well...”
“What?” I asked.
“I’m Muslim-er than youuuu,” she sang in a childish taunt, grabbing my arm and almost leaning in on me. I smiled wide and toothy but lacked the comfort level to actually laugh out loud.
We got to the place, Lynn ordered vegan pizza and I got a plain cheese slice. Sat at a booth with our meals on paper plates. She set hers down, took off her scarf and shook out the dirty-blonde dreadlocks which made her look even weirder when contrasted with the kameez.
Just then a guy walked in with t-shirt exposing lean but sinewy arms completely sleeved in tattoos.
“Hey, Lynn! Salaam-alaikum!” He had a thick Spanish accent.
“Wa-alaikum as-salaam, man!” she yelled back.
“What are you up to?”
“Just got back from jumaa.”
“Oh, al-hamdulilah,” he said, moving forward in line. “Keep it up.”
“How did you do this semester?” she asked.
“Eh, so-so. How about you?”
“Could have been better.”
“I hear that.” The conversation stopped abruptly when it became his turn to order.
“That’s Marcos,” Lynn explained in a half-whisper.
“He’s Muslim?”
“Yeah. Converted this past year. I think he might have gone to a jumaa or two at your house, but I don’t really see too much of him. Once he finishes school he’s going to go back to Spain and win it back for y’all.”
“Mash’Allah.”
“You should probably go tell him,” she whispered, putting her hand by her mouth so Marcos couldn’t read her lips from ten feet away, “that tattoos are haram.”
“I’ll be sure to go do that,” I replied facetiously.
“At least they’re haram for women,” she said. “Muhammad said Allah curses the woman who tattoos. I don’t know if it’s the same for men.”
“I think it’s considered haram for everyone.”
“And of course,” she said with a gentle slap on my forearm, “women who pluck their eyebrows are cursed too.”
“Really?”
“Oh dear Yusef Ali, you need to study your hadiths.”
“I guess so.”
“I remember back in the day when I was a good sister and all, going to the masjid like every day... and one of the women who took it upon themselves to tutor me one day discreetly said ‘Lynn, I’ve noticed you don’t have very thick eyebrows and I just wanted you to know what the Prophet said about that...’ I was like, ‘whoa, okay, I don’t pluck my eyebrows anyway but thanks for the info. Now I can go to heaven.’” I tried to laugh. “So remember that, Yusef! Keep your eyebrows as they are!”
“I’ll try.”
The conversation paused for us to take a few bites of our respective slices. “You know,” I mentioned after swallowing, “I imagine it’s a lot easier for you.”
“What is?” she replied with her mouth half-full.
“Separating the good stuff from the bad. You weren’t raised in
a Muslim family so you can just take things on your own terms. For me it’s hard because I got all of this stuff in one big lump package. Some of it’s worthwhile guidance that I would like to hold on to for the rest of my life, some is just culture that’s a part of who I am and then there’s a lot of traditional things that I can’t understand and I don’t know why people follow them, but they always have. I think that’s why you have something to your Islam that I don’t have.”
“What do you mean?” she asked with half-smile of pleasant surprise.
“I can’t separate spirituality from my family, my heritage, my identity as a South Asian; it’s inextricably connected. You reject an aspect of one, to some extent you’re rejecting all of them.”
“Yeah, my family didn’t seem too disappointed when I started celebrating Christmas again.”
“You celebrate Christmas?”
“Just with my family. It has nothing to do with religion.”
“Well, it is Christ- mas . ”
“No, no it’s not. It’s see-my-family-that-I-don’t-ever-see- mas .”
“Oh.”
“But who cares anyway, right? It’s like Attar said,
“What?” I asked.
“I’m Muslim-er than youuuu,” she sang in a childish taunt, grabbing my arm and almost leaning in on me. I smiled wide and toothy but lacked the comfort level to actually laugh out loud.
We got to the place, Lynn ordered vegan pizza and I got a plain cheese slice. Sat at a booth with our meals on paper plates. She set hers down, took off her scarf and shook out the dirty-blonde dreadlocks which made her look even weirder when contrasted with the kameez.
Just then a guy walked in with t-shirt exposing lean but sinewy arms completely sleeved in tattoos.
“Hey, Lynn! Salaam-alaikum!” He had a thick Spanish accent.
“Wa-alaikum as-salaam, man!” she yelled back.
“What are you up to?”
“Just got back from jumaa.”
“Oh, al-hamdulilah,” he said, moving forward in line. “Keep it up.”
“How did you do this semester?” she asked.
“Eh, so-so. How about you?”
“Could have been better.”
“I hear that.” The conversation stopped abruptly when it became his turn to order.
“That’s Marcos,” Lynn explained in a half-whisper.
“He’s Muslim?”
“Yeah. Converted this past year. I think he might have gone to a jumaa or two at your house, but I don’t really see too much of him. Once he finishes school he’s going to go back to Spain and win it back for y’all.”
“Mash’Allah.”
“You should probably go tell him,” she whispered, putting her hand by her mouth so Marcos couldn’t read her lips from ten feet away, “that tattoos are haram.”
“I’ll be sure to go do that,” I replied facetiously.
“At least they’re haram for women,” she said. “Muhammad said Allah curses the woman who tattoos. I don’t know if it’s the same for men.”
“I think it’s considered haram for everyone.”
“And of course,” she said with a gentle slap on my forearm, “women who pluck their eyebrows are cursed too.”
“Really?”
“Oh dear Yusef Ali, you need to study your hadiths.”
“I guess so.”
“I remember back in the day when I was a good sister and all, going to the masjid like every day... and one of the women who took it upon themselves to tutor me one day discreetly said ‘Lynn, I’ve noticed you don’t have very thick eyebrows and I just wanted you to know what the Prophet said about that...’ I was like, ‘whoa, okay, I don’t pluck my eyebrows anyway but thanks for the info. Now I can go to heaven.’” I tried to laugh. “So remember that, Yusef! Keep your eyebrows as they are!”
“I’ll try.”
The conversation paused for us to take a few bites of our respective slices. “You know,” I mentioned after swallowing, “I imagine it’s a lot easier for you.”
“What is?” she replied with her mouth half-full.
“Separating the good stuff from the bad. You weren’t raised in
a Muslim family so you can just take things on your own terms. For me it’s hard because I got all of this stuff in one big lump package. Some of it’s worthwhile guidance that I would like to hold on to for the rest of my life, some is just culture that’s a part of who I am and then there’s a lot of traditional things that I can’t understand and I don’t know why people follow them, but they always have. I think that’s why you have something to your Islam that I don’t have.”
“What do you mean?” she asked with half-smile of pleasant surprise.
“I can’t separate spirituality from my family, my heritage, my identity as a South Asian; it’s inextricably connected. You reject an aspect of one, to some extent you’re rejecting all of them.”
“Yeah, my family didn’t seem too disappointed when I started celebrating Christmas again.”
“You celebrate Christmas?”
“Just with my family. It has nothing to do with religion.”
“Well, it is Christ- mas . ”
“No, no it’s not. It’s see-my-family-that-I-don’t-ever-see- mas .”
“Oh.”
“But who cares anyway, right? It’s like Attar said,
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