Muslim in America: Defining an Identity

This post is by guest contributor INAL, a mixed-heritage Muslimah in America. INAL is the writer behind the blog Shadjar Al Noor . . . Really?. Her article was originally published under the title “Who are We Really as Muslims in America, Really?” on her blog and is republished here with the author’s permission. To see the original post, click this link.

Some have given what others never considered possible.

This afternoon as I was walking down the block away from my apartment building I started looking- really looking at the people that would come my way. I normally don’t do that…I just go where I have to and I leave the “Fashion” police to someone else.

But what struck me was that every one person was different from the next. Oh sure, some shared a language, a culture, a dress code (even our teenagers have their particulars)- but really no shared commonality other than living in the same area. Here in NY who people are, how they act changes from block to block; from uptown to downtown- east and west side.

I can go to the upper West-side and feel all the Dominican come right at me- the language, the music, the clothes women wear; the clothes men wear- the types of shops and the restaurants- fast food or sit down- with some of them having the “Bellonera” or jukebox blasting the latest merengue or bachata. And for a quick moment I can identify with them because they are a part of my culture- but then I remember I have hijab on- and that immediately sets me apart. Some shops who have Spanish speaking Lebanese or Jordanian will Salaam me as I pass and I greet them warmly…they get few chances to encounter another Muslim in their daily work up in “Dominican City”.

Soho is a totally different world…you have the chic boutiques and cafes; the run down book stores every one loves to come into and just sit and read- or the posh stores like Dean and Deluca or the skateboard & snowboard stores my youngest daughter loves to shop in because they also sell the kind of clothes she wears. Here its white city- and by that I mean most who live in the renovated lofts and buildings of Pre WWI and WWII are upper middle class white. It is also close to NYU and you’ll see tons of students hanging about- doing what they do when not burning the midnight oil. There again once in a while you will see a hijab- maybe a student- maybe a vendor- or a sight-seer. But rarely in a large enough group- so when I go buy something I need I get the looks, sometimes the smiles of good morning- sometimes the looks of hatred…

When we sign up our children’s life….

I remember in one of those non-credit courses I love to take at NYU a very “red neck” ex-marine sat through one of our lectures on  Afghanistan; taught by a professor who has been going there on and off for the past thirty years and a journalist by profession. This “student” was an angry man an ex-marine (considering what my son has told me about that particular branch of the service -at times I don’t blame them)-but he felt that the Muslims in the class couldn’t identify with blood and gut mentality and that while some came from war torn countries- those of us “Lily White” couldn’t comprehend his view of giving your life for your country- And he asked me point blank since he knew I had been born in America if I had done anything for my country as a Muslim? I said yes- I had signed off my only son’s life to the US government’s Navy. That when it came to sacrifices that one was a good one- had he given up his only Son’s life for “the cause”? No- he had not…the man never bothered me again.

The professor was overjoyed when we would sit after class, those of us who were Muslims and sort of have a second class with him where he learned from us- as we were all as different as night and day. He learned of the things no one really knows about Muslims- their personal lives- the lives they lead in their homes; their personal thoughts and opinions…We would talk about what it was like in Turkey, in Afghanistan, India, Lebanon, Jordan and other places.  We would bring family photos for him to look at and it enriched his life he said in ways journalism had not- because as much as he had been staying in Afghanistan he only knew some of the men; and only in certain situations. The last question he asked us was “Who are you really- as Muslims in America?”

One young guy from Lebanese parents said, “I don’t speak for anyone, but I’m just an American who happens to be Muslim is all.”

And I have to agree, I don’t have a country that is my one and only home to go back to…this is it. America is my home. Yes, Jordan and Spain and even Yemen are my ancestral homes in my heart. Yemen because it is the homeland of the man I adore; Jordan is because half of my genes comes from there and my brothers now all live there with their families…and Spain because technically that is where my mom’s family came from as Moorish as they are.

The first, second generations, even the third generation Muslim families that have another ancestral home sometimes mystify their homeland, because it helps, especially for the first generation, to cope with living in the States- others because it is their subliminal message to their offspring to keep them attached to their traditions, culture and religion. To others, only Allah knows why they say what they say, and do what they do…it is what it is.

We are threaded to one another in a fabric called Islam by the faith and its precepts we may follow completely, partially or not at all…But many of us are also American born and bred here; we don’t have those threads that bind us more tightly to particular ideas, traditions and culture…I will not, nor ever will speak for another Muslim and be their spokesperson- because we are as diverse as the drops of rain that come down on a rainy day…we just have to understand that some of us will be standing in the middle of the umbrella; some of us on its edges; and others will just stand in the rain and let it pour on them…

That to me is Islam and who we are.