I can mark the day that I became a foreigner, where broken English enveloped in a heavy accent, proof of my subjugation to man and organized, organized faith seemed evident, and where claims of originating from exotic lustful war torn locations was the expectation. It happened in July of 1990, the year that I married that African, when I remembered God, and my mother told me that I was a fool but then mailed to me an apartment warming gift of blue glasses and bath towels via UPS. Since then, I have lived unwittingly with one foot in the world of my society’s expectations of me, and the world of my expectations of myself, and then in the forefront, there is always the hope that some of these expectations, though misguided and unfair, may somehow match with what God would have me do/be. I am not complaining, and fully accept that when I donned my first hijab, I lost what beauty I may have possessed, but certainly not my charm. I am no longer a feast for the eyes of men, but as the other senses are heightened when one is struck blind, so too was my intellect, my pride, my robust longing for all that is existential, outside of the box so to speak, when I covered my other self. Can you dig the journey here, that goes beyond the concrete and reactionary, reaching forward for that wisp of peace?