The Existential (6 Sentences)


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?