Tag: identity

“Say it Loud, ‘I’m Black and I’m Proud.'”

How to Be Black Cover
Harper, 2012. 272 pgs

How to be Black

By: Baratunde Thurston

I was enamored with this book for a couple of days, but now that a few weeks have passed between my finishing the book and my writing this review, I have all but forgotten what was in between the pages. I became aware of How to be Black several years ago when one of my former English teacher posted a picture of her 14 month old daughter mock reading it on Facebook. I didn’t do much research, I figured if it was on her shelf I’d give it a read. I finally ordered the book last year because I saw a good deal for it on thirftbooks (I really recommend this site to people who like to read physical books) but I didn’t read it until this summer because I had the book shipped to my house rather than to school. I must say, the book cover makes quite an impression; the all black cover is not something one sees very often in a world full of flashy, bright book jackets. After reading the opening passages of How to be Black, I held out hope that the book could be added to my favorites list. I enjoyed Thurston’s wit and honesty, and braced myself for a beautiful racial satire. How to be Black, however, under-performed for me.

 

The writing style was a bit simplistic and some of the jokes seemed forced. Every now in then I read a joke that made me laugh out loud, but I don’t remember any of the punchlines anymore. Having read both Between the World and Me and Negroland, I found How to be Black to an excellent middle-man sort of book. Between the World and Me is deeply personal, emotive, and poignant while Negroland is stilted and icy. I deeply enjoyed both books, but for very different reasons. Between the World and Me tells the story of poverty and overcoming obstacles; Negroland tells the story of privilege. How to be Black illustrates the efforts of a Black mother to educate her son in Black culture while making sure he is educated by and interacts with White people. It’s sarcastic and light-hearted, and though there are excellent lessons woven throughout the narrative, the book as a whole shouldn’t be taken too seriously.

 

For those who are curious, yes, How to be Black does give step-by-step instructions on how to be Black. Thurston gives a to-do list for both Black and non-Black people, and even plays out a few hypothetical situations one might encounter in their quest for blackness. Obviously, all of his advice is tongue-in-cheek and some of it is based on stereotypes. Nonetheless, I believe Thurston handled the topic pretty well. I’m giving the book three stars because the book is good, but utterly forgettable. I’m not upset I read it, but I probably wouldn’t read it again. If you’re interested in ordering the book from Amazon, click the photo of the cover embedded above. Clicking through the thriftbooks link will take you to the website, where you can search for How to be Black.

 

Thurston, by the way, is an established comedian. He writes for The Onion, is “Jack” on Jack &  Jill Politics, and has a solid stand-up career. I hadn’t heard any of his comedy before reading How to be Black, but I found the below video on YouTube and decided to share it. I’d say his stand-up comedy is pretty on par with his writing. Enjoy!

An English Palestinian Searches for Her Lost Father

jasmine falling cover

Jasmine Falling
By: Shereen Malherbe
5 stars

This review was originally published on Muslimah Media Watch.

Jasmine Falling by Muslimah Media Watch’s Shereen Malherbe recounts the story of Jasmine, a young English girl who, in order to receive her inheritance after her mother dies, searches for her father in his native Palestine and winds up discovering not only the family she left behind, but also the culture to which she belongs.

As clichéd as the phrase may be, reading Jasmine Falling sent me on an emotional rollercoaster. Within the span of just a few pages I would find myself vacillating between pitying Jasmine for her loss and being downright angry with a fictional character for the decisions she makes: for example, Jasmine’s decision to get drunk in Palestine (a foreign land for her) with a guy she hardly knows, even though going to the bar had nothing to do with her mission, upset me so much I briefly stopped reading, then realized I was angry out of concern. I know people who’ve done the same thing Jasmine did, and I know the unfortunate consequences of their actions. Despite my frustrations with some of the protagonist’s choices, by the end of the novel, I was overwhelmingly happy for Jasmine, because she “found what her heart wanted.”

When I took a step back from the book after reading it, I realized I got way more involved with the characters than I normally do. As I read, I quoted the book and narrated Jasmine’s life to those around me (mostly my mother, who eventually began asking me for updates in Jasmine’s life) which speaks volumes (pun intended) about how well-written the novel is. Though written in accessible prose, the sentences are woven in such a way that the reader feels almost part and parcel of the action, of which there is plenty.Jasmine Falling is almost overwhelming in its back-to-back twists and turns, but each new plot element follows naturally from the one that preceded it.

Religion plays a more central role in Jasmine Falling than the title would suggest. Malherbe’s novel is  peppered with references to Islam, but the book doesn’t feel “Islamic,” nor do the references disrupt the flow of the story. In fact, the references propel the story as Jasmine goes down the path of growth and self-understanding. The adhan (call to prayer) in the countryside provides a cadence against which readers can measure the passage of the day. The Arabic greetings provide a layer of authenticity to the novel. Jasmine’s gradually increasing usage of phrases such as “alhamdulillah”  and her slow recollection of Islamic teachings she learned as a child (and abandoned as a teenager) artfully indicate her growth of character.

Despite the elements of Islam in Jasmine Falling, there are several themes in the novel that may appeal to a non-Muslims just as much as Muslims.  My mother,  who is a sixty-year-old Christian, was just as eager to hear about Jasmine as I was to read about her. Jasmine appealed to my mother’s sense of adventure. Those with ties to Middle Eastern culture will enjoy that aspect of the novel. Third culture children (people who grew up in a  culture different from that of their parents) and people whose parents are from two different places but they themselves only grew up in one would enjoy Jasmine Falling the most. Much of Jasmine’s internal conflict centers around cultural reconciliation. She grew up in England, and after her father disappeared, her mother essentially ignored Jasmine’s Palestinian half. Jasmine, who remembers her father, felt the emptiness, but decided to immerse herself in English culture. When she goes to Palestine, she is filled with a mix of nostalgia for the old sights and smells and regret at having let her roots slip away.

Reading this novel certainly made me realize how important it is to acknowledge and celebrate all of the cultures in which I was raised. I’m both more proud to be black and less hesitant to call myself American. Just as Jasmine realized the rejection of her father’s culture left her flailing for grounding, I have begun to  realize that the food, the media, and the traditions I grew up with make me who I am. Trying to stifle the minority culture (black) to better conform to the majority culture (American) split my personality unnecessarily, and left me generally confused. My new-found embracement of my hyphenated identity is perhaps indicative of why I enjoyed it so much: Jasmine, in a way, is me.

Though Jasmine’s reason for going to Palestine was not a happy one, the novel is not very grim. There are dark moments, as there are in most novels, but Malherbe managed to strike a balance between the uplifting moments and the somber ones. Jasmine is a youthful, audacious character, almost to the point of recklessness at times. She follows her instincts and is not afraid to speak up when she witnesses injustice. It was refreshing to read something about a Muslim woman that didn’t paint her life as exceedingly difficult, and that didn’t involve her overcoming some form of culture-based oppression that she blamed on religion.Jasmine Falling will remain on my shelf for some time to come, and I hope to find more books worthy enough to join it.

—–

Click here to read an interview with Shereen. 

A Little Bit of Rhetoric

I very rarely label myself a convert/revert, here’s why.

I’m writing this post as a necessary addendum to yesterday’s post. I titled the piece “covered convert” for two reasons: I like alliteration, and “convert” is a buzzword when it comes to religion. I felt that by using a buzzword, the post would reach more people.

Personally, though, I limit my self-reflective use of the word convert for the simple fact that it isn’t true; I had nothing from which to convert. I tend to use the either the phrase “I accepted Islam” or the phrase “I embraced Islam” because they feel more accurate. My journey into Islam was long and hard but eventually there came a point when I could not deny myself any longer. More on that later (maybe).

As for the term “revert,” I’m pretty apathetic about it. I understand the theory behind it– everyone is born Muslim, but not everyone knows that right away. When they eventually “see the light” they are simply returning to their true form. I get it. I just haven’t thought about it enough or done enough reading to form an opinion about it, and I shy away from taking other people’s words for fact.

On an unrelated note: I’m surprised by the surge of inspiration that’s been hitting me the past two weeks. I’m notorious for posting a slew of fairly regular pieces then disappearing off the face of the Earth. I’m hoping to keep up the momentum, but humans are creatures of habit. For the time being, I’ll write what I’ve got planned and let the rest happen as it happens.

Covered Convert: 19 Going on Hijabi

I’ve been wearing some form of hijab for about half a year, here are the lessons I’ve learned and the reason I will continue to wear it.

I embraced Islam in May, but I started covering my head last December. For me, to cover was, more stylistic than religious, but as my spirituality evolved I’ve begun to see the religious benefits of hijab (hijab here referring to the overall manner of dress as opposed to just the headscarf).

 

While the initial decision to wear a scarf and dress modestly began as a temporary experiment, I increasingly found that I preferred this new manner of dress. It seems I changed more than my appearance.

 

Now, people look at me differently, but it’s not always a bad thing. I was in China when I first started wearing turbans, and most of the attention I received was intrigue. My tall, dark-skinned figure already stood out in crowds, the turban just added to the outlandishness.

 

My friends took the change in stride. As soon as I started covering more of myself, however, I became “that Muslim girl” long before I officially took the shahada. At times it was awkward; a few people weren’t sure how to handle the “new” me. I rued the fact that something as simple as my manner of dress could so easily build and shatter assumptions about me. Still, I was pleased with the overall increase in respect. Fortunately, I lived in a community that was relatively accepting of my decision, regardless of the country’s religious intolerance.

 

I also found that suddenly, I love my smile… and my face, and my body. While many assume hijab is meant to oppress women and promote shame towards the female body, it actually does the opposite. The first thing I noticed after deciding to wear hijab was how accustomed to seeing my body I had become. All of a sudden my curves weren’t jumping out at me every time I passed by a reflective surface during the day; the only time I really see my body is before showering and when changing into bedclothes for the night. These fleeting glances always fill me with joy. I no longer criticize my body, partly because I don’t want to criticize Allah’s creation, but mainly because I no longer see the “flaws.” I see pure, unadulterated beauty.

 

Besides that, I’m comfortable. Hijab is freeing. I suppose this point ties into the last one. Besides the breeziness of flowing fabrics against my skin, the looseness relieves the pressure of achieving a “perfect” body (“perfect” in quotes here because everyone’s ideals differ).

 

I’m not neglecting my health—I still exercise and eat my fill of fruits and vegetables—but I’m not concerned with whether or not I look “fat” in an article of clothing (“fat,” is also relative). My genetically slim body tended to avoid public scrutiny, but that doesn’t mean I could escape the scrutiny of my own mind. Now that I know others can’t see my body, I don’t think about it. I woo people with charismatic character, not heavenly hips.

 

In addition to self-confidence, I’ve gained a family, one that I hope will be permanent. The first few friends I told happened to be Muslim and greeted me with open arms. I reveled in the choruses of salaams and “welcome to the family.” My closest friends gave me gifts, and everyone offered to help me learn to pray and gain Islamic knowledge.

 

My ummah, for the most part, has been supportive and I couldn’t thank them enough. Whenever I pray, I feel the solidarity of tens of thousands of Muslims facing the same direction, using the same language, and worshiping the same God, and the numbers are probably higher if I consider the people outside of my relative location. It feels good to be part of such a large community.

 

Prayer in and of itself is a glorious experience, and with hijab, prayer is so much easier—and much more fulfilling. Fortunately, I go to a school which has special areas for students to pray and reflect during the day, so finding a room to pray was a non-issue (until after dark when the special areas closed, but that’s another story).

 

I was, however, deterred by the time involved. I know it sounds awful (“you couldn’t even make time for your Lord?!”), but the effort involved in making wudhu, wrapping my scarf around me, praying, then re-tying my turban in a 15-20 minute break was enough to keep me from praying at all. In hijab, the process is simplified. I simply make wudhu, pray, and go about my day. I’m not missing out on the benefits of prayer by rushing; I take my time, express my praise, ask for forgiveness, and hope Allah accepts my prayer.

 

Essentially, I have no regrets. Though there have been ups and downs (the new family is great but people have already started asking me when I joined ISIS, because apparently all Muslims are terrorists).

 

I have been genuinely happy since starting to wear hijab and especially since my conversion. I feel safe, powerful, beautiful, invincible. The hijab is now an integral part of who I am. The thought of leaving my house (or dorm, if I’m at school) without it makes me uneasy. Not because I feel like I’ll be judged if I take it off (though that does weigh on my mind a little), but because I’ve come to love it.

 

Much in the same way some women wouldn’t dare leave the house without makeup, my outfit isn’t complete without the scarf I put on my head, and the outfit simply isn’t mine if the clothing hugs the body. I’m sure more than a few people will be upset with likening hijab to makeup, but it is not my intention to cheapen or otherwise lessen the importance of hijab. While I hesitate to say hijab is representative of my relationship with Allah (doing so would open up arguments about non-hijabis and their relationships with God), the manner of dress has certainly strengthened my deen, and for that reason, I plan to keep wearing it for the foreseeable future.

Image of 19 year old Sarabi

Design a site like this with WordPress.com
Get started