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.

Child Prostitution