceived height. Her mother stood for a while and stared at me, examining me as if I were a prize bull for sale. Her face crinkled up as though she smelled a bucket of rotten eggs. She gave me another glance and then sat down and whispered to the aunt. The men chatted among the men. The ladies chatted among the ladies. I noticed that The Girl giggled whenever I spoke in my American-accented Bengali. Soon it was all over. I didn’t even get a chance to talk to The Girl! Neither the mother nor The Girl asked me any questions, which I took as an indication of uninterest. After the meeting, I told Shaju to call them and let them know that I was still interested. I wasn’t, but she was still a prospect. Who knows, I thought, it might lead to something. It didn’t.
After my trip to Bangladesh, I decided to try every method of dating possible—this was now a full-time job. I would use the rishta process, online dating, Muslim speed-dating, setups by friends and family, and attend events where young Muslim professionals congregate. The only way I was able to get through was by being hopeful that I might actually find “the one.”
I am thirty-seven and single. And I’m trying to be okay with that. There is an advantage to being a single guy—I lead a pretty full life. I’ve shot documentary films in China and India, taught improv comedy in Beijing and Singapore, written short stories, films, plays, songs, and a children’s book. I perform as a storyteller and stand-up comic all around the U.S. and also overseas. I work on social justice causes and build bridges between people of different faith traditions and cultural backgrounds. All of this is fun and exciting . . . but sometimes it feels less meaningful without someone with whom I can share these experiences.
There are constant reminders that everyone else is coupled up except me. I attended a Bangladeshi Muslim wedding in which the bride and the groom were both divorcees. Somehow they found each other. They were each on their second marriage, while I wasn’t even on my first!
At times, I feel lonely and demoralized, worthless and as unappreciated as the last piece of chocolate in a Whitman Sampler. The appealing chocolates have been eaten. Most people have read my description and taken a pass. Or they took a bite out of me, didn’t like my unfamiliar taste, and put me back in the box—half-eaten, alone, waiting to be thrown out.
My sister says I’m a catch. I know what she’s trying to say—that I’m reasonably handsome, educated, well-spoken, funny, and fun to be with. I have a passion for life and I want to help people—I want to leave the world a better place than I found it. I have a keen knowledge of culture both high and low. I can quote Shakespeare and The Simpsons. I like Ravel and the Rolling Stones. I can wax intelligent on the West Coast offense and West Coast jazz. However, it’s hard to think of myself as a catch when I’ve been single this long—when I just can’t find “the one.”
Still, I’ve got a full schedule this week. I’ve got a date with a girl I met online and a few more bio-datas have been e-mailed to me. I’m trying to be optimistic, but who knows what the future will bring?
Springtime Love
By Mohamed Djellouli
On my first date with Rabia, we met at a café in the early afternoon on a cold February day. We are graduate students in different programs at the same university in San Francisco. We had met only briefly once before, but our conversation was immediately engaging, flowing naturally from faith to family to politics. I couldn’t help staring at her hands—half the time punctuating her s
entences with Arab flourish, half the time wending through her long, curly hair. I found myself wishing I could be one of her fingers.
Our date went on for four hours without either of us noticing. This was a woman I could fall in love with, and since she was a Muslim woman, maybe I wouldn’t have to feel guilty about it. My mind started to jump to all sorts of far-off questions: Where would we be married? What would our kids look like? What does she look like without—
Her phone buzzed loudly.
“Hi, Baba. . . . I’m in the library. . . . No, I don’t need a ride. I’m going to take the train later. . . . Yeah, I just have an Arabic assignment I have to finish. . . . Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. . . . I’m almost done. . . . Okay. . . . Okay. . . . Okay. . . .”
I wasn’t the only person on this date. Rabia had been glancing at her phone constantly as it buzzed with phone calls and text messages.
“Is everything okay?” I finally asked.
“Yeah, that was just my . . . father, mother, sister, and brother calling to check in on me.”
The phone buzzed again. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
I knew that dating a Muslim woman would not be without complications. I grew up Muslim, but not typically so. I’m mixed-race; my white mother is agnostic, while my North African father is more of a secular Muslim. I grew up in San Francisco, the only Muslim among my circle of friends, not really understanding what that meant beyond having a funny name. As a young person, my only dating concern was that I wasn’t having more success picking up women.
Rabia, on the other hand, was a Lebanese American who grew up in the Gulf. And while her father and mother were relatively liberal for their family and social milieu, her baseline was far more religiously conservative than mine, especially when it came to dating. Her parents forbade her from ever spending time alone with men.