“So…are you Muslim or are you Black?”
In the collective work of Dumb Shit I’ve Been Asked During My Life, that particular question still has the power to temporarily stun me. To be sure, there are many conversations to be had about normative expressions of faith, who gets to be unquestionably Muslim in the United States, race and racism and how much you miss about a person based simply on how they look to you. But if you’re looking at me and seeing anything other than Black and Muslim, I’m not sure how to help you. Ain’t nothing ambiguous about me.
It used to be that you couldn’t get Blacker than being Black and Muslim. The archetype of leaned in — like leaned all ten toes in — Blackness was a brother from the Nation of Islam, bow-tied and bean-pied spreading the good news in the latest issue of the Final Call. Setting aside how problematic that particular caricature is, it should follow that there would be a complimentary (and perhaps even equally problematic) one for Black and Muslim and woman.
There is not, dear reader.
I’m cool with that. Really, I am. I don’t need another stereotype to contend with. The problem is how seemingly easy it is to erase Black Muslim women from our Blackness when we’re not Black in any exotic or extraordinary way. I mean, let some people tell it we’re not really, authentically Muslim. (Looking dead at you, my non-Black co-religionists.) For others, we’re not performing gender right. (And now I’m looking at you, White women.) On top of all that we can’t even just be Black. Except we are.
There is a larger conversation to be had about the convergence of faith and culture and how that shapes our notions of performative Blackness, and about how gendered they are. You add a dash of Orientalism, a heaping dose of White supremacy and a sprinkle of misogynoir and somewhere in there is the answer to why Black Muslim women are more likely to be separated from our Blackness in ways that Black Muslim men are not. Does this look the same across generations, or is this new?
To be Black and Muslim and woman has meant one thing for my mother, and it will undoubtedly mean something different for my nieces.
For me…
It’s government names and family names and community names that might not ever be the same. And, “you should change your name to something…Muslim.” People asking if you know what your name means and then insisting you’re pronouncing it wrong. Being asked if you know somebody’s cousin named Muhammad… ’cause everybody got a cousin named Muhammad. All the Khadijahs and Aishas and Khalils and Omars that aren’t Muslim, and every Keisha and Tanya and Mike and Rufus that is.
It’s Easter clothes for Eid. Fresh cornrows and fresh presses peeking out of tiny khimars. Locs and doobie wraps and laid edges under bigger ones. Jewel-toned geles three feet high and rising. Church hats on the way to the masjid. Rhythmic runs in the adhan. Call and response khutbahs. Standing shoulder to shoulder and toe to toe with the person on your left and your right, making sure your lines are straight before you supplicate to your Lord. Fingers reppin’ cliques, hands on hips, posing for pics after salat is done. The salaams you give your mama’s friends and the salaams you give your crew.
It’s the crinkle of hot conditioning caps under head wraps cause expressions of faith can also be convenient when you need to run errands in the middle of wash day. It’s abayas and timbs. Dresses over jeans. Niqabs that conceal gold teeth and grills, ’cause Atlanta gon’ Atlanta. That one black scarf that always wraps right and the five others that just won’t. The lime green scarf with the lime green shirt and the lime green pants that seemed like a good idea at the time, but polaroids don’t lie.
It’s collard greens with smoked turkey. The “special meat” your mama brings when the whole family gets together. Your grandma pointing out what y’all can eat and your auntie still asking why you can’t just eat around the pork. The times you could only eat the mac and cheese, but that’s cool ’cause really who’s not eating that. Salmon croquettes and grits for suhoor. Weekend breakfast at The Beautiful Restaurant ’cause Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t mess with pork either.
It’s no shoes in the house. Incense burning after fajr. Saturday morning cleaning to Stevie Wonder and Anita Baker, stopping the music when the adhan clock goes off, and then back to Parliament and Prince. That little basket that’s full of scraps of paper with Bismillah and maybe an ayat of Qu’ran that your mama says she’s gonna burn or shred, but hasn’t in years. Dishwashing liquid bottles that become istinja bottles ’cause I don’t know what y’all do, but if you ain’t using water… eww.
It’s street choruses of, “Salam salaykum salaykum salam,” “Excuse me, my Muzlim sister” and finally, “I ain’t wanna talk to you no way with that thang on yo head!” The brothers who stare for an uncomfortable amount of time and then gesture at your head and ask, “you Muslim?” when they could just as easily have said salaams. Older women who ease up next to you in Target and ask you if that conditioner really works and, “has anybody ever told you about the love of Jesus?” One-sided conversations with the non-Muslim girl with the Muslim boyfriend who decides to use you as a reference point for all the things Bilal told her were true, but also all the things she could “never do if I was you.”
It’s having a whole ass conversation with a whole grown ass Negro only for him to ask five minutes in whether or not I spoke English. In English. While we were speaking English. And after I point this out he gets offended and says, “Well I assumed you were Muslim ’cause of how you’re dressed, but I didn’t know if you were Arab or Black.” And after I tell him that Arabs can indeed be Black but that I am just my great-grandma and ’nem was born in south Georgia Black he stares for a minute and says, “I didn’t think Black people actually did that Muslim thing.” I tell him he sounds dumb and should get out more, and I walk away. I guess he’s offended again, ’cause he yells out, “Well if you’re gonna be walking around like that you can at least be nice enough to answer people’s questions!”
Except I’m not. And I don’t. Maybe some people will, but EYE won’t. I’m good money with all these identities I inhabit and how I express them. It ain’t exotic or extraordinary, but you know it’s fly. You see it.
