Dear Elle, or, Why I Became a Muslim

I keep forgetting that when I write in my blog, technically anyone can read it.

So, to Elle, who wanted to know why I became a Muslim (and because I think even the people who know me probably don't know), I present the following. I apologize that it took me five bazillion years to write it, but I was in the midst of reading a bunch of ridiculous SOL (Standards of Learning) writing prompts about how my students would have their family from a runaway tiger in a zoo, and I was walking around with a little storm cloud of self-pity over my head, and I just couldn't do it yet.

I'm feeling better today.

This probably has something to do with the massive stack of pancakes that I consumed this morning.

Regardless, I probably started becoming a Muslim when I quit being a Catholic, at the age of sixteen. (In an unlikely turn of events, when I told my mother of my decision, she replied, "That's all right. I never liked it, either.") I had many complaints about Catholicism, largely stemming from the inferiority I felt as a female member of the congregation, and because there were some questions that I had about the logic of Christianity.

Although I stated this before, I will say it again. I have no problem whatsoever with Christianity. If that's the path to God that works best for you, and you find it helpful, that's wonderful. It's just not something that worked for me.

The main complaint that I formed went something like this:

If Jesus (and consequently, God) had to die for our sins and be resurrected, doesn't that necessarily mean that God is not omnipotent?

In other words, it made no sense to me that the creator of the world, who should know all that will happen, would knowingly allow Adam and Eve to bring original sin upon us all, and then later realize, "Oh, wait. I guess it's time to undo original sin." God should have just been able to make that happen without all of the rigmarole of becoming human, dying, and ascending into heaven.

Really, this is the story of how I became agnostic, too, because I had no idea what Islam was until I met this very lovely man in graduate school. He never really talked much about his faith, but I kept doing embarrassing things, like calling during prayer, and trying to feed him during fasting, and so I started to read about Islam to stop making a fool of myself.

The more I read, the more I found I agreed with.

The more questions that I had, the more it seemed that Islam was providing answers.

And I admit that there are some things that I am still adjusting to, and some things that I'm not sure I'll ever really like. I'm still figuring out exactly the position of women; I know that there is a great deal of respect given to women and motherhood, and women have far more rights than Westerners tend to realize. Because right now I still feel a little more outside of Islam than inside, because I'm still learning, it's hard for me to judge.

If anyone is interested in hearing more about that topic, let me know and I'll see what I can put together.

I'm open to any questions or discussions, which I will presume in advance will be kind-hearted. I'm not the best person to explain Islam, but I can explain more about my decision if need be.

Cleansing Ritual

Often, I need to drown in my sadnesses a little before I get back to the air.

At least I have a quiet place in the country to live. And at least I have a stove to heat it.

And the closest neighbors are quiet.

At least I have a sweet little dog to play fetch with every hour of every day.

I have a family who loves me. A long future ahead of me with a man who even continents away makes me glad to be alive (if not every hour of the day, most of them). I have the ability to choose the shape of my life, even if I'm not always sure what shape I'd like for that to be.

I feel better. Sorry for the sorrow-fest earlier.

And now, to throw a tennis ball for the aforementioned canine.

Visitations

Fall has come quietly to Virginia, touching first one leaf, then the next. The red has held off until the last minute, erupting rarely amid the flat browns and yellows, the dull orange. Fall in Virginia is a yawn, a breath of chilled air.

My parents breezed through yesterday on their way home from visiting my sister in North Carolina. While here, we dismantled my broken dryer (now still in pieces, awaiting the repair-person), added coolant to the radiator, finally got the Pennsylvania license plate off my car where it had been rusted on.

We cooked dinner, watched The Royal Tenenbaums, told stories. My mother thinks that the fasting of Ramadan is cruel because she can't see how someone can go twelve hours without water, but seems supportive of my decision.

It's cold enough now to need heat, but my propane isn't attached to my heater yet. "Use the stove," said the landlord. And so I am.

Some days my own panic alarms me. I nearly convinced myself yesterday that my dearest associate was dead when he failed to write to me by his usual scheduled time. I always risk the danger of falling into fiction: creating stories to fill in what is unknown at any moment. Fiction is easy these days, although reality is not so difficult, either. Most days I'm content. (I tend to exaggerate.)

Unfortunately, I enjoy teaching probably 55% of the time. I hate to yell. I hate discipline. I hate that many of my students have already given up on themselves, and there seems to be nothing I can do. I hate that my kindness is like an arrow shot through a cloud, for all the effect it has.

Sometimes loneliness comes in, sits down, pours itself a glass of water and goes to sit in the other room.

I find most of the inhabitants here bore me. I'm starting to consider going back to graduate school, picking up a PhD, pursuing the professorship I didn't think I wanted. Two months into school and my brain is already itching for a challenge, someone to talk to about subjects beyond "Why is this a verb?" and "What is plot?"

I wish I had my best friend here to talk this out with me, to determine what decisions are best for us both. But until then, it's just me, loneliness, and my dog. And the blanket of Virginia fall gathering around my knees. And one cup of orange and jasmine tea, thick with honey.

Special Request Photos

Beyond Shrinking the Kids

One of my sick obsessions is figuring out what happened to the celebrities of yesteryear.

I've often wondered in the past few years what became of Rick Moranis, beloved star of Honey, I Shrunk the Kids and Spaceballs.

Wonder no longer.

I'm sure you'll all rest easier.

First Steps

Yesterday I officially became a Muslim.

I decided on Wednesday to actually contact the mosque in Charlottesville, since the one in Fredericksburg never called back. By Thursday, I had three enthusiastic emails offering help and many exclamation points. Friday after school, I drove myself the hour down to the mosque and finally found it. It turns out that I had found it before, but it never occurred to me that the little white house was anything but a little white house. This time I was tipped off by a woman wearing a hijab on the front porch, who turned out to be one of the people who had emailed me.

I showed up in time for dinner and then hung around through the women's prayer group. Everyone that I met was positively wiggly about meeting me. And I had four separate women offer to teach me Arabic.

The process was both more nerve-wracking and far less than I had imagined it would be. Essentially, I got to sit in front of a group of about forty people and repeat Arabic sentences that affirm my faith. I didn't feel an ounce of nervousness about it. And then everyone ate cookies.

The only thing I found nerve-wracking was how much everyone wanted to talk with me, and hear the story of how I made my decision. I'm always uncomfortable being the center of attention (especially when people are so happy they're crying). Much advice was thrown around, although most of it was for me to be patient with myself as I learn, and to take only the advice that was helpful.

Apparently, all of my prior sins have all been washed away (and thank goodness--I've been involved in some pretty serious mistakes). I don't feel as pure as everyone says I am. But I feel that I'm headed in the right direction.

Now I just have to tell my family.

In other news, Landlord let himself into my apartment yesterday while I was becoming Muslim and turned off the light I deliberately left on so I could actually see the way to my door. He also moved some things around while he was in here. I know that Landlord has the right to do this thing technically, but I felt very violated by it nonetheless. I'm feeling guilty about feeling so annoyed. So, is it okay that I'm so growly about this?

Today, I visited Syria, Virginia, because I was missing my visitor to Syria terribly this afternoon. It seems to be a little town that's built around a fancy country resort where they're currently having an apple festival. There were goats, and women riding horses down the road. I think I'll have to find out how my Syria got its name. There's nothing about it that resembles the Syria I've been hearing about. The leaves in my Syria are changing (but only yellow), and the air is lukewarm and smells of sweet, damp earth.

FedEx Is Evil/ The Search for God/Acceptance

Yes. I swear these things are all related. But really only temporally, in that I want to talk about them today.

First of all, FedEx is evil for the following reasons:

1. I was contacted on Tuesday with the message that FedEx could not locate the address at which I lived to deliver a package to me. FedEx has not discovered the miracle of MapQuest.
2. I called them back to confirm my address and directions to said address.
3. The lovely woman I spoke with promised to make sure that these directions got to the carrier.
4. The next day, I received no package. I called, and was told I should call back the next day because all the carriers had left. Well, obviously, but apparently they forgot the directions to my apartment.
5. Today I received a postcard from FedEx to the effect that they did not have my phone number (despite having called), my address (to which the post card was delivered) or the directions to my apartment (which I gave them on the phone).

I would not be so annoyed about this, but I have been waiting for over a month for this package, which contains two cute head scarves that I would like to wear when I officially become Muslim.

I haven't particularly discussed this topic on my blog, or really anywhere. I know. And I think, given the political climate of the United States, that becoming a Muslim (or accepting that you already were, as it technically works) is not particularly popular. I could understand if my readers (all six of you, whom I love madly) thought I was a little mentally unstable.

There is the argument that I have only made this decision to please my significant person, since Islam happens to be his religion. And I can see how people might get this impression, except for the fact that I didn't start dating him until two months after I made up my mind. At the end of the day, the more that I studied Islam, the more that I found my complaints about Christianity were being answered in a way that I could accept.

I have great respect for Christianity. It's just not something that worked for me.

So there I was, sitting at an educational conference all day and, hijabs or none, I was in such proximity to the mosque that I thought it was a good day to take my shahadah.

It should be noted that I have looked for this particular mosque before and failed. Today counts as strike two. The mosque is allegedly on 10 1/2 Street SW. I could find 10 1/2 Street NW with no trouble, and 10th Street SW. I drove in increasingly maddening circles (and met up with at least four dead ends) for about an hour before I decided that the whole thing was a hoax and went home.

Up until today, I had appreciated the metaphor of the literal and metaphorical search for God in my life. Now, I really would like to profess my faith and work on improving it.

Otherwise, I got a poem accepted by Natural Bridge today for their Spring 2006 issue. It's a poem about a girl with a halo who's obsessed with vultures and being in love. I've always liked the poem myself, since I'm a morbid sort, but never imagined that anyone would actually publish it.

Then I discovered that it was for their DREAMS issue. And the acceptance became stunningly clear. It was a nice end to a day of preposterous misdirection.

I hope for you that your journeys will take you where you're trying to go today.

Relative Distances


A few days revolving around heights and measurements, the amount of miles/hours/months between here and elsewhere.

My beautiful friend Kristen drove down to Virginia for the weekend. I hadn't seen her since vacating Pittsburgh at the cusp of July. What I realized quickly was the distinct difference between her and the new friends that I've made here, and I suddenly, desperately craved my little academic neighborhood in my medium-sized Knowledge Town. To be able to talk about navigating heaven and earth and be understood cannot be undervalued. Or found here, so far.

The Shenandoah National Park will take your breath and not return it. The altitude dizzies you. Miles and miles of forest and paths and quiet down deep beneath the canopy. Here, the leaves are just beginning to turn. We climbed up a rock scramble to a spot where the rocks broke out over the trees, over the entire range of mountains, and clouds were wetly grazing our limbs.

Meanwhile, my lover's plane lifted from this country and landed much later, elsewhere. He still does not seem far from me. Perhaps because I have so rarely seen him since May. (Since May.) Perhaps because he is truly much closer than I feared he would be.

Possibly, also, because Syria is only just down the road. Granted, it's Syria, Virginia, but I find comfort in it nonetheless.

What distances are you trying to cross these days?