My Mom and Malcolm X

Bismillah

February 21 was the anniversary of the assassination of Malcolm X. He lived and died fighting oppression. This is Yasiin Bey’s (Mos Def) amazing tribute to Malcolm X and everything he stood for:

Bey’s song describes the experience of poverty, of living on the margins of society. Malcolm X grew up in such poverty. That’s something that shapes a life and how a person relates to others. Poverty is an experience Malcolm X shared with the prophet Muhammad—God’s peace and blessings be on him—who was poor and orphaned as a child. Like the prophet Muhammad, poverty enabled Malcolm X to have compassion for his community, the vast majority of which toiled in the urban centers.

This was at a time when one of the most prestigious careers available to a Black man was that of a doorman. The oppression of the African American community was such that people struggled to support their families by legal means and felt compelled to turn to the underground economy just to eke out a living. Malcolm dropped out of school after the 8^th grade because he wanted to be a lawyer and his white teacher told him that was impossible because of his race.

Circumstances have evolved, but our nation is by no means liberated from poverty or from the constraints of life chances that compel people toward the underground economy. In the city I love, it's often easier to deal drugs than it is to get a job.

When I listen to Yasiin Bey’s tribute to Malcolm X, I think of the kids my mom works with in that city, a poor urban area only a matter of miles from where I lived a relatively privileged childhood. Bey writes, “This shit weird. We be home and still be scared. It’s grief here. It’s peace here. It’s easy and hard to be here.” I think of my mom’s students, falling fast asleep at their desks because their lives at home are so tumultuous, they can’t rest there.

Her students come to school shivering, wearing t-shirts in the dead of winter. They’re starved for attention. Their parents can’t read to them. They don’t have access to doctors when they’re sick. A little boy came to school with an inflamed ear, pus leaking from it.

These are the children Malcolm X fought for, and my mom fights for them today. She teaches them how to read and how to learn, and her students are thriving. Her work is exhausting. It’s emotionally draining. But the song alludes to the reality of young people dying violently, the way Malcolm anticipated his life would end. My mom’s work is disrupting assumptions about what her students will grow up to do—when they grow up; not if.

As I honor the legacy of Malcolm X, I want to honor my mother, who carries it forward. For me, she is the embodiment of mercy and compassion.

The song says, “We’re seeking for forgiveness and safety for our children.” God forgive us for the little good we do. Help us to honor Malcolm X by working against the oppression of poverty and apathy. Ameen.

What is oppression and who is oppressed?

I am a feminist and a Muslim, and I’m still figuring out how these things go together. Feminism is a global movement to end oppression. Islam tells me that God hates oppression. I think that’s a pretty good starting point.

When I think about oppression, there are basically two kinds that come to mind. There’s cultural oppression that happens rather subtly, and there’s political oppression that happens violently and coercively. Right now, the Syrian people are facing brutal, insane political oppression. But the way we relate to our bodies that I described in my last post is indicative of cultural oppression.

My friend Ashley’s comment on Facebook goes even further to illustrate how our society feels entitled and obligated to gaze at women’s bodies. Ashley’s body is non-normative—not one of the culturally sanctioned ones I mentioned that must be flaunted. People constantly go out of their way to remind her of this, though she refuses to be ashamed of her body and dares to flaunt it. While people at our shared workplace told me to show a little leg, they do their best to offer her a dose of shame.

In her article titled “Oppression,” Marilyn Frye defines the word as when “the living of one’s life is confined and shaped by forces and barriers which are not accidental or occasional and hence avoidable, but are systematically related to each other in such a way as to catch one between and among them and restrict or penalize motion in any direction” (4).* Oppression, Frye says, comes from contradictory and linked social constructs that result in the entrapment and immobilization of the oppressed.

So, Ashley’s entrapment looks like this: if she covers her body, people will assume she is ashamed of it. If she does not cover her body, they will exercise social control and tell her, in effect, that she should be ashamed of her body. We share the problem that if we do not cover our bodies, people feel free to talk about and analyze them. If we cover our bodies, they still know what’s wrong with us: typical girl self-esteem issues. Either way, our bodies are as liable to critique as a blockbuster movie.

Now, when people say that Muslim women are “oppressed” because they choose to cover themselves—and in America, they do choose—what is really at work is a twist on the oppressive gaze directed at women’s bodies that I’ve outlined so far. American society cannot comprehend a woman wanting to cover herself, whether to deflect a gaze or for any other reason. American society cannot believe that this very real choice is not the fulfillment of a human command. After all, American women operate under the command to reveal themselves. American society says that those Muslim women should flaunt it while they’ve got it, and it’s terrible that they’re so ashamed of their bodies. But their choice is called “oppression” because America sees it as “Other”—“Oriental”—“Primitive”—“Third World.”

I know that my choice to cover my body does not have any real impact on the patriarchal culture I live in. It is not a solution to the problem of the gaze women’s bodies labor under in America. It is just one of a few choices I have. Perhaps it is not my choice but the collective response to it that is indicative of oppression.

*Let me know if you want to read this article. I can email the .pdf.

About "At the Masjid"

The poem I posted yesterday, “At the Masjid,” has a story behind it. Most of my poems don’t; they’re just something I saw and wrote down, or an idea that I think can be recorded in an image.

But this time, there is an actual sequence of events that I experienced.

A couple of weeks ago Caitie and I went to a talk at a local masjid (mosque). During the talk, the Imam explained how it is ok to ignore stories that discredit the prophets. As one example of this, he told the story of David seeing Bathsheba naked and sending her husband off to die in battle. Since this story is not confirmed in the Quran, we can assume it did not happen. Though there is, I think, a possible reference to it in the Quran.

We just didn’t agree with the basic philosophy of ignoring stories that show the flaws, the humanity, of the prophets. I think we’re supposed to learn from these figures and their actions, including their mistakes. Also, ignoring textual evidence flies in the face of the scholarly side to Islam, which is a huge part of what makes it so compelling to me.

What really made an impression on me was how the Imam communicated with the audience. Before he told the story about David and Bathsheba, he apologized more than once for bringing up something that was potentially awkward. He even seemed to be embarrassed himself, though maybe I misunderstood what was happening.

The next day, the khutbah (sermon) at jummah (Friday prayer) talked about hayaa, the Islamic concept of modesty or not performing actions that makes one blameworthy of doing something wrong. In the khutbah, the speaker talked about how hayaa doesn’t really have a place in the pursuit of knowledge. You’re supposed to go after knowledge and understanding hard. In my short time as a Muslim, that pursuit of understanding seems to be a cornerstone of the religion.

I think the Imam did not have to be embarrassed talking about that story, even though it involved nudity. It was a night for learning, and the audience was made up of adults. The modesty felt excessive and unnecessary.  

As we left the masjid, we watched a girl chasing after a boy right out of the parking lot and down the street. They were laughing, obviously enjoying themselves. They were around their early twenties so it seemed romantic. The scene was at once both reminiscent of the story of David and Bathsheba (or any story of a prophet and his wife) and at odds with the Imam’s presentation of it. So I wrote a poem about it.

I don’t think the poem gets me any closer to an understanding of the complexities involved, but it does make the tenuous connection between the story of David and the two people running more direct. My point with the whole thing being, of course, that people will be people. The prophets were, and we are now. There is something comforting in that.

At the Masjid

He does not want

to upset.

The Imam

assures

we can reject

the unflattering –

Dawud watches

Bilqis resplendent

in her bath –

the humanity of it all

oversteps decency.

Later in the rain

covered

wind in her teeth

a girl

runs

through campus streets

after a boy

her laughter

thunder

in his heart.

Jason's Introduction

Caitie's intro said it all, but I'll add what I can. We decided to start this blog because converting to Islam was a big decision, and a year later we're still finding new ways that it impacts our lives. We're both people who come to understanding through writing, so a blog seemed like a good option to help us learn more about Islam. I'll be adding small essays, observations, and poems to the blog.

Our hope is that whoever reads our small contribution to the larger ongoing discussion gains some personal understanding from it, inshaAllah.

You're wearing too many clothes

I dress differently than I used to, and the reasons for this are complex. My college uniform consisted of jeans and a very low cut top. I thought it looked good; I thought it was sexy. I liked the ordinary attention I attracted. By the time I moved to Texas, I had started wearing shirts that had high necklines, long sleeves, and hit at mid-thigh. I moved to Texas during the summer, so this was confusing for the people I met at my new job.

It’s easy in a culture full of anxiety about image to mistake this deliberate covering up as an expression of shame about the body. And basically, to have a body that is at all valued by the dominant culture and to be ashamed of that body is incorrect. The media says that it’s correct to feel shame about your body if it’s not a “good” body—if it’s too big or shaped wrong or something. “America’s Biggest Loser” is a good example of this. But if you have a culturally sanctioned body, the rule is "flaunt it while you got it." I could write a whole essay about the shaming of bodies, but I won’t try to do that right now.

My Texas co-workers told me, “You’re wearing too many clothes,” and “I bet you have pretty legs. You should let us see them.” These comments came from women, not men. OLD women. They could’ve been my grandmas. When I said, “Oh, I don’t do that,” in response, these old women told me, “Yes you can! You can do it!” as if it were only for a lack of courage that I did not show off my legs. I understand that I have a right to show my body in this culture. I get that it’s allowed, and I also get that it is nearly mandated. What is less widely understood is that nobody has a right to see my body.

I have come to understand my body differently since I became a Muslim. The Quran tells us to be in this world as if we were strangers, just passing through. This perspective encourages us to be deliberate and thoughtful in our everyday actions. If I’m a traveler in this world, my body is my vehicle. And that’s a pretty important role. I am able to experience the richness and depth of human life through my body. My body is a miracle. I walk with my legs and I type with my fingers and I see through my eyes. I hear with my ears, and somehow, I listen and I understand. It’s amazing. When I reflect on the purpose of my body and all of its capacities, it helps me understand that I am a spiritual being having a human experience—not the other way around. I experience the world through my body and somehow I am able to glimpse deeper realities.

The way I now understand my body makes me want to protect myself and the people around me from valuing my body in a way I don’t agree with. I can’t point to the exact moment I realized I wanted to change how I dressed, but I have a memory that illustrates some of the reasons behind that decision. I don’t want to pretend that I can wrap this up neatly. It’s complicated. So I’m going to tell you a story that raises a lot more questions than it answers.

I was drinking at a bar with a friend one night. She and her boyfriend knew a lot of the people there. I was wearing a low cut tie dyed t-shirt that I loved (I was an aspiring hippie). After a few drinks, I was pretty relaxed, making jokes and having, as they say, a good time. Some dude sitting across the table said, “Hey, Caitie.”
“What?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Can I touch your boobs?”
“No.”

I wasn’t really flustered. I wanted to be outraged, but I knew it had been a predictable exchange. I looked down, and my cleavage was pretty extreme, so I tugged the neckline up. I was confused about the intention behind wearing my tie dye shirt. I wanted to be attractive, I wanted to be sexy, but I didn’t want what had just happened. Honestly, I hated that bar. The first time I went there, I could feel eyes raking across my body the moment I walked in. I never really got over that feeling, but I justified continuing to go there to hang out with my friend. I know I wasn’t a hustler like Malcolm X or anything, but now, in Islam, this is a time I look back on and say Alhamdulillah. All praise is due to God. I’m thankful for whatever understanding and benefit I gained from that experience.

So, questions that come out of this story:

1. Am I saying it’s woman’s responsibility to make sure men don’t harass her? Am I blaming myself for that guy being a douche?
2. Am I saying that every time a woman shows a lil cleavage she’s turning herself into an exploitable sex object?
3. How does this fit in to conversations about the performativity of gender?

I will address these questions in future posts. Please use the comments section to post other questions that occur to you, as well as your own take on these issues. I will do my very best to keep the dialogue going inshaAllah – God willing.

Caitie's Introduction

When I entered Islam, I knew that it would be difficult for my family and friends to accept, difficult to explain to them. I also knew that the changes I wanted to make in my life would be difficult for me to accomplish, with or without their support. Since then, a lot has changed. I’ve married the love of my life, and we’ve moved several states away from family, friends, and the Muslim community who welcomed us as their own. Negotiating our way through our new environment has posed its own challenges.

The goal of this blog is to address all of these audiences in the context of the American culture we share, that we may benefit from the exchange of ideas and the illumination of human experience. I hope to deliver thoughtful, theoretically sound analysis and narrative about my life as a new American Muslim. God willing, this blog will be a starting point for meaningful conversation with family, friends, and the various communities I occupy. To my parents: I love you and this is for you. Bismillah – In the name of God.