Forgive me. Maybe I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning but I’ve got some grievances to air. So here goes:
-So, I’m back in the Twin Cities. Why? Because there are no jobs in Ohio and I’m tired of sitting around doing nothing. I become a miserable, crabby individual. The easy thing to do was to come back. I didn’t really want to be in a long distance relationship but Allah is the best of planners so I have to make the best of it for now.
-Speaking of Twin Cities, I absolutely HATE it here. I started thinking about why I hate it so much and the bottom line is that I’ve outgrown it. Since I’ve outgrown it I become irritated by little things that make the Twin Cities, the Twin Cities. Coupled with that I’m AT MY WITS END with people thinking I’m Somali. Newsflash for Somalis and non-Muslims in the Twin Cities: NOT EVERY BROWN WOMAN IN A HEADSCARF IS SOMALI!!!! There are millions of Muslims in the United States and Somalis only comprise a small fraction of them. Stop speaking to me in Somali and getting upset when you realize I don’t understand you. Stop speaking to me in slow, fragmented sentences because you think I don’t understand English. Stop expressing surprise that I’m not Somali or asking if the reason I’m Muslim is because I married a Somali. Stop asking how my sister is American but I’m Somali. Stop asking why I’m “wearing that” if I’m not Somali. JUST STOP! *Taking a deep breath*
-I’ve been on a whirlwind of job interviews and I’m starting to confuse the different jobs I’ve applied for. But you know what? I’m not complainin’. I had one job interview in Ohio and that’s it. Here at least I have prospects right?
–I need a Taser. Seriously, I don’t plan to use it unless I absolutely I have to. I just need some protection in case smaddy wha tes’ mi. I don’t want to carry a gun, I don’t want to carry a knife and I certainly don’t want to panic and pepper spray myself in the eyes. A Taser seems like the best solution…
-I’m not bitter, I promise. But do people know who frustrating it is to recount my entire journey to Islam (complete with all the metaphorical bumps and bruises) EACH and EVERY time I meet someone new? I feel like typing up my story and printing a thousand copies. Every time someone asks me, “How did you come to Islam?” or “Why did you become Muslim?” I can simply hand them a copy. I know people mean well. Most people are really interested in or fascinated by converts’ journey to Islam. Sometimes it feels invasive though. Sometimes the line of questioning seems voyeuristic. Consider this: You’re asking a virtual stranger to tell you something that may be very personal and even a little emotional. (More often than not you’re asking a convert to recount their story in front of several people). Then once you listen to their story you say “mashallah” and go about your business leaving said person with all the feelings or emotions you conjured up when you asked them to tell their story. Granted, some converts may not mind. Heck, even I don’t mind given the right situation. But just consider that almost every person we meet us asks the same question.
-Is anyone else tired of the election coverage? Yes, I know we’re at a critical time in the country’s history. And yes, I know how important this election is. I’m just sayin’ I’m tired of it. HillaryBarackJohn. HilaryBarack. BarackandHillaryReverendWright. *sigh*
-I’m not trying to be mean but seriously, do people who have children realize how utterly boring it is for those of us who don’t have children to listen to story after story about the cute thing their child did or said the other day? Ditto for the parents who put their 2 year old on the phone and expect you to have a conversation with them. It usually goes like this:
Child: Goo-goo gah gah
Me: Hi Kiya, what are you doing?
Child: [Slurp followed by heaving breathing]
Me: Kiya, how are you? What are you doing?
Child: Fine. Fine Mommy. Hi Mommy!
Me: [sigh] This is aunty Sha-Sha.
Child: Sha-Sha? Sha-Sha!!!! [Bangs phone loudly in my ear, followed by another round of heavy breathing]
Me: Yes, aunty Sha-Sha. Can I speak to your mommy?
Me: Yes, mommy. Can I speak to your mommy?
Child: Okay, bye-bye. [Hangs up phone]