Thursday, April 26, 2007
Sunday, April 22, 2007
Thursday, April 5, 2007
On Religion and Friendship
Dear Best Friend,
After your barrage of text messages this morning and that heavy silence on the phone last night, the only thing that is clear is that I haven't been. I know it is difficult for you to understand this new part of my life, but I hope you'll begin to see that this new part of me is no threat to you. You know me as Katie, the girl who loves to have a good time, the one who is always outrageous, usually outspoken; I have been your friend since we were six. We've had so many experiences together - running away from home and hiding under the stairs in our snowsuits (third grade, we didn't want to finish our homework), my awful taste in clothes in the late 80s and your ponytail-only phase. You were always the pretty one, the most popular girl in class. I was a close second, but looked up to you, without you knowing it. My mother still talks about your incredible people skills. "_____," she says, "always uses a peoples' names and looks them in the eye." It's true. You do.
We've grown up together, and despite my moving away twice, we've always started back where we left off. Now, I'm afraid that maybe things will become a little bit more complicated. Parts of me have been in development for a long time. I've been afraid to tell you about them.
I've been afraid because I always want to meet you for brunch and drink cappuccino and talk about our lives; I've been afraid because I love the way your family loves me as their own. I've been afraid because a part of me is uncertain as to whether our friendship is too close to the surface to withstand immense change. But I am changing. Or at least a part of me is recognizing a need for change. And I think that maybe all of this may have been avoided had I just told you about what I believe from the beginning.
It started five years ago, at least. I heard recitation of the Qur'an and started to cry (in public). I felt incredible fear and connection in that moment. I pushed the feeling aside. But it didn't stay away. The next time I heard the call to prayer at the Jean Talon Market, it happened again.
Maybe this would be easier for you to understand if it was about a boy, but it isn't. Maybe it would be easier for you to understand if I were in the midst of a breakdown, but I'm not. I am not crazy, and I'm not trying to be something else for anyone else. And really, I'm not changing. I'm just sort of accepting what I've always been.
I have always been muslim, I think, and what may seem to you to be a very fast and immediate process is really about five years of kicking and screaming, being dragged towards Islam in many different ways, for me. I began to learn Arabic for more reasons than I told you or anyone else. I wanted to understand what made me cry.
I didn't want to affiliate with any religion: I've always been of the belief that as humans we use our religious beliefs as a dogmatic excuse to allow our differences to divide us. I wanted no part in that. I still don't. People are what ruin religion with politics. Ideology is what causes us to fracture and divide. But when I hear about Islam, and when I read about it, something within me listens, even if I close my ears. All I can tell you is that I believe that there is a better way, and I'm going to follow it, even if that means explaining this to you.
But I'm not going anywhere. I'm still going to love you, and shop with you and drink coffee with you. I'm going to raise my children to love and respect your children. I'm still going to come to shabat dinner if I'm invited, and cuddle with you on your feather bed when I visit. A few things might change outwardly, though. I might cover my head one day. I'll drink juice instead of wine at your wedding, and I might need to get up a bit earlier to pray. But the good news is, neither of us will be eating bacon.
I will not allow our friendship to become a political battleground, or a venue for misplaced fear. I love you, and the things that you fear I'll lose, I'll keep them, don't worry.
I'm still me, I'm still your best friend, and I love you.
After your barrage of text messages this morning and that heavy silence on the phone last night, the only thing that is clear is that I haven't been. I know it is difficult for you to understand this new part of my life, but I hope you'll begin to see that this new part of me is no threat to you. You know me as Katie, the girl who loves to have a good time, the one who is always outrageous, usually outspoken; I have been your friend since we were six. We've had so many experiences together - running away from home and hiding under the stairs in our snowsuits (third grade, we didn't want to finish our homework), my awful taste in clothes in the late 80s and your ponytail-only phase. You were always the pretty one, the most popular girl in class. I was a close second, but looked up to you, without you knowing it. My mother still talks about your incredible people skills. "_____," she says, "always uses a peoples' names and looks them in the eye." It's true. You do.
We've grown up together, and despite my moving away twice, we've always started back where we left off. Now, I'm afraid that maybe things will become a little bit more complicated. Parts of me have been in development for a long time. I've been afraid to tell you about them.
I've been afraid because I always want to meet you for brunch and drink cappuccino and talk about our lives; I've been afraid because I love the way your family loves me as their own. I've been afraid because a part of me is uncertain as to whether our friendship is too close to the surface to withstand immense change. But I am changing. Or at least a part of me is recognizing a need for change. And I think that maybe all of this may have been avoided had I just told you about what I believe from the beginning.
It started five years ago, at least. I heard recitation of the Qur'an and started to cry (in public). I felt incredible fear and connection in that moment. I pushed the feeling aside. But it didn't stay away. The next time I heard the call to prayer at the Jean Talon Market, it happened again.
Maybe this would be easier for you to understand if it was about a boy, but it isn't. Maybe it would be easier for you to understand if I were in the midst of a breakdown, but I'm not. I am not crazy, and I'm not trying to be something else for anyone else. And really, I'm not changing. I'm just sort of accepting what I've always been.
I have always been muslim, I think, and what may seem to you to be a very fast and immediate process is really about five years of kicking and screaming, being dragged towards Islam in many different ways, for me. I began to learn Arabic for more reasons than I told you or anyone else. I wanted to understand what made me cry.
I didn't want to affiliate with any religion: I've always been of the belief that as humans we use our religious beliefs as a dogmatic excuse to allow our differences to divide us. I wanted no part in that. I still don't. People are what ruin religion with politics. Ideology is what causes us to fracture and divide. But when I hear about Islam, and when I read about it, something within me listens, even if I close my ears. All I can tell you is that I believe that there is a better way, and I'm going to follow it, even if that means explaining this to you.
But I'm not going anywhere. I'm still going to love you, and shop with you and drink coffee with you. I'm going to raise my children to love and respect your children. I'm still going to come to shabat dinner if I'm invited, and cuddle with you on your feather bed when I visit. A few things might change outwardly, though. I might cover my head one day. I'll drink juice instead of wine at your wedding, and I might need to get up a bit earlier to pray. But the good news is, neither of us will be eating bacon.
I will not allow our friendship to become a political battleground, or a venue for misplaced fear. I love you, and the things that you fear I'll lose, I'll keep them, don't worry.
I'm still me, I'm still your best friend, and I love you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
