Prayer of a Feminist at Koonj.

We Talk, We Walk, We Write, We Live

Check out the Muslimahs Speak Up! blog Carnival, courtesy of The Muslimah.

Hear This

My voice
for a time, lived
among mutes who signaled to it,
pantomimed,
"You are beautiful"
because it made no audible sound.

My voice
longed to speak about
wretchedness and injustice,
fear and strength,
poverty and wealth,
souls and survival,
distance and closeness,
the reachable and unattainable
dreams
and intimacy.

My voice, doubt-ridden,
instead spoke of the mundane
the unimportant
the systematic
the programed
the expected
the hierarchy
and where it fit in, at the bottom, deservedly so.

My voice
had a silent scream only heard
by it alone,
triggered by the boxing in,
the labeling of
the unimportant
the systematic
the programed
the expected
and the hierarchy, where it did not want to
fit in.

My voice
choked by the words,
choked on the words,
choked by the images
of the Alabama summers,
the police dogs
water hoses
16th St. church girls,
braided hair,
jump ropes.

My voice
was born long before I was,
determined to make sound
in places--
far places where
cries from three generations
could still be heard--
this time without dogs
or churches
or Negroes.

My voice
now resides in a place
where muting it
will only make it louder
triggered by the boxing in,
the labeling of
the unimportant
the undesired
the ugly
the marginalized
the banished
the hierarchy, where it no
longer fits in,
since everyone knows
the hierarchy is deaf.

Regalito

I am not sure if I can call what happened to me yesterday serendipitous, because it wasn't really a discovery.

I suppose it was just a heartfelt surprise gift.

I am waiting for something to happen to me that can be termed serendipitous, because I like the word. It can be its own line in a Haiku.

Anyway.

My friend picked me up to go to a lesson yesterday morning, and handed me a card she'd been waiting to give me for a week. In it was a little note, basically telling me that I work too hard and to take time out for myself; along with the sentiment was a gift certificate for a massage, and an offer to drive me to massage venue if necessary.

I love her!

Simbiosis and Bring on Da Friends!

This is from Umm Zaid's new post about ex-pats in Jordan--something I've been pondering for quite some time.

I think of our cozy community of 1100 and think, “That is more than enough space for friendships.” Because back home your community was “make do.” You might have one friend out of an entire local Muslim community. Or you might be the only one of your ethnic and language group, and so on. Here, you can meet people with similar academic interests, or spiritual interests, or life experiences (you’re married to a guy from Salt? me too!).

I love this post because I am ecstatic about how far our community in Amman has come. My first two years of living here were a crash course in the art of [forced] isolationism. After the end of the second year, I was ready to pack up my bags and flee. I lived in an area of town where I rarely saw a Westerner, was up to my elbows in dealing with life here, alone with the kids, while my husband was still able to frequent all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets or have a Chic-Fil-A chicken biscuit in the mornings on his way to work. I harbored resentment, and as much as I tried to be happy, I realized I was sorely missing something: a life.

I had to blaze my own trail and find connections. I had to move out of the neighborhood I nicknamed the ends of the earth, where taxis would refuse to go because they knew they could not get a return fare. (Hey Umm A.R., remember that time the taxi driver tried to charge you 7 JD for that ride to my house? And that was in 2002?!)

Happily, I started meeting wonderful people. Sometimes geography can really contribute to a change of heart and mind. I found my niche, my spot, my groove. And it didn't stop with the wonderful friends I met who live just blocks away from me, but continued on to the K-Town Klan, partially because of the innovative blogosphere. I started wanting to seek these people out, these ball of energy sorts who were moving over to this side of the pond. I knew we could all benefit from knowing one another. So, I showed up at Umm Zaid's door, bearing socks.

Since that time (nearly three years ago) I've continued to meet the loveliest of the lovelies. My posse is now so big I can hardly keep up with everyone. I have a kilometer-long list of people I need and want to visit. If we all tried to have a gathering, we would need to rent a stadium. (I can see that idea going over well at Sports City)

But my linking up with all of these great people does not stop with the Muslims, and this is an exciting reality, one that probably would not be realized back in the states. I have many non-Muslim friends in the US, some of whom I've been friends with since elementary school. I treasure those relationships. Meeting ladies like MommaBean, with whom I share a very similar upbringing, not to mention home state; and Kinzi, whose philosophies on so many subjects are carbon copies of mine, has been just wonderful. I'm blessed, blessed, blessed, and I need these interfaith connections.

So to prevent myself from breaking into a Barbara Streisand Funny Girl classic tune, I'll leave it at that.

Good Old Gross Stuff

So I had a guest last night who dropped by for a little conversation and some dinner. Her parents are out of town and she is not the most adept cook, so I obliged her. I love it when this friend comes over. She understands snippets of English here and there, but in no way can she comprehend the chipmunkish chatter of my little ones.

After dinner I offered her some Turkish coffee and a few of those little sweets you see street vendors selling here--the ones that are tan in color and very chewy, and either covered in pistachios or coconut or something. I am not a great fan of these things, but my son (100% Arab) loves them. I'll eat them in a pinch, and by 'pinch' I mean that desperation when there is absolutely nothing sweet in the house save a kilo of white sugar and possibly a half-eaten gum drop or something. Apparently my youngest daughter was willing to give this unnamed sweet a try, so she took one in her hand, bit off the top, and bellowed,

"Hey, this stuff is ear wax! It's ear wax!!!! But I'll eat it anyway." And down the hatch it went.

My oldest daughter and I roared with laughter, but my guest, who was in mid ear wax nibble, did not understand why we were laughing. She suddenly looked self-conscious. I calmed her fears and let my eldest translate, since my brain was not able to translate ear wax. It's just not a term I've run across as a learner of the Arabic.

My guest burst into laughter. If she can joke about gross bodily function type stuff while eating and visiting, she is definitely 'one of us.' Moreover, she can actually continue to munch on the object of our gross stuff fun-poking.

Ahla wa sahla, always.

And that stuff most definitely looks like ear wax.

On Ownership

I told my sister yesterday that I am in one of those funks where I feel as if my life is not my own.

"Well, it isn't," she replied, frankly. I knew from her tone that she knew exactly what I meant, and I also knew that she was right.

There may be some religious chat coming up, so if you shy away from that, go do a crossword puzzle or something.

My life is not my own: the premise. Let's dissect.

1. As a rational human being who also believes in God, I know my life is not mine in the religious sense, because I know that one day this bodily form of mine will die, and my soul will reside neither in, nor on, nor around this earth. I am a visitor in this world and I belong to my Creator. He can take me when and how He sees fit. What I choose to do with this temporary life is the test, so in that regard, I need to try to be at the top of my game. I will (and do) surely falter. Often.

2. As a rational human being who also happens to be a wife and mother, my life is not my own when we speak in terms of time. I give most of my time not to myself but rather to others who need me. I am in a perpetual state of caregiving. I choose to participate in the raising of my kids and their well-being; I've known plenty of folks who, let's say, are completely 'hands off' when it comes to being a parent. However, this perpetual state has, on occasion, worn me down to the point where I ask myself, "Who am I, anyway?" This, I believe, is a danger sign, and is one of many. (others might be: mental breakdown, rage, repeated crying spells, snappiness, withdrawal from social events--I'm only speculating here, ladies)

3. As a rational human being who also thinks she is somewhat bright and has something to offer the world, these danger signs are 'wake-up' calls to let her know that she needs to reevaluate her life and try to assume some semblance of ownership. Six-day work weeks and absolutely no time for relaxation or self-indulgence, or just 'down time' where she does not feel inclined to be the best mother or wife or housekeeper, or the ability to tell herself that it is ok to be at the bottom of her game--these are the moments she must allow herself to have in order to regain the slightest bit of autonomy.

I have more on this but have decided to take a time-out for thirty minutes, until they all start pouring in the door, hungry.

Now, several hours later, I have returned to the helm.

4. As a rational human being, believer in God, mother and wife, and semi-with-it-smart person, I acknowledge that I strive to maintain a deep and growing respect for my spouse. I do, however, believe that women, not men, are the glue holding most families together. As an esteemed teacher, Umm al-Khayr, once said, "Men need a steady supply of admiration and attention." I admire my husband on various levels, but most of all I admire his commitment to us, and in keeping his commitment, he must go out and face the ugly challenges of working. He is stressed, most of his days. He needs me to give him more than he is able to give me.
Sometimes I resent this. There are those oddball sort of men who say things like, "Hey honey, let me take all four of our kids and your best friend's five kids off of your hands for a few hours, so you and your best friend can go and relax--you know, get a cup of coffee, and unwind." (This really happened the other day at Little League; the brother who said this is not a phantom husband, he's real.) And when those situations crop up, I sometimes feel resentful.

5. Back to the glue part! I digress(ed).
As a rational human being, believer in God, mother and wife, semi-smart person, and gatekeeper of spousal respect, I do not feel inclined to play the martyr. I do not want anyone, especially my children, to feel sorry for me or bend over backwards to point out how much I do, so I can say something smarmy like, "Oh, it's nothing." It is something; all that I do for everyone around me IS something, whether tangible (like a hot meal) or intangible (like listening to my pre-teen talk about her day). I do, however, need to emphasize from time to time that we women are the glue. THE GLUE. We are not typically the ones running off to start new relationships after divorce or death of a spouse. We seem needy because society has historically labeled us thus. But we women should know that our strengths far outweigh any neediness.

6. As a rational human being, believer in God, smart and respectful and glue-ish wife and mom, non-martyr, I must find those spaces to fit in that only belong to me. I must be stingy with my self-worth. I will not hop up on the auction block so that others may bid on my strengths. I must find my voice at the appropriate time and use it at the appropriate time. I must give of myself healthfully, not disparagingly, so that at the end of the day or year or decade, I do not see a shell. I must grow. And if the affirmation I seek does not come from others, I must find the means to affirm from within.

Aha!

I was certain today was Thursday. Before sleeping last night, I had mentally prepared myself for my usual Thursday routine, which consists of trying to clean the house nicely to prepare for Friday, my husband's only day off. Also, every Thursday evening a lovely friend drops by for a cup of coffee and a chat, and I always look forward to seeing her. She is 11 years my younger, but is a pillar of maturity and introspection; not to mention, she loves my kids and engages them in all kinds of conversations about what they are interested in, what they are reading, or what Quranic surahs they might be working on. My eldest is currently memorizing Surat al-Baqarah, while my son just finished Surat Yasin. MashaAllah wal hamdulillah.

Last week my friend provided my daughter with all sorts of nifty study strategies (which all kids here need), as well as tricks to help her memorize Quran more easily.

Alas, today is only Wednesday. I have more time to prepare myself for the weekend, as well as more time to contemplate the 'a-ha!' moment that I had with my friend last week. I do believe she is an excellent choice as a mentor for my children--someone from outside of the family, not too far removed from their generation, yet adult enough to help them along their paths. I had mentors growing up and they were invaluable people in my life.

More on this later, inshaAllah; have been offered a ride to the supermarket and I must take it.

Stroll Down Memory Boulevard, with Jiffy Pop

Here's my sister, at her blog, with her own clever quizzola to see how old you are. She and I were born nearly a generation apart (with a generation being approximately 14 years). I must admit some of the items on the list I am not familiar with; others I know only through the osmosis of my older siblings' storytelling. Some I do indeed remember. Do drop by for a gander, it's wunnerful, wunnerful.

Flim Flam Part II

Saturday we had a gathering to congratulate some hajjis and to also congratulate a sister (also one of the hajjis) on her new home. MashaAllah. Oh! It was also an iftar because most of us were fasting for A'ashoora. It was a three-birds-with-one-stone kind of party; aren't those the best?

I love these kind of gatherings because they include sisters from all walks of life. K-Town, or Hay al Kharabsheh, a neighborhood here in Amman, probably boasts the most ex-pats concentrated in a single square kilometer of this city. You've got your Britons, your Pakistani-Americans, Pakistani-Canadians, Indian-Canadians, just plain Canadians, Australians--I could go on and on. Most of them are students of knowledge who have come to Amman to live and study. Some are murids of Sheikh Nuh of the Shadhili tariqa. Others are murids and are studying Arabic language at Qasid Institute, while some folks work for Islamica Magazine or Shukr Clothing. Many of these ex-pats have completely transplanted their lives and have committed to raising their children here in Amman. Kharabsheh is an amazing place to visit. I am not a murid nor a member of the tariqa, but I have never been greeted with anything but warm, welcoming handshakes or embraces. If you want to see light in Muslims' faces, K-Town is a place to behold.

Along with the Kharabsheh sisters, many sisters from the various email groups or study groups here in Amman also joined the festivities. We are a sisterhood, I tell you. Recently one of my friends from the U.S. was visiting me. She observed the phone calls I received from my friends and remarked about how comforting it was for her to know that I was 'in good hands' here. I left behind many beautiful, dear sisters in the states, but Allah did not close the door on friendship to me when I moved to Jordan. SubhanAllah, subhanAllah, subhanAllah, I am blessed beyond my descriptive abilities with women in my life who are pure treasures, on two continents.

So there we were at the housewarming/hajji fiesta, and there was singing. Most of the sisters from West Amman are not used to singing at gatherings, I think. I may be completely off base, but I feel there is a sort of preconception that group singing will lead to group dhikr which will, by default, lead to dervishy spinning or something. I am not quite sure why we feel intimidated by passing out song books and singing songs that praise Allah and our beloved Prophet, peace and blessings of Allah be upon him. As I've said before, I read Arabic with the speed and ease of a first grader; my intimidation with song books could be that I can't keep up with the nine year-olds whose first language is not Arabic. I have, however, reached a plateau of understanding in my life that tells me this: I have much to learn from the students of knowledge.

When the young boys at the gathering sat down in the middle of the room to share their singing talents with us, I had to hold back tears. Before they sang, I heard them in the kitchen discussing which songs they were going to sing and how many verses, etc., and they were completely exuberant in their speech and were bouncing around with excitement. How can we discredit an enthusiasm so pure? While most of our children on this winter break are fighting over the remote control or whatever, these kids don't have televisions. They aren't spoiled beyond spoiled. They say "Assalamu Alaikum" when approached by an adult, and they say it with conviction, unlike so many of the kids in West Amman who only know "ahleyn" or who offer a limp and unenthusiastic hand when greeting adults. Of course the K-Town kids are all still basically kids at heart: they talk back, get into mischief, fight with their siblings, etc. But they have something different in their faces, something beautiful I can't quite describe.

Living here has taught me so much. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to meet, well, everyone.

Ay Me Achin' 'Ead

This post may or may not appeal to any non-Muslim readers I have, so if you feel you want to skip on by, my feelings will remain in tact.

I didn't want to read these things, but I did. I admit it. I am a glutton for punishment, unable to resist a hot topic every now and again. As a result, I now have a headache I just tried to kill with two aspirin and a few swigs of CocaCola. Oh, and a small cup of Nescafe.

Umar Lee talks about white Muslim converts: real or faux?

Bin Gregory retorts and brings up great points about White Muslims, esp. men.

UmmZaid writes about observations I've made time and time again. The question is, why? Why do I keep making these observations? Namely, this one about white Muslim female converts:

"And I want to say that despite all of the jokes and denigration people direct at White sisters (esp. those who came to Islam after marriage), some of the most heartbroken, saddest people I have ever met are White sisters in a cross-cultural marriage. They’re just trying to get through this life with some taqwa, and what they get from all sides is a whole lotta nothin’."

I read those two sentences over and over. Instantly, a dozen or more images of sisters I have known in my thirteen years of being a Muslim flashed through my mind. Sad, sad sisters, sisters who wanted to know what was intrinsically wrong with them, why they were so unhappy, why they were misunderstood, unaccepted, or marginalized, either within their communities, their own homes, or both. I saw, in my mind's eye, women who used to be mentors to myself and dozens of other new Muslimahs, who if I saw on the street today, I would not know or recognize. I saw sisters who have left their religion, not after one year or three years, but after fifteen or more years of learning their deen and raising their children in it. I saw sisters who convinced themselves that if they had only been prettier or thinner or learned to cook all of the complicated Arabic dishes just like his Mama or what if he had not been so hard to please, or whatever other ridiculous 'what ifs' that can finish these statements. All of these women were or are in cross-cultural marriages, and came into these marriages for the long haul. Happily ever after.

Some of them, like myself, married their husbands with no real religious identity. Others made drastic changes, from Catholicism to Islam, Southern Baptist to Islam, etc. Some sisters I know studied the deen for years and years before accepting Islam as their faith. But I must say, I know no one, and I mean no one, who was ever coerced into accepting Islam as her religion. On the contrary, many of us embraced Islam and our husbands said, "Hey, she's serious about this, I'd better fly right." And then came the children.

I honestly do not understand why when or how we sisters accepted Islam is of any bearing on what we make of our choices. Taking shahadah is the first step in a lifelong task of seeking knowledge. We have thousands of choices to make on this trip, and consequences for each one made.

Why is it, then, that when the troubles might start to brew in our marriages, or with our health, or within our extended families (in-laws!) that we make the wrong choices? We may choose to give too much of ourselves, leaving no room for spiritual growth or for even time enough in our days for sitting down to read three pages of a text. Or we may turn inwards, squelching our once vibrant personalities, trading our creativity for the mundane--in essence, erasing ourselves. We may become so full of resentment towards our situations or others that we begin to accept the labels we are given. We don't deserve the good that comes our way, fun = guilt, personal time is not ours anymore. If we lose too much of ourselves, we may look for a scapegoat. Guess what is often first to be blamed?

It's that Islam.

Falling into a sinkhole is not our religion's fault. Get out of it. Stop being sad. All believers will one day be tested. Our tests may come in many shapes and forms; when the rough times rain down on us, and they will, do we turn our face away from our Lord?

We can get through this life with taqwa. And if all we get back in this life is a whole lot of nothing, so be it. Persevere.

Where We are From: The Poetry

Assalamu Alaikum
Let me just start by saying that I was thrilled to receive seven poetry entries in addition to my own. Each one demonstrates compassion, creativity and individuality, and diversity. I wept when I read some of them; the imagery is just that strong. These poems are a reminder of how we are shaped by our surroundings, but at the same time do not have to be imprisoned by them--it's the gift of choice and free will and of course, the will of God.
I hope you enjoy these as much as I have, and I want to thank those who submitted poems for being able to 'dig down' and share themselves. Cathartic, indeed. Coincidentally (or not), every entry is from a female, and each of us is a convert to Islam. SubhanAllah.

Where I'm From
by Umm Abdur-Rahman

I am from a little cul-de-sac, a dead end in a long and winding road; from my granny's cobbler made with blackberries picked on the side of the river road on a lazy summer day.

I am from the first house built on the block, the house that stood alone for so long. The house filled with a little girl's memories of days long gone; the house waiting patiently for that little girl to return. A house whose days darkened with great sorrow and later brightened with even greater joy. Dashed hopes, unfulfilled dreams overcome with a mother's stubborn determination and independent will. Forgiveness and love.

I am from wicker baskets filled with dried lavender leaves and African violets blooming in the kitchen window.

I am from Friday night football games cheering on my Eagles in a stadium bearing my father's name. From cutting cute blonde bangs on the front steps of an old green house; from Big Ma, Pa Ed, and As Levan.

I am from blind, unconditional love and Granny Roy's hugs that could heal any broken heart. From the golden child aspiring to keep a dream cut short alive, to finding the self no one could have foreseen.

I am from everywhere. Saturday night gospel singings at the Walker County Auditorium and family Bible readings beside an unlit fire. Rex Humbard saving the souls of the heathen on TV and Ernest Angsley healing only those who believed. It's a wonder how I found my way; from Sunday Schools and VBS to Friday prayers and Ramadan. What a shock for those I loved. What a shock for me.

I'm from Cairns' and Gullihorn's and Levan's I never knew. And from Roy's who run as deep in my blood as the water runs deep in the sea. The deep South: southern Belles and rebel flags. Chilton County peaches and pecans off the tree behind Mama Clara's house. Pecan pie.

From valiant young grandfathers who fought bravely in 1943, and the lovelorn grandmothers who waited back at home faithfully, the early ending memories of a man I never really knew.

I am from independent women and hard-working men. From a sister I love and a brother I wish I really knew. From a mother who tried to understand and "father" who does the best he can. Thank you God for giving me what you have. Life is nothing more than our memories and my memories are grand.
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Where I'm From
by Umm Ihsan

I am from my current car's driver seat, from Hershey Bar and guilt-ridden Butter Pecan ice cream.

I am from the yard with dead grass, a small house you almost miss each time you pass, and the smell of fear of failure from parenting a first-time teen; an obedient and possibly ignored middle child, along with the God-willing confident, not spoiled little princess.

I am from the poison ivy, Magnolia, pollen-filled air; the flowing ferns, Chrysanthemums, and a big ball of flower made up of tiny flowers, such as life.

I am from bedtime reading and self-doubt and self-deprecating; from Lavern and Jimmie Ruth and Delhi Bell, and Ba-ba-ba-ba Barbara Ann.

I am from the not often seen but closely felt family, and of those of deep religious convictions, and some just convicted and paroled.

From "don't chew with your mouth open" and "lying is the worst thing you can do."

I am from the Church of Christ trained to be a Muslim, raised where women were the caretakers of religion, to choosing a religion where men are accused of being religious zealots.

I am from the woods of Alabama; cornbread and molokhia.

From the grandfather with addictions that has added fire to the argument "genetics versus environment;" the same man who passed along to his descendants the resolve to fight those addictions, and the tragedy of loss before that lesson is learned well enough.

I am from the fountain in the Morocco section of Epcot; sand castles on the beach, family picnics on rocks beside Jordanian roads, and photos in front of the car on the first day of school.

I am from cracked plaster and painted hand prints of pre-schoolers, saved childhood artwork--mine and theirs; small plastic rings from a grocery store-bought wedding cake and a budget-restricted honeymoon purchase of a small basket of soaps that have lost their smell.

I am from good intentions that don't pave the road to Hell; people with a healthy work ethic, people-pleasers with integrity, the salt of the earth, struggling not to be defined by this Earth.
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Where I'm From
by Fatima Jess
Blog: Writing Every Day Angel

I am from a crystal clear mirror, from Black and Decker and where the trees grow tall.

I am from the bi-level house on a hill with a gravel driveway.

I am from the peony bushes, the lilacs, and tiger lilies.

I am from those who like to play pinochle and 500, and those who tend to complain; from Darlene and Dolores and Michael.

I am from the fishermen of lakes and bakers of cookies, of cooks of homemade noodles.

From "pick up your socks" and "lick your plate clean."

I am from the Irish and German Catholics. From the small country churches with a saint in each stained glass window, and church suppers in the basement.

I'm from the land of 10,000 lakes, the people of small towns, meat and potatoes.

From the aunt who wishes she was married to her boyfriend of 14 years--the guy is a mother's baby but we still view him as a member of the family--and the slobby uncle who calls about his problems all at the wrong times.

I am from the cabinet and underwear drawers, from the Two Rivers Creek, the wonderfulness of it all. That's where I'm from.
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Where I'm From
by Aaminah Hernandez
Blog: Writeous Sister Speaks

I am from furniture, from Meijer and fishing and fireflies.

I am from the haunted house, in a haunted neighborhood, smells of smoke, children's squeals after dark.

I am from the apple blossom, the burial mounds and rushing river.

I am from Christmas boxes of candy and fruit and adoption, from Lamerson by birth and Irwin and Franks.

I am from frequent yelling, in happiness and anger, and midnight drives to Mississippi.

From "the boy who cried wolf" and powwow songs and stories.

I am from the Midwest Christianity in the midst of the CRC. From church on Sunday morning and night, missionary work, and supper time Bible memorization. I am from freethinking that caused me to choose a different path.

I am from Montana unseen by way of Kalamazoo, frybread and corn in history, meatloaf and lasagna in reality.

From those who walked with MLK and those who screamed in his face, the plantation owners, and the boarding school and reservation lifers.

I am from a hope chest and cardboard boxes in closets concealing memories that I do not have in my mind. Also from photos that were promised to be sent but never were, a father's face forever unknown, but a dad's face well-documented and remembered; one mother never to be found, but a mom who is the keeper of the stories.
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Where I'm From
Umm Omar--Nicole Bovey

I am from a refinery town, a port of brackish water; from Wonder bread with margarine and Veg-All.

I am from a house with a huge front picture window, a yard with a Sears swing set and a detached garage for booming race cars.

I am from Eucalyptus and Palm, Redwood and Ice Plant.

I am from the Boveys of red hair and the Hawkins' of pig farming, yet I barely knew any of them.

I am from the folks of little patience and loud voices who loved dancing to the record player and baking sweets continuously.

I am from Mid-West stock and family values, transplanted into the California climate, which defrosted and melted away. Never baptized so I could find myself, and when I did, the choice was wrong.

I'm from "Benicia by the Bay," Home of the Exxon Refinery and the once highly disputed capital of California.

From a "Grounds for Divorce" race car driver and the local town activist; sister of the boy who never quite grew up but had a smile and a hand shake for everyone.

I am from fog horns in the night, walks on Main Street, a well worn library card and friends who still call me by name.
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Where I'm From
by Ukht Noor al-Madinia
Blog: Al Miskeenah

I am from a shiny black salty spread, from Vegemite and Arnott's Teddy Bear Biscuits.

I am from the foamy frothy steam of fresh milk squirting from cows and goats udders.

I am from the aroma of eucalyptus, the kookaburra laughing high in the silvery gray green gum trees amidst a sun burnt land.

I am from fossickers of gold and hoarders of fossils and thrifty grandmas stooped over smoky wood burning fires making damper; from Emily, Lilla, Emma, Vera, Matt, Gebhard and Lars.

I am from horses' panting breath snorting in crisp early morning fogs, while kangaroos jump and bash through the bush and rabbits steal tender young shoots from the veggie patch.

From cabbage patches where the stork delivers new babies and roosters kiss hens to create eggs.

I am from 'pseudo-in-name-only Christians' who shoved the children off to church while guardians bogeyed--or whatever. Alhamdulillah, little did they know that God is the best of Planners...instilling a love of stories of the Prophets and a quest for TRUTH, eventually leading to His most blessed gift of Hidayah.

I'm from Tambo Upper skirting the pristine High Plains, settled after migration from Viking lands, adopting the cuisine of the sweet delicate pavlovas and lamingtons.

From grandpa's forbidden woodshed where fearful tales of bats flying into long golden tresses becoming entwined forever, were told as threats. Of his nearby beehives emitting the heady sweet smell of their ceaseless working. And from the other Pop, the practical joker who would attack us with 'little fleas'...tiny pincer-like pinches, biting squirming, squealing bodies.

I am from pungent smelling peppercorn trees festooned with psychedelic caterpillars, gawky kids scrambling around rock pools chasing crabs, fantasizing in mirror-like reflections, rewarded for 'good' behavior with a thick syrupy chocolate milkshake.

From a heady concoction of old fashioned trademarks of honesty, simplicity, contentment with little, and yet lots of hand-me-downs; unpolluted challenges born long before the idiot box preyed on innocent hearts and souls. Where respect, gratitude, creativity and happiness danced with loving smiles...all this and more from surrogate parents; selfless grandparents.
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Where I'm From
by Umm Taleb

I am from linen, from Ivory soap and salty ocean waters.

I am from the suburban, middle, double-garaged, straight-laced come all undone and frayed in just the right places and times.

I am from the arbutus, lilacs, bark mulch, the wisteria gone wild, gooseberries and walnut tree leaves turning to musk.

I am from cottage summers and stubbornness, from military grandfathers and home baked raisin bread grandmothers, and that ever-laughing aunt.

I am from intensity, privacy with conversations that block out the world to be broken by a cackle and making like all is well.

From putting family first and not bringing home any babies if you aren't wed.

I am from the sweetness of following the last Prophet in submitting to the Sublime.

I'm from the Manitoban cold and kilt wearing stock, date-squares, pancakes, and Yorkshire pudding.

From the first wife's mysterious disappearance in the marriage to 18 year-old Anne, the etiquette and table manners of saucers put to discourage elbows.

I am from the coast, but my heart and love lies in the desert, here. Sentimentality is not a trait I carry, so my memories are my mementos I take with me where I like. Cold stone and clear blue skies keep my heart clean and my focus straight. Here I am, put salt in water and remember the ocean breeze.
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Where I'm From
by Umm Farouq
Blog: Right here

I am from pom-poms and hand-me-down furnishings; from kitchen hutches, from Bama Jelly on toast paired with Saturday mornings rooting for Captain Caveman.

I am from up on Cripple Creek where I never got mended, from a land of penny-pinching in the midst of opulence, from a microcosm of divorced women with daughters trying to break the mold, and a voice inside urging me to leave. Fast.

I am from Magnolia trees that shed and old men's faces carved from driftwood; from honeysuckle-sucking marathons to back handsprings performed atop daisy chains that made green fingernails. I am from longing for a yard to call my own, something more than a potted plant in styrofoam.

I am from Thanksgiving in Montgomery and the "Crazy Heart," from Big Mama and Daniel Belton, from Ruby Gaye and Clifton Earl.

I am from substance abuse, both covert and open-door; from AA meetings and smoke-filled rooms; from a need to find my self, and from senses of humor that make a belly laugh look like a snicker.

From "you have the vomiting virus" to "Lord willing and the creek don't rise," which it did, once, and swallowed up our little car.

I am from Episcopal Day School to Methodist Hand Bell Choir to Church of Christ Baptism, which lead to Bono and his troop make more sense than all of that, to Muhammad is the last Messenger of God, prostrating with a tear-streaked face at the House of Allah in Mecca. What a long, strange, trip it's been.

From the HHS Patriots, merry Old English roots and the land where Prophets walked; from cream-chipped beef on toast, cornbread dressing and--can grape leaves fit in here somewhere?

From the mother who was grabbed by a hobo and jumped out of her slippers, who loves her daughters; from the father who tap-danced and flashed a brilliant smile, winning her heart; from the grandmother who walked barefoot on slippery rocks with her Cherokee grandma who gave me my cheekbones; from the uncle who was a weapon for the government.

I am from a Currier and Ives tin filled with chronology, from that instant Polaroid that took the best photos; from "look how thin we were" to "look how wise we've become." I am from self-loathing that turned to love, from self-destruction that turned to confidence, from an airtight sisterhood of bravery and compassion, guiding me, loving me, smilingly.
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Thank you, sisters.

Poems, Time Wasted, and Ramadan

So far the poems I have received are outstanding. Bravo, writers (and those who think they are not writers, but I know better).

I'm still hoping to get something from someone living in Asia, besides myself and the other gal (you know who you are). More specifically, somewhere outside of Jordan. Any takers? Anyone?

Anyhow, after I post the poems, I plan to take a small hiatus of sorts during Ramadan. I'll just have too much on my plate (or not!) and I need to do some introspection and have lots of quality family time.

I love Ramadan. I just love it. Last year I was making Umrah and it was amazing. That's also when I started this blog, or at least regular blogging. I feel as if I have 'met' so many talented, thoughtful, incisive brothers and sisters this year through this blogging venue. I have also had to learn how easy it is to get caught up in wanting to read everything everyone writes. I now know my limitations. I give myself one hour each morning, and one hour each evening, and still I think, gee, I know I could be doing many more productive things with my two hours I give to blogging/blog reading. It's almost tragic. Strike that, it IS tragic.

So today I joined a sisters' challenge to memorize the first five ayat of Surat al-Mulk from the Qu'ran during Ramadan. Five ayat. Not much. In order to accomplish this, however, I know that if I turn my computer on, I must directly visit the recitation page I use to help myself memorize. I am a disaster at memorization. I can read Arabic like a 2nd grader on good days. I am shy to recite aloud. I am admittedly jealous of those who were born with Arabic as their first language and who do not appreciate the gift of being able to read and comprehend. Moreover, I am angered by those who let that gift sit dormant, never bothering to read the words revealed in that glorious book.

Along with the normal Ramadan food drive that my posse here in Amman participates in, I told my children we have to do some extras, especially regarding the underpriveleged children. I do not understand how the general population is going to feed their families and clothe their children at Eid this year. The prices here for everyday basics keep skyrocketing, not to mention the insane consumerism of the haves that make items like oil and rice cost a pretty qirsh. No, I will not pay 25 JD for a blouse for my five year-old, made in China, sure to unravel after its third washing. But someone will, and so it goes.

One of my most beautiful memories during Ramadan here in Jordan was an iftar (breaking of the fast at sundown) spent at a Quran center where dozens of orphans came to break their fast. They recited Quran for us and then sang us a song, whose lyrics were something like,

"All I've ever wanted in my life was to call someone Baba,

To take his shoes off when he comes home from work and ask him about his day,

To say goodnight and kiss and hug..."

You get the drift. Dry eyes from me or my kids? No way. I have raised a group of softy mush-heads, like their mama. And they need to keep their softness, to not become numb to all the suffering in the world; they must know how to give without being prompted or preached at.

Another great memory for me was my first Ramadan here, in 2002. I was desperately trying to find a masjid where the same Quran center mentioned above was hosting an iftar for orphans. My kids and I were used to spending every Ramadan evening in the US at the mosque, where we would all break our fasts together. I was driving in the car, not knowing where I was going, relying on unreliable directions. I came upon a beautiful masjid, and the athan (call to prayer) was beginning to sound. I jumped out of the car and asked a brother outside, "Is there an iftar here?"

He smiled at me, and said, "Welcome, sister, there is no iftar here, but I can offer you some dates and juice and water." He thought I was looking for a place to eat. I'll never forget the look on his face.

Let me put my advice to use and get off of this computer now. My heartfelt salams to all of you as we embark upon this holy month of Ramadan. For my non-Muslim readers, this is a wonderful time to get to know some Muslims, to join an interfaith dialogue or to visit a local community center and share in breaking the fast.

Peace to you all.

Open Mike

I want to open a sisters' coffee shop, or shoppe, depending on your locale of origin.

(Jack, perhaps I'll open it near the theatre in the centre of towne.)

I want to let Umm Zaid and all of the other poets out there come and spew. Let it out en voz alta, packing a punch.

There will be no smoking of Gaullouise nasties or arguilas or anything. Se prohibe fumar. Period.

I'll serve:

1. American coffee
2. Dr. Pepper
3. Root Beer
4. Ice cream
5. Sweetened iced tea

I'll offer some baked go0ds from time to time: my cheesecake, carrot cake, and maybe a brownie or two.

And we'll spew. It'll be craaazy.

Friday Prayer

Today will be my first attendance of a Friday prayer in Birmingham in a very long time. I'm hoping to see some familiar faces inshaAllah.

Yesterday's Birmingham News included an article about prayer. Right now they are asking people to pray for rain, both individually and in congregation. That is nothing new to me. My kids' school holds congregational prayers for rain often in Jordan. It works.

Visiting with old friends has put a permanent smile on my face. Yesterday I laughed so hard I had to struggle to catch my breath. SubhanAllah, one never knows how he touches lives or affects memories. I was reminded of things I did or said (or performed) yesterday...things I had completely forgotten or had pushed to the far corners of my itsy bitsy brain.

If you have a chance, tell your friends how much they mean to you. These beautiful relationships of mine have been on pause for years and years, and the gift of being able to just pick up where we left off is something precious. Ah, sisterhood.

Anchorage

Thanks for reading, person in Anchorage, Alaska!

I used to love that song, Anchorage, by Michelle Shocked. At the time, I was only 18 so I didn't truly understand about those female connections with old, dear friends. You know, the ones that develop after you've moved away from your hometown and married, had a few kids, and watched yourself transform into the precise thing you thought you were running from. And then you say, "I think I'm a housewife" or "I gave up playing the cello to raise a family" or "I'll put my education on hold until the kids are married and my head is full of grey hair." Anyhow, the lyrics:

I took time out to write to my old friend
I walked across that burning bridge
Mailed my letter off to Dallas
But her reply came from Anchorage, Alaska

She said: Hey girl it's about time you wrote
It's been over two years you know, my old friend
Take me back to the days of the foreign telegrams
And the all-night rock 'n rollin'
Hey Chel, we was wild then

Hey Chel, you know it's kinda funny
Texas always seems so big
But you know you're in the largest state in the Union
When you're anchored down in Anchorage

Hey girl I think the last time I saw you
Was on me and Leroy's wedding day
What was the name of that love song you played?
I forgot how it goes
I don't recall how it goes

Anchorage
Anchored down in Anchorage

Leroy got a better job so we moved
Kevin lost a tooth, now he's started school
I got a brand new eight month old baby girl
I sound like a housewife
Hey Chel, I think I'm a housewife

Hey girl what's it like to be in New York?
New York City, imagine that!
Tell me, what's it like to be a skateboard punk rocker?
Leroy says, "Send a picture"
Leroy says, "Hello!"
Leroy says, "Aw, keep on rocking girl"
Yeah, keep on rocking

Hey Chel, you know it's kinda funny
Texas always seems so big
But you know you're in the largest state in the Union
When you're anchored down in Anchorage
Oh, Anchorage
Anchored down in Anchorage
Oh, Anchorage

Do you ever feel anchored down?