Dear Imam, I love to wear non-Muslim clothes. Especially the fashionable ones from the mall. (The one here in town.) But my brothers, all three of them, they dress Islamically, in long kurtas and thowbs, like the companions of the Prophet. When I’m with them, I stand out like a sore big toe. (We’re all bald too, except they wrap their heads in turbans, like at the Prophet’s time, so lucky them. They call it Islamic—I call it convenient!) Imam, how do I change and become more pious like them?
Answer: First, let me commend you on your interest in following Islamic precepts in your life. However, I did not know, until I read your question, that clothes have a religion. In the Qur’an, clothing is referred to as a cover and as items of beauty: “Indeed, We have bestowed upon you from on high [the knowledge of making] garments to cover your nakedness, and as a thing of beauty, but the garment of God-consciousness is the best of all.” There’s no reference to a specific style of clothing. As long as it meets the requirements of Islamic modesty and cleanliness, it can be a “thing of beauty,” a fashionable item if you will, of any culture. If your brethren disagree, please do ask them how exactly Abu Jahl and Abu Lahab, those men bent on killing our beloved Prophet, were dressed. Were they also not wearing the same garments that are now claimed to solely represent Islam? If they were to materialize in our midst today, those among us without true knowledge of our religion would rush to authenticate them as exemplary Muslims, based on their appearance. Meanwhile, the garments of these two evil men—time-stamped, yes, with the fashions of the Prophet’s time—encased hardened hearts. Thus, we wear clothing on the outside to cover and beautify, but our insides are equally important. If our outsides look pious but our core is not mindful of Him, we are not true servants of God. We must constantly strive to align these. That is the beautiful struggle of being a believer. In closing, I want to add clothing is cultural, and Muslims belong to ALL cultures of the world. (So go ahead, cover that head with a baseball cap. Or a turban. I hear they are quite fashionable these days.) And Allah knows best.
I smile. Amu’s awesome.
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After dinner, Mom opens my bedroom door as I’m perusing the bootleg math exam. I have no time to erase the stricken look on my face, but, lucky for me, she associates it with the conditioner and curling iron that I left on the desk.
“Did you have a girls party to go to today? Why all the hairstyling?” she says as she picks up the iron and winds its cord around it.
“Just trying something new,” I say, placing the exam sheets in the middle of my math textbook. My fingers shake, as feigning nonchalance is hard with Mom scrutinizing me.
She shoots a pointed look at my hair, which, I have to admit, is a tangled mass held back by a headband. I shrug and highlight random things in my math notebook.
“They’re delivering my bed tomorrow.” Mom takes a seat at the desk. “Janna, I know your number one concern is privacy. What if I make a promise that nothing will change in terms of that. I’ll treat your space as a separate room. Completely.”
“I really doubt that. I’ll be right there. It’ll be easy for you to treat me like I’m seven.”
“You mean when you used to beg to sleep in my room?” She looks at the picture on the wall above my desk. It’s a photo I took of the decorative pebbles in front of Dad’s house.
“I just know you’ll tidy things in my space, like it’s your room, like you always do. Maybe even check on me.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” She sighs and turns to me, her eyes blinking like they’re wet. “Muhammad being home will be helpful for me.”
Amu’s face flashes in my head. How does that happen?
“Mom, I’m trying to study.”
“I know, but I’d like things settled for Muhammad. For us.”
“You mean for Muhammad, period.” For some reason I feel angry instead of sad when I see this affecting her. It was your choice to leave Dad, I want to say.
“Janna, think about what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying you only care about him.” My throat closes on that, and I want to cry after saying it. Muhammad and Mom are becoming united in my head. But I’m on my own.
My phone beeps with a text from Tats. I HATE Ms. E. But guess what? J likes your hair. He thinks it’s hot.
“If I only cared for him, why wouldn’t I just order you to hand your room over?”
“I’m studying.” As I’m about to click the phone off, another message pops up. He wants to talk. When?
“Well, I see you’re making good use of the present we got you.” Mom stands up.
“So it was a bribe.” I’m trying to click off when three more messages appear, annoying beeps punctuating the air. When hot hair?
When hotness?
When?
“Do you really think that’s what it is?” She doesn’t make a move to leave. “If so, maybe you need to give it back then.”
Powering the phone off completely, I place it on the side of the bed closest to the wall and keep my hand on top to ensure its security. The idea of Mom taking it from me and finding Tats’s texts is making me sick. “Okay, Mom, I don’t think it’s a bribe. I know you meant it as a present to show you care about me. Not just Muhammad.”
Making sure my voice doesn’t sound robotic while just saying what she wants to hear is hard. I look up at her to see if it works.
She turns and leaves, closing the door behind her. I don’t catch her face, but the stiffness in her back tells me she’s not impressed with me.
I power the phone back on and delete all of Tats’s messages.
SAINTS
I decide to buck trends and be hot, temperature-wise. If a bunch of people can jump into icy waters for polar bear plunges in the cold of winter, I see no reason I can’t wear my favorite clothes when it’s ninety degrees outside. Four layers of diverse fabrics: denim, Lycra, cotton, sweatshirt, and a slick (and thick) pashmina to knit the whole ensemble together. All in black, my feel-good color.
Comfort clothes are a must today.
Mom’s queen mattress, box spring, and headboard are resting against the wall beside the front door. Muhammad appears carrying the disassembled lengths of the bed frame, held together like it’s an Enfield 1853 rifle-musket and he’s marching to the Battle of Fredericksburg. (Sad fact: The North suffered more than twice the casualties in that skirmish.) He does a Three Stooges move when he sees me, turning suddenly and feigning surprise at missing my head with the bed frame. I glare and stuff a breakfast bar and a lunch bar into my backpack. My plan is to head to school earlier and miss the drama of dismantling Mom’s room.
At school, I sit on the steps by the side doors that lead to the hall where English is. Normally these doors are locked, but if you wait long enough, someone opens the door from the inside for whatever reason. Okay, usually a nefarious reason, like smoking or making out.