Sometimes I’ll come across an old chipped dish belonging to a set that made its departure long ago in a donation box to the Salvation Army, or an orphaned shoe that once was a staple in someone’s wardrobe, and for just a second I’m transported back to a different era. For a second it’s 2004 and my favorite shirt is a pink peasant top my mom bought from T.J. Maxx, my mom is wearing a lot more cotton two piece scarves, and my dad still owns carpenter jeans. Or for a moment it’s 2006 and I can feel the grain of the hardwood floors beneath my feet as I slide around the kitchen eating my after school snack. And when I open my eyes to a starkly different reality it never ceases to amaze me how imperceptible change can be in the moment.
My mom had me when she was 21. For over a decade it was just me, my mom, and my dad-- two kids with a kid trying to figure the world out. The thing about being the eldest child to young parents, is that in a way you all grow up together. While my parents may see themselves as they are in the present, I will always see them as a collage of all the versions in their evolution. That’s because all of those versions were the ones that raised me.
There was the young and spontaneous version. The one where a spur of the moment camping trip was a valid excuse for me to skip school for a couple of days. Or where my mom would wake me up at 1 am because she couldn't sleep and wanted to play instead. The version where a random Wednesday midnight breakfast with their friends and 7-year old wasn't a problem.
There was what I would like to think of as my parents Renaissance, where they discovered a whole new type of Islamic scholarship that moved their hearts and related to their lives. I watched it inspire my parents as they spent Saturday mornings soaking in lectures about history, language, theology, and philosophy. And as I sat next to them, eating my snacks from a tupperware container and coloring, I too entered the colorful worlds of seemingly faraway places like Mali, Mauritania, Moorish Spain, the Ottoman Empire, or the battlefield with Khawla and Nusaybah. I watched my mom transition from her job in the corporate world into her first job in the non-profit sector and remember her voice turning reverent as she told my dad at dinner one day "Ed this work touches my soul". There was what felt like the weekend in middle school my dad decided he wanted to open his own counseling private practice. We spent a whole afternoon trying to pick out a logo that said all he wanted it to say, and when he finally found it, I remember his eyes lighting up as he explained to my (not very interested) self about what an important resource an American Muslim therapist was for an American Muslim community. Then there was the casual weekend conversation when I was 7 that led my parents along with 5 others on their decades long pursuit of building an authentically American Muslim community so that their daughter and any other future children would never see their faith as an antiquated remnant from a world they couldn't relate to.
There was also the more energetic and no nonsense versions of my parents. The version where after saying “no” to cleaning my room at nine, my parents proceeded to haul all my furniture, clothes, and toys out of my room and making me earn it all back day by day because “if you don’t want to clean your room, we’ll make it easy for you”. To my brother Zayn: you're welcome, I wore our parents down a lot for you. Or there was the time where my best friend and I were convinced the basement was haunted by a ghost, and my parents decided to leave a creepy message on the basement wall from said ghost to mess with us because they thought it was funny (but of course, what else would any sane, loving parent do?). Or how the day I broke my arm, my parents so compassionately decided to call me Gimpy for all six weeks that I had to have the cast on.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that being up close and personal with my parent’s dreams, disappointments, and evolution as adults taught me that life is all about building. Sometimes inspiration may strike, but more often than not, inspiration is found through the lens you choose to look at life with. It taught me that failure and gray areas and confusion aren’t negatives in life, they are the most critical and defining moments that shape you. For every failure and disappointment my parents were met with, I just saw them reposition, readjust, and keep moving on. It’s a trait I think I’ve naturally inherited, persisting and sometimes pushing almost bullheadedly until God allows things to work out. Despite the thousands of “teachable moments” my parents tried to utilize, I learned the most observing my parents in all the moments they never saw me watching. What I learned was how to take failure with as much grace as success. I learned that it doesn’t matter how bright the sun is shining if you never open your blinds—so much of life’s joy is in gratitude for what is right in front of you. And most importantly, I learned that faith is not wearable; it’s reflected in the decisions you make in the dark corners of your life, the way you carry yourself in the face of vulnerability and defeat, the amount of compassion you wield in the presence of a person or situation you believe deserves none. None of those things can be taken on or off, only forever nestled within the synapses of your neurons.
If I could tell parents of American Muslim teens anything, it would be this: the next few years are going to be gone in the blink of an eye. Pretty soon, you’ll be left with an empty room (regardless of how long you try to delay it), and the foundation for a lifelong relationship having been laid down. So choose your battles wisely (no matter how pressing every single one may seem), love abundantly, forgive easily, and last but not least, stop holding your cards so tightly to yourself. Your children will have a window into your soul and your failures whether you communicate them or not, because the eye that sees your unsaid truths is the gift your children were born with. You might as well be frank with them, so that when they make their own inevitable mistakes at the critical junctures of their lives, they know they’re not alone when they finally call home.
Know that your children are not and will not ever be you. You can give them everything you never had, only to watch them choose differently than you ever would have. Focus on teaching your children how to think instead of what to think. Give them frameworks and schemas from which to make sense of the world, but never do the sorting for them. Doing so may mean some uncomfortable variances in perspectives at times, but all of these things mean that you did your job. After all, your children were not made for your time, they were made for the days you will never see and for times you will never have to encounter. And because of that, they have to be different in composition and make-up than you.
So to my Tias and my Tios, my abuelita and my big daddio, thank you for showing up. Thank you for being there for every single birthday, holiday, and big moment in my life. Thank you for teaching me about character, compassion, hope, grace, and most importantly, how to make a good bathroom joke or two. To the Khallas, Khallis, and Aunties in my life, thank you for teaching me about strength and womanhood, for putting me in my place when I needed it, and for showing me how far a good attitude and a humble heart can get you. To the Ammus and Uncles in my life, thank you for looking out for me always, for letting me wrestle you, and for modeling for me what it means to live with integrity.
And finally to my parents: there’s a thousand things I could say to thank you for the sacrifices and sleepless nights I’ll never know about, but instead I’ll pick just one. Growing up, my mom used to talk about how the Taj Mahal was the most epic testament to love on this earth. But Shah Jahan only joined marble and the world’s jewels to create a building. My parents on the other hand spent the entirety of their youth joining hearts, lives, families, and lifestyles for no other reason than to create a community for me. One that was made up of people from all different faith communities, different ways of practicing, cultural backgrounds, and ethnic makeups. One that was free of judgement or expectations. One that no matter what place in my life I was, I could always feel comfortable in my own skin. And in my eyes, there could be no greater act of love.
To the community that raised me, to the aunts and uncles and aunties and khallas that yelled at me like I was their own, to the people who have ever knowingly or unknowingly touched my life, know this: if I ever manage to accomplish even an atom of good in this world, I’ll owe it all to you. And finally, to mom and abbu, thanks for letting me grow up with you—it was the best ride a girl could ask for.
Until the next era of my life,
Samar
My mom had me when she was 21. For over a decade it was just me, my mom, and my dad-- two kids with a kid trying to figure the world out. The thing about being the eldest child to young parents, is that in a way you all grow up together. While my parents may see themselves as they are in the present, I will always see them as a collage of all the versions in their evolution. That’s because all of those versions were the ones that raised me.
There was the young and spontaneous version. The one where a spur of the moment camping trip was a valid excuse for me to skip school for a couple of days. Or where my mom would wake me up at 1 am because she couldn't sleep and wanted to play instead. The version where a random Wednesday midnight breakfast with their friends and 7-year old wasn't a problem.
There was what I would like to think of as my parents Renaissance, where they discovered a whole new type of Islamic scholarship that moved their hearts and related to their lives. I watched it inspire my parents as they spent Saturday mornings soaking in lectures about history, language, theology, and philosophy. And as I sat next to them, eating my snacks from a tupperware container and coloring, I too entered the colorful worlds of seemingly faraway places like Mali, Mauritania, Moorish Spain, the Ottoman Empire, or the battlefield with Khawla and Nusaybah. I watched my mom transition from her job in the corporate world into her first job in the non-profit sector and remember her voice turning reverent as she told my dad at dinner one day "Ed this work touches my soul". There was what felt like the weekend in middle school my dad decided he wanted to open his own counseling private practice. We spent a whole afternoon trying to pick out a logo that said all he wanted it to say, and when he finally found it, I remember his eyes lighting up as he explained to my (not very interested) self about what an important resource an American Muslim therapist was for an American Muslim community. Then there was the casual weekend conversation when I was 7 that led my parents along with 5 others on their decades long pursuit of building an authentically American Muslim community so that their daughter and any other future children would never see their faith as an antiquated remnant from a world they couldn't relate to.
There was also the more energetic and no nonsense versions of my parents. The version where after saying “no” to cleaning my room at nine, my parents proceeded to haul all my furniture, clothes, and toys out of my room and making me earn it all back day by day because “if you don’t want to clean your room, we’ll make it easy for you”. To my brother Zayn: you're welcome, I wore our parents down a lot for you. Or there was the time where my best friend and I were convinced the basement was haunted by a ghost, and my parents decided to leave a creepy message on the basement wall from said ghost to mess with us because they thought it was funny (but of course, what else would any sane, loving parent do?). Or how the day I broke my arm, my parents so compassionately decided to call me Gimpy for all six weeks that I had to have the cast on.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that being up close and personal with my parent’s dreams, disappointments, and evolution as adults taught me that life is all about building. Sometimes inspiration may strike, but more often than not, inspiration is found through the lens you choose to look at life with. It taught me that failure and gray areas and confusion aren’t negatives in life, they are the most critical and defining moments that shape you. For every failure and disappointment my parents were met with, I just saw them reposition, readjust, and keep moving on. It’s a trait I think I’ve naturally inherited, persisting and sometimes pushing almost bullheadedly until God allows things to work out. Despite the thousands of “teachable moments” my parents tried to utilize, I learned the most observing my parents in all the moments they never saw me watching. What I learned was how to take failure with as much grace as success. I learned that it doesn’t matter how bright the sun is shining if you never open your blinds—so much of life’s joy is in gratitude for what is right in front of you. And most importantly, I learned that faith is not wearable; it’s reflected in the decisions you make in the dark corners of your life, the way you carry yourself in the face of vulnerability and defeat, the amount of compassion you wield in the presence of a person or situation you believe deserves none. None of those things can be taken on or off, only forever nestled within the synapses of your neurons.
If I could tell parents of American Muslim teens anything, it would be this: the next few years are going to be gone in the blink of an eye. Pretty soon, you’ll be left with an empty room (regardless of how long you try to delay it), and the foundation for a lifelong relationship having been laid down. So choose your battles wisely (no matter how pressing every single one may seem), love abundantly, forgive easily, and last but not least, stop holding your cards so tightly to yourself. Your children will have a window into your soul and your failures whether you communicate them or not, because the eye that sees your unsaid truths is the gift your children were born with. You might as well be frank with them, so that when they make their own inevitable mistakes at the critical junctures of their lives, they know they’re not alone when they finally call home.
Know that your children are not and will not ever be you. You can give them everything you never had, only to watch them choose differently than you ever would have. Focus on teaching your children how to think instead of what to think. Give them frameworks and schemas from which to make sense of the world, but never do the sorting for them. Doing so may mean some uncomfortable variances in perspectives at times, but all of these things mean that you did your job. After all, your children were not made for your time, they were made for the days you will never see and for times you will never have to encounter. And because of that, they have to be different in composition and make-up than you.
So to my Tias and my Tios, my abuelita and my big daddio, thank you for showing up. Thank you for being there for every single birthday, holiday, and big moment in my life. Thank you for teaching me about character, compassion, hope, grace, and most importantly, how to make a good bathroom joke or two. To the Khallas, Khallis, and Aunties in my life, thank you for teaching me about strength and womanhood, for putting me in my place when I needed it, and for showing me how far a good attitude and a humble heart can get you. To the Ammus and Uncles in my life, thank you for looking out for me always, for letting me wrestle you, and for modeling for me what it means to live with integrity.
And finally to my parents: there’s a thousand things I could say to thank you for the sacrifices and sleepless nights I’ll never know about, but instead I’ll pick just one. Growing up, my mom used to talk about how the Taj Mahal was the most epic testament to love on this earth. But Shah Jahan only joined marble and the world’s jewels to create a building. My parents on the other hand spent the entirety of their youth joining hearts, lives, families, and lifestyles for no other reason than to create a community for me. One that was made up of people from all different faith communities, different ways of practicing, cultural backgrounds, and ethnic makeups. One that was free of judgement or expectations. One that no matter what place in my life I was, I could always feel comfortable in my own skin. And in my eyes, there could be no greater act of love.
To the community that raised me, to the aunts and uncles and aunties and khallas that yelled at me like I was their own, to the people who have ever knowingly or unknowingly touched my life, know this: if I ever manage to accomplish even an atom of good in this world, I’ll owe it all to you. And finally, to mom and abbu, thanks for letting me grow up with you—it was the best ride a girl could ask for.
Until the next era of my life,
Samar
