Two Kinds of Intelligence

There are two kinds of intelligence: one acquired,

as a child in school memorizes facts and concepts

from books and from what the teacher says,

collecting information from the traditional sciences

as well as from the new sciences.

With such intelligence you rise in the world.

You get ranked ahead or behind others

in regard to your competence in retaining

information. You stroll with this intelligence

in and out of fields of knowledge, getting always more

marks on your preserving tablets.

There is another kind of tablet, one

already completed and preserved inside you.

A spring overflowing its springbox. A freshness

in the center of the chest. This other intelligence

does not turn yellow or stagnate. It's fluid,

and it doesn't move from outside to inside

through conduits of plumbing-learning.

This second knowing is a fountainhead

from within you, moving out.

Gibran - Your Thought and Mine

Your Thought and Mine

Your thought is a tree rooted deep in the soil of tradition and whose branches grow in the power of continuity. My thought is a cloud moving in the space. It turns into drops which, as they fall, form a brook that sings its way into the sea. Then it rises as vapour into the sky. Your thought is a fortress that neither gale nor the lightning can shake. My thought is a tender leaf that sways in every direction and finds pleasure in its swaying. Your thought is an ancient dogma that cannot change you nor can you change it. My thought is new, and it tests me and I test it morn and eve.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Your thought allows you to believe in the unequal contest of the strong against the weak, and in the tricking of the simple by the subtle ones. My thought creates in me the desire to till the earth with my hoe, and harvest the crops with my sickle, and build my home with stones and mortar, and weave my raiment with woolen and linen threads. Your thought urges you to marry wealth and notability. Mine commends self-reliance. Your thought advocates fame and show. Mine counsels me and implores me to cast aside notoriety and treat it like a grain of sand cast upon the shore of eternity. Your thought instills in your heart arrogance and superiority. Mine plants within me love for peace and the desire for independence. Your thought begets dreams of palaces with furniture of sandalwood studded with jewels, and beds made of twisted silk threads. My thought speaks softly in my ears, “Be clean in body and spirit even if you have nowhere to lay your head.” Your thought makes you aspire to titles and offices. Mine exhorts me to humble service.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Your thought is social science, a religious and political dictionary. Mine is simple axiom. Your thought speaks of the beautiful woman, the ugly, the virtuous, the prostitute, the intelligent, and the stupid. Mine sees in every woman a mother, a sister, or a daughter of every man. The subjects of your thought are thieves, criminals, and assassins. Mine declares that thieves are the creatures of monopoly, criminals are the offspring of tyrants, and assassins are akin to the slain. Your thought describes laws, courts, judges, punishments. Mine explains that when man makes a law, he either violates it or obeys it. If there is a basic law, we are all one before it. He who disdains the mean is himself mean. He who vaunts his scorn of the sinful vaunts his disdain of all humanity. Your thought concerns the skilled, the artist, the intellectual, the philosopher, the priest. Mine speaks of the loving and the affectionate, the sincere, the honest, the forthright, the kindly, and the martyr. In your thought there are the rich, the poor, and the beggared. My thought holds that there are no riches but life; that we are all beggars, and no benefactor exists save life Himself.

You have your thought and I have mine.

According to your thought, the greatness of nations lies in their politics, their parties, their conferences, their alliances and treaties. But mine proclaims that the importance of nations lies in work – work in the field, work in the vineyards, work with the loom, work in the tannery, work in the quarry, work in the timberyard, work in the office and in the press. Your thought holds that the glory of the nations is in their heroes. It sings the praises of Rameses, Alexander, Caesar, Hannibal, and Napoleon. But mine claims that the real heroes are Confucius, Lao-Tse, Socrates, Plato, Abi Taleb, El Gazali, Jalal Ed-din-el Roumy, Copernicus, and Pasteur. Your thought sees power in armies, cannons, battleships, submarines, aeroplanes, and poison gas. But mine asserts that power lies in reason, resolution, and truth. No matter how long the tyrant endures, he will be the loser at the end. Your thought differentiates between pragmatist and idealist, between the part and the whole, between the mystic and materialist. Mine realizes that life is one and its weights, measures and tables do not coincide with your weights, measures and tables. He whom you suppose an idealist may be a practical man.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Your thought is interested in ruins and museums, mummies and petrified objects. But mine hovers in the ever-renewed haze and clouds. Your thought is enthroned on skulls. Since you take pride in it, you glorify it too. My thought wanders in the obscure and distant valleys. Your thought trumpets while you dance. Mine prefers the anguish of death to your music and dancing. Your thought is the thought of gossip and false pleasure. Mine is the thought of him who is lost in his own country, of the alien in his own nation, of the solitary among his kinfolk and friends.

You have your thought and I have mine.

Talking - Khalil Gibran

And he answered, saying:

You talk when you cease to be at peace with your thoughts;

And when you can no longer dwell in the solitude of your heart you live in your lips, and sound is a diversion and a pastime.

And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered.

For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words many indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.

There are those among you who seek the talkative through fear of being alone.

The silence of aloneness reveals to their eyes their naked selves and they would escape.

And there are those who talk, and without knowledge or forethought reveal a truth which they themselves do not understand.

And there are those who have the truth within them, but they tell it not in words.

In the bosom of such as these the spirit dwells in rhythmic silence.

When you meet your friend on the roadside or in the market place, let the spirit in you move your lips and direct your tongue.

SSHHHHHHHH: QUIET STUDY AREA

Just a warning everyone. I might be quiet, I might be unavailable, I might be poor and I might be unreliable for social events. I am determined to finish my thesis and get a job before January, God willing. This is my schedule for the next three months, and I will not allow anything to throw me off course, isA, and I WILL be intense. And when I say intense, I mean intense on the real: sunrise article summaries, gym at the crack of dawn, living on the number 3 bus, eating canned soup, missing birthdays, canceling plans on Friday nights to write, and insha Allah getting published this year. I'm focused, finally, alhamdulillah, and I'm sorry if I become boring for a little while. If you really need me, of course I'll be around, but I'll be less available to play until after I'm back from Spain (that doesn't mean no fun at all though). You will be able to find me pretty consistently in these spaces in case of emergency or in case you are in the area: Wilson Library second floor study area near the big windows overlooking the Humphrey Institute, my new and improved cozy bedroom, Lifetime Fitness Roseville in the early mornings (sorry dudes - it's the chicks only lifetime; you can't come in, so you'll have to find me on the bus or at the library) or at pray times in AMCC and surrounding areas.

I traded in my job for the chance to finish my thesis and complete a research project with a professor "unmolested" - and I loved my job, all things considered - so I've got to make myself proud, and now it's crunch time. It's hard for me to say no and not hang out, or to miss out on fun events, so if I decline, please know that it hurts me more than it hurts you.

Don't forget me.

Reasonable Accommodation: Just Another Term for Legislated Marginalization

Quebec, you are my home. I love you. I love your markets and your lively streets; I love your pocket neighborhoods and your commitment to the greater good. I love your pacifism, your reason, your academy. I love your linguistic plurality, your dry humor and your outdated armed forces. I love your loose public health codes and your flexible importation laws. I love your jazz festivals, your lights, your seaway. I love the way you roll your eyes at bar crawling Bostonians. But this year, you've let me down. If I belonged to the Netherlands, I'd be saying the same thing to her.

As Canadians, we pride ourselves on being the friendly neighbors to the north, a Utopia of sorts, where we reject assimilationism and support pluralism, we give everyone health care, we love our public universities, and we condemn the war in Iraq. And yet, today I see an very anti-socialist rigidity and racism bubbling under the surface of my home and native land. And if this is happening inside your borders, Canada, I feel unsafe everywhere else, too.

In February of 2007, Asmahan Mansour, age 11, was given the choice to de-hijab or get off the soccer field. Jean Charest, Quebec's premier, defended the referee's actions. Charest said he played soccer as a boy and recalled a referee telling players to tuck their shirts into their shorts. "It's a case of safety in sports," said Mario Dumont, leader of the Action democratique du Quebec. Safety first. Right.

The broader subject of reasonable accommodation has been in the news in Quebec after the town of Herouxville, comprising 1,300 mostly white, French-speaking residents, adopted a code of standards for immigrants. The code stipulated that: Women should be able to show their faces in public and should also be permitted to drive and write cheques. And it is "completely outside norms to... kill women by stoning them in public, burning them alive, burning them with acid, circumcising them etc." Um. Duh?

And this is not all. In March of 2007, a woman was banned from working as a corrections officer at the Bordeaux prison because she refused to roll up her veil. All this, in a political atmosphere where 'reasonable accommodation' is in hot debate. Reasonable accommodation is a political term used in the PQ in reference to the so-called 'dynamic of multiculturalism' in a predominantly Western, French speaking province.

Legally, this movement is meant to determine to what extent a society should reasonably shape its rules and values to "accommodate" religious or cultural minority citizens. Reasonable accommodation, by my understanding, is meant to draw the line of what is acceptable to the majority in granting equal rights to the 'other.' Lots of pretty words for something very ugly.

Now, a sort of good outcome: Reasonable accommodation has deemed that women wearing niqab can vote, provided they bring with them two other forms of non-photographic identification (this seems reasonable, right?).

Premier Charest publicly acknowledged this as a "bad decision" and said further that the discussion had already occurred in his province, which forbade the practice. I mean, why let them vote at all? After all, real Canadians don't wear niqab.

Worse still, a reasonable accommodation commission has been put together by Charest to investigate these so-called 'unreasonable accommodations'. This two-man commission is scheduled to report back by 31 March 2008. Its formal title is the Consultation Commission on Accommodation Practices Related to Cultural Differences. Its commissioners are professors Charles Taylor, a well-known federalist philosopher, and Gérard Bouchard, a separatist. Doubt can be cast on Bouchard's fitness to serve as an impartial chair, as before the commission held even one public hearing, he announced in an interview that "sovereignty" was the solution to calm Franco-Quebeckers' cultural insecurity.The commission is having ' open' conferences in various Quebec regions, such as the remote Rouyn-Noranda, Sept-Iles and Saguenay, Quebec, where religious accommodation is mostly irrelevant because few minorities exit there. The committee will listen to individuals and organizations and experts in Quebec identity, religion, and integration of 'cultural communities.' But why not in the places that really matter? Because this is just a show - cultural communities have no voice, at least not really.

Before formal proceedings began, Bouchard and Taylor said they found insecurity in Quebec's "pure laine" population in focus groups across the province. The commissioners feel that the paranoia that Muslims, for example, are somehow taking over our society (when they represent 1.5% of Quebec's population) can be countered by facts - as if feelings of insecurity stemmed by bigotry should even be justified at all. (An aside - As once oppressed minorities in Quebec, themselves, French Quebeckers insecurity about loss of culture should be an equalizing factor, but yet again, the marginalized become the marginalizers, I guess.)

And this is on the record. All over the world. I shudder to think of what is said off record and behind closed doors.

Just last year, in 2006, the Dutch banned the burqa and niqab in public.

Dutch MP Geert Wilders: "It's a medieval symbol, a symbol against women...We don't want women to be ashamed to show who they are. Even if you have decided yourself to do that, you should not do it in Holland, because we want you to be integrated, assimilated into Dutch society. If people cannot see who you are, or see one inch of your body or your face, I believe this is not the way to integrate into our society."

These are not new issues, but when I am faced with the same line of reasoning from otherwise open and liberal individuals, daily about whether I'll ever, gasp, cover my head, I get very very sad. I'd like for a second, to pull each person out of their paradigm and talk about equality and feminism within the Islamic framework. But I am not sure I'm the best person to articulate it yet. However, here's a pretty standard secular argument that also works: As a woman I have the right to wear tight jeans and low cut tops in public; I have a right to be free from harassment because of this. The body is not supposed to be public domain, and we, as women, have a right to not be commodified or objectified regardless of our clothing choices. If I can take it off, can't I also put it on? Why is what I wear as a woman still, and again, so politically significant? Why am I so highly policed, and my choices, so highly charged? There is still a blatant inequality in existence, the way I walk in the world is now a political symbol of progress or regression. We've come so far as Westerners that we've doubled back over and violated our own beliefs.

Where is the discussion? Where is the pluralism? Where is the acceptance and understanding that we, as feminists, as Quebeckers, as academics, and as the so-called 'culturally competent,' so pride ourselves on? Why can't we see that what we want to build is understanding? We lack humility, and we have a surplus of fear at our disposal that we can use to justify our bigotries. We fear "islamists" and sikhs and all those other words that really just mean "not us."

Have my people become so linear in their thinking that they forgot the premises from which they began? Think women's liberation, think religious freedom - all those TENETS (sigh.) that we've fought for in recent history, with suffrage as the leading example. Recently, we burned our bras and lost lives for equality, we fought in wars to promote religious freedom. And now we are the same people who support a premier who tells little girls that they are not 'progressive' enough to play on the field. A piece of clothing becomes an insurmountable emblem of difference? Or, is it because she was challenging the dominant belief that women who wear hijab aren't liberated?

She was Canadian enough to play soccer, and therefore she had to be stopped? Was it just too confusing for people? Would it somehow soften the images of Muslim women to Canada's white secular children to be playing alongside a hijabi? I don't know what the underlying roots of the issue are, but I'm pretty sure some of these arguments might apply.

It doesn't really matter though. In the end, the message to Asmahan and girls like her is this: "You are oppressed because you wear that. Your line of thinking is wrong. My line of thinking is right. Yield to my line of thinking or I'm going to show you what oppression really feels like."

And to Asmahan, I'm pretty sure it wasn't her hijab that made her feel unworthy or oppressed on February 18, 2007. It was the ref. And the premier. And all the people who feel entitled to see her hair - as if seeing it is somehow their human right. Because her rights and her beliefs don't actually matter. They aren't 'ours' (meaning her beliefs don't belong to the majority), so therefore, it is clearly unreasonable to accomodate them.

What It's Like to Fly Off the High Dive

La ilaha il Allah. That was the climb, and now I'm in mid-air. My stomach is full of excitement and I am light.

When I first took shahada the next months were spent full of fear. Fear of what would be said about me, fear about my ability to follow through, fear that taking this step was something I could not reverse. I was afraid of how my family would feel, what my friends would say, and about whether I'd find someone who would love me despite my 'strangeness.' Fear really ruled my life, January through August. Sometimes it was better than others. Sometimes it was nearly unbearable. I've always been a "hope for the best, prepare for the worst," type of person, and unfortunately, this new and difficult change was something one cannot prepare for, which compounded my anxiety. In the beginning I was met with a cacophony of reactions, but I was certain that even the most supportive of my friends would change their minds upon seeing me pray or realizing that this was 'for real.' Some did. Some really awful things were said to me. The worst did happen. And coming out of it, I still had faith. I had no choice.

And then, Alhamdulillah, I saw Ramadan approach.

I took a deep breath, I closed my eyes, I rolled my shoulders back...

I prayed with people. I carved out time to learn new surahs and began making sure I woke up for fajr. I practised fasting. I made du'a. I put on hijab and drove myself to the masjid. I've forced myself to endure the quizzical stares (and made sure I didn't mistake them for hostile ones). I ignored the hostile ones. I've allowed myself to be corrected when I made mistakes. I began to give salaams even if they aren't returned. I began answering questions (even the hard ones) and promoting discussion with the people who matter to me. And finally I'm not afraid anymore. And this has nothing to do with me. This has to do with five. Five prayers a day, every day, to the One that matters. It has to do with swallowing hard, choosing faith and diving in. It has to do with feeling certain that I'll belly flop, knowing that it will hurt, and doing it anyway because it's worse to stand on that wavering board so far up, looking down.

People ask me about my path to Islam almost every day. Surely every time I enter a mosque and tell someone my name, the questions begin. It happens when I'm buying groceries and the butcher mistakes me for one of his, speaks to me in Egyptian, and I have to ask him to slow down, in my own halting formal Arabic. He smiles, asks my name, where I'm from, and yells for his buddies to come meet "the convert who passes for shami." Non muslims wonder too, for different reasons. After jumu'a today I stopped by Old Navy. I was still wearing hijab because I can't bring myself to take it off in public. The man at the register was really nice, but spoke a bit loudly to me, and enunciated unnecessarily. I smiled, choosing not to be annoyed and handed him my credit card. "Katherine Downing!" he exclaimed. I just laughed and said "that's me!" Because it is.

Everyone is curious. And I don't mind. So I might as well get comfortable in this space.

What everyone else thinks or thought or will think in the future is out of my control, and if I get caught up in predicting it or worrying about it, I'll miss the point entirely, which is to get comfortable with my place in the world, to be a good person and cultivate my connection with Allah, who encompasses and commands all those things. That's my perspective, and I believe that if I believe, the rest will fall into place, insha Allah. And it has been falling into place, more neatly than I'd even hoped it would.

Johnell at work, for example, surprised me today. I walked out of the office bathroom wearing hijab, getting ready to go to prayer. "Wow!" he responded. I looked at the floor bashfully - it was the first time my co-workers saw me wearing it. Before I could speak he said, "Girl, you still fine. Do what you do. Don't look at the floor. See you after prayer." I opened my mouth. Closed my mouth. Smiled and went to prayer.

I really couldn't ask for more.

But then, my friend Melissa came over for dinner. We've known each other since middle school. She's been incredibly supportive of my Islam, almost unquestioningly so. We broke the fast at 7:14 with dates and milk. I explained why, and then I went to pray. I prayed maghrib in my office, and when I finished I looked up to find her crying in the doorway. "I hope I didn't scare you," I said, "it's just prayer..."

"No, Katie," she responded, "You are beautiful that way. I hope it's ok, I wanted to pray with you."

And so, I reiterate, I could not ask for more.

And this is what it's like to fly off the high dive. You climb and you climb to the top of the diving board. It takes forever. Your heart begins to race. You hesitate mid-climb, you look down and realize you can't climb down. You get to the top, the board is slippery with water. You hear the echos of swimmers below. Your whole body tenses. You walk, gingerly, toes pointed, scared. The board vibrates. You almost lose your balance. You get to the edge, your weight bends the board, you bounce, you hesitate, and then you breathe... At this point, you've waited as long as possible, you have no other option. You jump. And really, the climb is much much scarier than the descent.

Pathos

A feeling of sadness and longing that is not akin to pain, and resembles sorrow only as the mist resembles rain. (Longfellow)

I wandered for two and a half years and somehow tonight I am at the beginning of the circle - that's what it looks like in my head, the beginning of a circle, if that makes sense. It's certainly the way the air feels. Crisp, below 65 degrees (Farenheit, now, which reminds me that it's not a circle after all) and clear. It feels as if everything paused and I am again at my arrival, and some cinematographer has dulled it into sepia tones. It is beautiful like this. The way it should have been, two years too late, and right on time.

The year 2005.

To come here and study and be near family. To do the right thing. To take comfort in pages and watch the seasons change. To grow up. And to have nothing distract or disturb that. Right.

All of a sudden I'm lighter and younger, and my arrival here is not clouded by a whirlwind of heartache or the chaos of distraction. It is finally what I envisioned in time for me to leave, and I am nostalgic.

What could have been, if life hadn't happened. Isn't that always the way? (and of course I wouldn't change it, so don't bother asking)

Where would I be now, if things had gone my way? What would I have become if you and you and you hadn't happened? If the autumn breeze hadn't turned into the blizzard of the unpredictable. I wavered and it won. But one finally learns the game and then it changes. So I'm not saying anything new. I'm sure you aren't shocked.

I still accomplished my goals. Over budget and behind schedule, but still. A few opportunities squandered, the important ones salvaged. Some lovely surprises. The worst case scenario played out, but it wasn't so bad.

I fear less now. I know less now. Am I finally resolute?

The air still feels like Autumn. The beginning of a circle. A romantic memory that is still to come and has already passed. A second chance.

Many new plans, or rather, old plans, resurrected.

This Week In Quotes, By Kate Downing

"Sister, why are you here? All the converts go to the masjid in Columbia Heights."
-Sister before prayer at Masjid Al Huda

"Oh, what color is the sister? Does she want to get married?"
-Anonymous brother on the telephone

"What style of hijab does she wear? (Pause after answer) I'm sorry. I can't help you." -Woman from a Muslim service agency

"How much do you weigh?" -Brother calling about potential room for rent, on the phone

"Sometimes I just shake my head and say, 'I need to leave now.'" -Valerie, a warrior poet.

Subhan Allah. I know it's some bad press, but we gots to deal wit dese issues, yo. I'm so disappointed.

We're all the same...see...

A versus B: The Grass is Always Green Up in Hurr, No Matter What Yours Might Look Like

Everything you see has its roots in the unseen world. The forms may change, yet the essence remains the same. Every wonderful sight will vanish; every sweet word will fade, But do not be disheartened, The source they come from is eternal, growing, Branching out, giving new life and new joy. Why do you weep? The source is within you And this whole world is springing up from it.
- Jelauddin Rumi

I am not a character from Sesame Street bouncing around blindly spouting off hallmark card-worthy platitudes. I know very well that life is sometimes dirtier than some wax bouquet of flowers and more rotten than some touched up, clichéd hopelessly surreal and overly photographed bowl of cherries. I do, however, look at life critically and try to parse out the positives whenever possible. I'll admit that I might seem naive, but the truth is, I've seen enough suffering and been there enough times myself, to know that it's not a good place to live.

Recently, a friend of mine scoffed at my writing, insinuating that it is trite and overly optimistic. I can take the criticism. But for the record, I believe that my friend is the one who should adjust his view, if only for his own sake.

So yea, I tend to take the 'A' perspective, 'cause the grass on my side of the fence is the only green I'll ever get to see, regardless. I am certain that we profoundly impact ourselves and our environments simply by the choices we make in the way we choose to view our surroundings. If you need proof, take a look at the following microscopic photos of water that were showcased in the popular documentary, "What the Bleep Do We Know?!"

The first image is of a particle of water effected by the simple idea of love and gratitude.



In contrast, the following photo is what happens when water comes into contact with the feeling 'You make me sick. I will kill you.'



Pretty astonishing stuff to think that a mere thought can reverberate to cause a direct change in something completely outside of the mind. The crux of the film, and I guess my post as well, is this: If our thoughts as humans can do that to water, imagine what we do to ourselves, internally. Seriously, I'm not trying to plagiarize the documentary, especially since they use this idea to support atheism, but honestly, so much of our suffering simply belongs to us. And although I'm not perfectly positive all the time, I truly don't want to play like that.

I believe that love abides, and that our differences destroy us, so therefore we must find commonality. I despise meanness in all its forms, and I prefer to hope rather than to despair. And if we get less than 100 years to live, I'd like to wear those pink glasses, and live in a way that allows me to do so. So yea, I like movies like The Notebook and Serendipity, and I believe in fortuity, and I look for the silver lining. If I don't look for it, after all, there is no way I will ever see it. And usually I can find it, in people, and in places, and in myself.

And that's the way it is with faith. It is a choice. And I prefer faith over doubt and promise over probability any day. And if that means I have further to fall in the face of ugliness, so it shall be. Call me naive or idealistic, but in a world where mental health is studied by looking solely at infirmity, I prefer a positive psychology approach to life and living. And I look for these conditions, rather than the negatives, in the people who surround me: wisdom, knowledge, courage, humanity, justice, temperance and transcendence. I find combinations of these things in each of you all the time.

Because when we look for these things, we find them, Alhamdulillah. And when we remember to see this way, the world is a much truer place to be. So if you are looking for a person who will commiserate with you on life's misery, I'm not your girl. But if you are constantly amazed at the heartbreaking mixed bag that the Universe unfurls for us each day, even despite some of its drudgery, here I am. I am for you.

On Limonata: My Parents' Passive Ambivalence about My Journey to Islam

I think they don't want to believe it's true. I think they are waiting out this phase, or trying not to stir the proverbial pot of my muslimness by staying utterly and completely silent. They haven't asked me a single question. I told them months ago.

On the surface they 'support me' and are 'fine with it,' but I'm just waiting for the day it becomes real for them. I hope they don't do what my friend Rebecca did, which was lose her mind and say a bunch of really offensive things, only to disappear for a few months and not return my calls. I'm thinking they might freak out a bit, but I'm hoping they won't disappear, insha Allah. It wouldn't be like them.

When I say that they haven't asked a single question, that doesn't mean that they haven't said anything. Actually, my mother has said a few things, namely recapitulations of "It's just not what I imagined for you." My dad has mentioned "Origin of the Species" a few times under his breath. But they are accepting it in their own Midwestern way, I think. I'd love to say that my parents are so progressive that it's all roses and sunshine, and that they said 'ok' to my announcement without that palpable tightness of concern in their voices. But the truth is they are doing the best they can with what they have.

If it were true that they accepted my conversion unquestioningly directly off the bat, they wouldn't be Marcia and John, and they wouldn't have raised me in the same way, and therefore I may not have become Muslim in the first place. So in a circular sort of way, I should be thankful for their instinct to worry first and accept later. And besides, I haven't done the best job of explaining it yet (partly because I don't think they've been ready and partly because I haven't been able to find a graceful segue into discussion).

Right now, all they have to go on is their knowledge of the American political climate (harsh), their own secular paradigm (where cultural competency doesn't always lead to understanding) and a book I just gave them by Susan Haneef. Given that, I think they are doing pretty well. A few non-verbal things are changing which gives me hope:

My dad stocks fun non-alcoholic drinks for me in their fridge and my mom bought me a long skirt today at Marshall's. I'd say that's a solid beginning to what I hope will be a positive and continuous discussion and a learning experience for all, insha Allah.

A lot of people have it much worse when they make such a seemingly drastic life change, so for me, today, the presence of pomegranate soda and limonata in the fridge is a fresh flower on a clear day. We'll work on getting them to understand the other stuff bit by bit.

That said, it really annoys me when people I know get worried that my daughters will feel shamed in their own skin or when people get concerned because I no longer date [I mean, how will I ever find a husband???]. I'm still me. If I believed in women's rights and love before, why would those things suddenly change?

For the misconceptions that my family and friends may harbor I blame (in no particular order): the rigid hypocrisy of privileged white feminism, the people who own the news, Jack Straw, Betty Mahmoody, and Muslims (like me), who do a terrible job of addressing those misconceptions when they arise.

All in a Row, But Way Out of Line

Over the past month, I've started quite the garden. I'm growing tomatoes, hot peppers, sweet peas, string beans, lettuce, herbs and a nasturtium or two. Alissa reminds not forget the marigolds, but that's beside the point, I suppose. This post is less about what I'm growing literally, and more about what I choose not to grow, figuratively. And that has a great deal to do with those ladies looking over the garden wall, who seem to always stand together, clucking.

This garden grows in an 8 foot by 8 foot raised bed near the garage in my Lauderdale backyard. I started planting it because I needed a refuge, and it's always peaceful and refreshing to watch life grow. And since then, those square feet have, if anything, gotten a 'lack of negligence.' You can find me back there, quietly watching (watering/wondering).

I should be making some sort of witty analogy where I equate myself to Contrary Mary, since that's where I'm trying to go, but I'm having a little trouble making the connection, given that it's Friday, and I've been her all week (or since grade 3). Originally the nursery rhyme was said to be an allusion to one of the Queens (Mary, of course) who had a husband who cheated on her constantly and a rumored inability to produce viable offspring (for more on the historical roots go: wiki). But I'd like to put my own spin on said rhyme.

Let's say I'm Mary. It's certainly true that I've been known to be contrary, willful, rebellious and sometimes unruly. And I think we choose to grow gardens to divert us from other things. Namely, silver bells, cockle shells, or in my case, those beauties who have always had too much time on their hands, and too few ideas (as opposed to a surplus of people) to talk about.

It's much like deliberately planting seeds versus germinating weeds. Self actuality is what I hope to cultivate, whereas that uncomfortable energy caused by insipid voices, inadvertently roots weeds and fertilizes them. If we let the poison in, cause yields effect.

Those pretty maids...are the reason why (as I learned my lesson from Hayley Stubbs et al. at that fateful sleepover party in third grade where everyone ended up crying) I don't usually hang out in huge groups of chicks (see: above illustration). I never aspire to be on the receiving end of sideways glances; but I guess the de facto position one takes when one decides to turn away from that row, is that of the object. It is too often that as a woman, if you aren't doing the talking, you are the one being talked about. And I guess one moral I'd like to put forth is simply that if our own story is not compelling, that should not compel us to retell (or speculate upon) the stories of others. Our own boredom or unhappiness is not close to reason enough to pull others down too. It's the whole trite "you shouldn't blow out someone else's candle to make your own burn brighter" thing. Co-misery loves company.

So it was in high school, and so it continues to be today.

All nursery rhymes have a lesson. Mine, I think, has something to do with wanting to just be allowed to figure stuff out on my own without a whole lot of drama, controversy or background noise. We all gotta tend our own, and not spray our hoses in others' so much of the time. When the whispering stops when one walks into a room, she knows it's time to mulch. And this, I think, is a lesson for most women (and some men).

And they all lived happily ever after.

The End.

Absolutes, The Ultimate Deal Breaker and My Heavy Nauseating Dismay

"Adultery is the vice of equivocation. It is not marriage but a mockery of it, a merging that mixes love and dread together like jackstraws. There is no understanding of contentment in adultery.... You belong to each other in what together you’ve made of a third identity that almost immediately cancels your own. There is a law in art that proves it. Two colors are proven complimentary only when forming that most desolate of all colors—neutral gray." (Alexander Theroux, 1987)

Marriage. I can't pretend to know much about it. That's a road I've yet to wander. Today, though, I began to think about the state of it, and the reckless state of love, as well. I was finishing my work day in my office, talking to my new intern about his duties, when I got a call from a 515 number that I did not recognize. Fearful for my parents who were driving home to Iowa (home of the 515 area code), I picked up.

Casually on the other end of the line was Adam* (*names have been changed), my friend Krissy*'s new husband:

Adam: "Hi Kate! How's it going? This is Adam Strong, how are you?"

Me: "HI. Is Krissy okay? Is everything alright?" (I was worried. This call was unexpected. I hadn't talked to either of them since the wedding a little less than a year ago.)

Adam: "Yea, she's fine. I was just wondering how your weekend was."

Me: "Um, it was good. How was yours?"

Adam: "Did you and Krissy have a good time?"

Insert heavy, puzzled, dreadful silence here.

"I'll take the silence to mean you didn't see her this weekend. She said she was coming to visit you."

Long effing pause.

Me: "...I'm sorry. Oh God."

Adam: "It's ok. That's all I needed to know. Thanks. I have to go."

click.

I sat. My intern left. I sat some more. My brain trying to piece together the implications of the conversation that had transpired. Dread. Nauseating empathy. Sadness. Fear. Palpable disgust. My friend tangled me in a lie, and that is the best thing I can say about this situation. A marriage is probably ruined today, and two souls are left in tatters.

A vow is defined as "n. an earnest promise," "a declaration or assertion." To "vow," though, is also a verb, and must be acted thereupon. When we make an irrevocable promise, especially one of this magnitude, it is our obligation to consistently and deliberately relive our words through our actions (if only to remind ourselves of said vow), and anything less is unconscionable. Because when we vow to do something, whatever that thing may be, it means more than our intentions at the time. A vow is a verb that dictates, at the very least, consistency. In the realm of active verbs, intention means nothing. If we lose sight of our promises to one another, even for a moment, we open ourselves to the potential for all of the awful possibilities that could exist, and would exist, if we didn't keep on point. And even if it may not suit us at the time, it is important to remember that a vow is greater than an individual.

Let's not forget that nobody actually knows what happened between Krissy and Adam. There are always two sides to the proverbial a coin, and I've been told that each person deserves at least 70 excuses. So. Did she cheat? I don't know, and I don't plan to try and figure it out. And besides, that's not the point, anyway.

Now, if I had no other option but to choose between the two, I'd most certainly rather be abandoned than betrayed, and I'll be the first to condemn adultery. However, we are all human, and none of us are above the potential for small lapses in judgment or even devastating crimes against one another (I guess). But may we be protected from both, insha Allah.

The point I am trying to make here, is simply the necessity for deliberation and preparation, especially when entering into contractual vows.

When I was growing up, my father once replied to a question with a quote by Antoine de Ste. Exupery (the author of Le Petit Prince) that I haven't forgotten: "Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking together in the same direction". This is true, I think, because when we are looking at one another, we are essentially seeking ourselves; and in seeking ourselves we seek the fallible. And marriage, I gather, is not some whimsical party that just happens, it is a marathon of epic proportions, complete with dehydration and the inability to stop to go to the bathroom, metaphorically speaking. In marriage, we've got to be ready to get past the mess, whatever that may mean.

So in contemplating marriage we have to stop and think about what those vows actually entail. They include, but are not limited to, recognizing each others' faults and failures, making each others' families our family and realizing that even the most magical of love changes over time. Those vows mean that we have to stop being sixteen and look out for each other, often before we begin to consider ourselves. Those vows mean that we have to know exactly where we are going, agree to the terms and 'stay the course' (and yea, unfortunately, marriage sometimes looks more like Iraq than it resembles Paradise). To participate in the active 'verb' of love, it means that we no longer have the privilege of simply fending for ourselves, and that our internal compasses must point in the same direction. And when that fails, we have to reset towards due North (or North East, depending).

And in honor of keeping things real (or kosher or honest or halal), I think we'd all agree (whatever our orientation) that when the opportunity to do something absolutely wrong looks us in the eye, we've got to find a way lower our gaze.

Between One and Another: Conversion, Identity and All Those Questions

And in the Middle of it all, Celebrating 'Small Wins'

Kate,

It's so nice to hear from "family." I needed it today. There's a lot of service men giving me a whole lot of unenlightened mess. So if I may ask (and everybody does) what was it that led you to become a Muslim? I absolutely LOVE when people become Muslims and just really be themselves. It makes it seem so much more genuine to me. Obviously Islam helps us be the best version of ourselves but way too many people convert to Al Islam and become a totally different person. It's almost like they stop being themselves and play a character. The character they play is a super-Muslim but the real them is still the same jerk they were before converting. Then when they tire of playing that role they go right back to the person they were before Islam. Some people though, they stay themselves and just allow Islam to make them the best version of who they are and that s*** is beautiful. Just a glance at your (myspace) profile makes me think you're the latter.

(Islam has done nothing to correct my horrible spelling) (the spelling really was horrible. I edited for the sake of the English language)

My wife became Muslim about a year ago and she's just a more inspired version of the person I fell in love with. She chooses not to cover her head (which many Muslims act like is the 6th pillar of Islam or something) and kept her name (see, EVERYONE has their ideas and opinions about THESE topics, especially). I think it's really genuine.

I'll won't go on any further but I'm just curious what brought you to your decision.

Congratulations either way and maybe we cross paths at some point.

As Salaamu Alaikum sis.

The above is a note that I recently received re: "being a new Muslim" from one very rad revert. I'm posting it here because this is something I'm thinking about these days - what it means to no longer be as congruent as I once was.

It seems like everyone has expectations of the ways in which I will express my Muslim-ness. People are nervous about what that really means. Everyone has an opinion, that's for sure, and mostly I am grateful for input, especially when it comes from a place of love, care, knowledge and concern. But there's so much to learn and so much to work out (big and small), and in the end, I'm going to have to learn it for myself.

For example, people (including me) want to know whether I'm going to cover my feet, if/when hijab is going to happen (isA), and whether it's alright for me to eat chicken at restaurants. I get reminded to check wrappers for pork product, witness discussions about whether you have to deliberately do wudu in the shower, etc. etc. (all very helpful discussions, don't get me wrong, but I'm working on the basics these days). Everyone, even Muslim converts, have something to say (which is good, it means they really care), and I'm a bit overwhelmed.

Hold me.

Here's the thing though. Everyone makes this out to be a HUGE change, but it really isn't all that hard, and it shouldn't be. That's not the point, now is it?

It's only hard if one makes it hard.

And I've been letting it be hard lately, and letting the details get in the way of the end Goal. Aside from working on my pronunciation and waking up earlier to pray (and other details), I think pretty much everyone will tell you that I'm not much different than I was in December, and I'm not losing my identity, or trying to be a super-anything. I'm just working on being more deliberate now, and I think that makes me a better Kate (and yes, the name is staying. It means "pure," after all. And there's not a thing un-Islamic about that).

And instead of getting stuck on the minutiae and stressing out about the process, I'm choosing to (as Aliyah says) "celebrate small wins" and continue to stumble forward.

And after all, there are so many big wins to focus on, that it would be a shame to get stuck in the chaos of little things (I'll figure those things out, with time and patience, isA). Because - living Islamically, having a family that loves me, and friends who accept this new part of my life as something totally great - those things, by themselves, are all momentous wins.

And a small win, tomorrow, is my MPH commencement. Alhamdulillah.

A Rose by Any Other Name Would (Not) Smell As Sweet...

Guest authored by: Kate's friend Alissa. And by "Kate", I'm referring to the being who has been endeared to us all through her actions, words, and loveliness, and for whom the label of one name versus another would not change a thing...or would it? (duh duhhh DAHHHHH [suspenseful 'what is going to happen??!?!?!??! music])

Oh, and by "Alissa"...I just mean me.

Anyway, where was I? (Constantly wondering this, these days) ...Ah yes! Talking about Kate. As you all know by now, apropos to Kate's previous blog entry, our darling has embarked on quite an interesting journey. Part of what some people are wondering about her first stops aboard the Muslim train, is whether or not she'll change her name (for those not familiar with why this would come up, google "Cat Stephens", or "Float Like a Butterfly, Sting Like a Bee" ( except maybe use the boolean search aids and put the second suggestion all in quotes unless you want a hundred hits about pollination coming up before you finally find "Muhammad Ali/Cassius Clay"). On my gosh I am having a hard time staying on track, sorry!

Aaaaanyway, so in pondering the thought of Katherine Ashley Downing changing her name, I'd like to dedicate this, my inaugural (probably should just say "only" because you can already tell how it's going...) guest blog entry, to listing suggested alternatives for Kate's new name, in honor of her new commitment in life. And in honor, obviously, of our inability to take ourselves too seriously.

But first: two thoughts before I launch into my litany...1) as per the title I chose for this entry, Shakespeare had some thoughts on this very topic. His perspective was that a rose, and it's beauty, significance, and symbolism, were innate in its being, and owing nothing to it being called a rose. That the name was just a way to convey all of the things that would take sentences, paragraphs, or I guess, mimetic hand gestures, if that's your thing, to convey. And Shakespeare was a wordy guy, so he'd know. But the point being simply that a rose would still be everything that it is, chiefly a sweet smelling object, regardless of what one were to call it. That is one side of the argument. I'm not totally inclined to agree, because I think we become the embodiment of the names we are given, such that those who love us most connote all of those things about us with our names, and our names imply all of those things (i.e. it's why when you suggest a name for your friend's baby and a person of that same name made out with that friend's boyfriend in seventh grade, she goes "no WAY am I going to have a bratty, two-faced baby"). Etc. etc...it's quite a philosophical conversation, though, of nearly the same magnitude as that favorite about a tree falling in deserted woods, so I'll leave it to you to ponder.

And pre-list consideration #2 (representing the other half of the argument): I'm just going say: Prince, in the nineties. 'Nuff said. (Ok, for those whom it's not quite enough said, I'll just add "Artist formerly known as Prince", "TAFKAP", and lastly, that crazy symbol that looks androgynous and possibly like a good lower-back tattoo for a person not knowing better.) Di'int sell a lotta records, yo.



And without further ado, here's the list:

1. Kat Stephens (I just love this option. Only requires a last name change and very minor reworking of the first name. And she's jazzy, so ya know.)

2. Mowgli Baloo (I just love Jungle Book. Kate has informed me this isn't really Islamic)

3. Queen Noor (Already working really well for one person.)

4. Ten Downing (Alright, so technically that's a number, and it would be naming her after the British Prime Minster's residence, but it's catchy.)

5. Snuggles (I used to want to name a puppy that.)

6. Muhammad Yusuf Ali Islam (This is a hybrid. You do the math.)

7. Sunni Shia (...Kate's a uniter. Not a divider.)

8. Kate X (although she isn't a Faracon-style convert...)

9. Kareem Abdul Jabbar (dude gets serious air.)

10. Yasmeen Bleeth Downing (yasmeen is perfect, and well, similar traits.)

Ok that's enough. Ten is a good number for list-making. And again, a good first name for Kate (see item 4).

It's been a pleasure. With that, I'll sign off and hand this blog back to [to be determined] Downing.

I'll tell you LEYSH!

Most of you know that I converted to Islam by now. If you hadn't heard, SURPRISE! I've become Muslim. Consider this your formal notification. It's really funny though, everyone (Muslim, non-Muslim and potential Muslim alike) wants to know WHY (As if "why?" is actually really the relevant or salient question, especially for Muslims, to be asking...But I'll tell you my top reasons anyway). Since inquiring minds want to know...

1) I really like the scarves. They're pretty.
2) I'm hungry for halal.
3) I like cubes.
4) I've always wanted to go to Guantanamo.
6) I'm not actively opposed to polygamy (so I figured "why the heck not!").
7) Christians kept trying to convert me, while Muslims remained coy (I respect that).
8) I always wanted to be named Leila.
9) One word: dowry. (gotta pay off the student loans, after all)
10) ...I believe in Allah (swt), and that Muhammad (saws) was His Prophet.

Let's do a little "Where's Waldo..." Try to find the one important answer in the list. If you can find it, I'll give you a prize... :)

...ok so now I'm afraid that what I've written is offensive. I may take this down.

Indigo Girls: Last Tears

My Life Video: At the School of Public Health....

yea...this is me...

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.

"Those with the Greatest Awareness Have the Greatest Nightmares" -Ghandi

What do you do when all your dreams are bound up in solving real nightmares?

I've been literally wrangling with this idea lately, in sleep and in wakefulness. I'm not a peaceful sleeper these days. I toss and turn and sweat and talk and sometimes even walk and eat in my sleep. I'll wake up brushing my teeth in the middle of the night, and sometimes have entire telephone conversations while sleeping.

I think this all comes down to the fact that I'm not really all that peaceful in wakefulness either. I had lunch with my aunt last week, and she told me that she can't wait until my masters is done, and I won't be so intense anymore. I've always been intense. But now it's come to a new level.

It's my work. I know it is. But I cannot stop doing it. It's important stuff, at least to me, and for some reason I've been chosen to take part in this particular dream. I came to the project almost a year ago, looking for an internship. I found humanity instead. And at that point I'd almost forgotten that I had dreams for humanity.

I was so bound up in my own life, and drowning, really, in terms of my academics. And then I met this woman who reminded me that the work that I choose to do matters, and can matter in real time, for people who are told daily that they do not matter at all. I began to forget about my self and remember my dreams. And those dreams have always been attached to the horror I feel about what we do to each other as human beings.

What he does to her, for example, and then what she does in response, turns my stomach. I am uncomfortable with and discomforted by, all the people like me who have an incredibly charmed life and still manage to support and celebrate the despicable status quo. I know a man who owns two companies, votes democrat, buys cards for his closest friends for no reason at all, and still thinks it is a viable rite of passage for a teenage boy in America to visit a 'hooker' in Atlantic City. It makes me sick to know that such a good man in every other area can live so much on the surface to accept and perpetrate a reality such as that.

Here's what I want to say as I shake some sense into you: She is someone's daughter. Did you just tell me that you want a daughter one day? Do you think as a child she was playing with her Barbies and decided "I'd like to sell sex for a living?" Maybe she wanted to be a lawyer, just like you, but it wasn't in the cards for her. Did you ever think of that?

Like I said, my dreams are bound up in the possibility that these nightmares don't have to exist. The very fact that my job exists at all is a testament to our vast and massive failure as a nation and as a human race, to stand against the ugliness of oppression, instead of volleying when the ball of social mobility finally bounces over the net and into our court (God knows we've all waited for it). We are so good at pointing the finger when the tractor beam of blame falls upon us that we forget, as the saying goes, about the three fingers pointing back in our direction. Even if it means giving up a bit of power, swallowing our pride and sharing our wealth, wouldn't that be better than holding each other down? Instead of supporting progress towards a level playing field, we cite the American dream to discount claims such as mine, that not everyone has access to hope. The American dream exists only for the exceptionally idealistic and the wealthy.

Fact: for a great number of people in this nation, dreams are an unaffordable luxury.

I'm not depressed and I'm not getting derailed.

I wake up each day invigorated by what it may bring, despite the nightmares I have in REM. But the truth is, my nightmares are the daylight realities of many, and that's the thing that rattles me. This is the truth that I cannot escape, even in the moment when I wake up relieved that the fear I feel in sleep is not 'real'. My relief is a sign of my privilege. My dismay in the following instant, is newer. It is the remembrance that not all women (or men) are like me, not all have been given a real shot (and many of them have much greater talents than I ever will possess).

I cannot in good conscience walk away from this. When an informant tells me about being raped by her brother in the kitchen of her childhood home, when she expresses the cyclical pattern of abuse she's experienced at the hands of all the men she's ever encountered (father, brother, boyfriend, pimp and finally dope dealer...in that order), my resolve is renewed. But my nightmares continue.

There's this quote that is posted on my bulletin board at work: "If you have come to help me, then you are wasting your time. But if you are here because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together."

I've been told that I have to find a way to detach, but how can I do that, when this work is so intensely personal? The connection is what heals us, it is precisely what bridges the gap between power and oppression; I believe that it is what will yield a better way. That connection is my only hope for this life.

My sons will grow up to respect women precisely because of that connection (isA) and because their father, like me, will refuse to detach (isA), so I guess it's my job to pray and cope and not let this eat me alive.

Over the last two nights, though, I've woken up from horrendous night dreams, thankful only that they do not belong to my reality, but my fingernails still dig into my hands.

My only reconciliation is that justice does exist somewhere, when all is said and done.

For those of you who have read this to the end and are not put off by my radicalism or my proselytizing, I want you to know that at the very core of what I believe is a heartfelt sentiment that there is a better way, and that it is absolutely achievable in this lifetime, if we can endure our nightmares and still seek something better and something greater, for ourselves and for our children. And I hope then I'll be able to lay my head softly on a pillow and remember what it feels like to dream sweetly.