Great Article by Mark Morford from the SF Gate Chronicle

Hey kids! Love will destroy you!
By Mark Morford, SF Gate Columnist
Wednesday, December 30, 2009

I’m guessing 17. Maybe 16. Although I must admit I’m finding it very hard to tell anymore because the older I get the more I notice this odd, unstoppable inversion taking place in my wayward perceptions, rendering my ability to accurately assess the ages of members of Generation Facebook wickedly futile.
MARK MORFORD

Anyway. There they were, the pair of them, right next to me on Muni recently, two loud, gum-snapping, shamelessly teenaged girls, both dressed in some sort of adorable sweatshop clown chic, nearly identical in getup except for the fantastical color schemes.
Imagine: sausage-tight velour sweatpants — one bright orange and the other bright green — rainbow print shirts and orange gloves and yellow shoes and striped choppy tiger-print hair, both basically looking like a Lite-Brite exploded all over a box of crayons, and both girls texting like mad and yelling across the aisle to each other in that hypercondensed, consonant-slurred teen gibberish that makes you sigh and smile and worry just a little about the fate of our flailing species.

But that’s not what I noticed most. One of the girls, the one in the orange pants and the short, fruit-stripe hair who was standing right in front of me, I couldn’t help but look down and realize she had something inscribed high up on the back of her neck, just beneath the hairline.

It was a tattoo. A bad one, naturally. Crooked, wobbly, amateurish in that way that makes me sad because I fully believe bad tattoos are a scourge on the American animal and crappy tattoo artists should be punished and get their goddamn slacker butts to art school, and Something Must Be Done.

Anyway. High up on the back of this girl’s young, perfectly smooth neck, in large, clunky script, I saw these words:

“Love is pain.”

Next to the words, a small, red cartoon heart torn in two, serrated like shark’s teeth, a droplet of blood pouring out.

I blinked. Love is pain? Really? Can that possibly be true for this shiny tiny teenaged creature snapping her gum and misspelling her text messages in front of me? Such a harsh, declarative statement, such a dour and irrefutable pronouncement, made before you’re even old enough to buy booze or porn or cigarettes, when you’re still full of energy and potential and friendships, and you have what, about 70 more years to go before you even have a clue as to what your life was all about?

I found myself flashing back to about eight years ago, when I attended some sort of delightfully mushy, yoga-filled, trance-dancey, patchouli-‘n’-Ecstasy New Year’s Eve party thing, and I remember meeting a very young friend of my then-girlfriend, a sweet, dreadlocked, hippie-ish seeker dude who must’ve been about 22 or 23 at the time. My ex was talking him up and asking how he was doing, and he got this dramatic look on his face, scrunched and painful. “Oh, you know, just dealing with all my sh-t, lots of peeling away, lots of hard work to get through it all.”

I remember my reaction. I remember this big internal recoil, struggling not to roll my eyes and shake my head and slap the kid awake. I mean, come on. You’re 22. You don’t have any sh-t yet. I knew he’d never even been married, no kids, divorces, mortgages, spiritual crisis, age issues, body breakdowns, addictions, health problems, asylums, dumb tattoos on the back of his neck. He was from the north shore of Chicago, fer chrissakes. Not exactly drug-addled povertyland. Hell, I was only in my early 30s, and even I knew the basic rule of life: Dude, you have to actually live a little first. You have to earn some sh-t before you can claim to be digging out from under it.

I don’t taste quite that flavor of judgment anymore. At least, not as frequently. I’ve come to realize that the darkness takes many forms indeed, from abusive childhoods to karmic repayments to all sorts of trauma of varying degrees and maturity levels, and that, in many ways, your life can indeed be piled high with horror and sadness by ages far younger than 22. All paths are unique, individual, unknowable from the outside.

But can you really believe, in your core being, in your whole world, that “love is pain,” before you’re even old enough to buy a goddamn vibrator? Can this be your great, fist-raised statement to the world? Sure it can. It’s just a bit, you know, immature. Premature. And wildly incomplete.

A dozen questions drifted through my bus-bored mind as we lurched from block to block. What does she really know about love? What happened to her? What triggered the idea for such a lousy tattoo? She seemed healthy and vital, all faculties intact, no major limbs missing. Abusive father? Alcoholic mother? Both? Slew of skuzzy deadbeat boyfriends? Beloved puppy got run over by a Buick? I wanted to lean over and ask. I wanted to know what inspired such a fatalistic worldview before she seemed old enough to even have a worldview.

I also pondered what might happen to her in the coming years to make her regret that tattoo. Maybe she’ll get out of the housing projects. Maybe she’ll build her own loving family. Maybe she’ll meet a fantastic spouse who shows her love is many things indeed besides a source of pain, even though we still have no clue what the hell most of them are or what it all might mean, and in truth that’s what makes it so goddamn tasty and slippery and addictive, how it hits us square in the divine mystery spot in our deepest core.

(BTW, I also acknowledge how it’s entirely possible I am way, way overanalyzing. Her phrase might just be, say, some dumb Rhianna lyric. A Jay-Z song title. A cheeseball line from a vapid vampire movie. Hey, impressionable young girls with no real life awareness are right now getting far, far dumber things tattooed across their bodies in the name of soap-opera romance and malformed identity. But what sort of column would that have made?)

What I do know is, it’s taken me many, many years indeed to figure out exactly what love is (God’s Viagra, obvs). Pain is just one of its many dark incarnations. But pain is also a choice. This is something you can only realize over time, and which you can never know at age 16. You can actually choose how to use, or be used, by love’s insane, impossible, narcotic energy. You can, every day and every moment and every breath, decide which of its billion catchy little slogans, if any, you wish to abide.

Love is pain? Hell yes. But also: Love is bliss. Love is energy. Love is divine. Love is all you need. Love is perfect. Love is magic. Love is God. Love is Hell. Love is like oxygen. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is a many- splendored thing. Love will keep us together. Love is madness. Love hurts. Love bites. Love stinks. Love’s a bitch. Love is a battlefield. Love is blindness.

Girl better have a long neck.

anyone disrespect your mother

I used to hate it when people would advise me to take my problems to my Lord. I was a bit confounded when a friend told me that my problems would work themselves out if I prayed tahajjud some more. Muslims aren’t the only ones who give that advice; Christians and even New Agey folks do it too. Christians take it to Jesus and if you’ve read the Secret basically everything is your fault because you attract negative energy. The pop psychology approach tells us that we fall into certain patterns due to some past trauma. There is some lesson in our problems, one that we fail to see. So, read the right self help book and reflect on your poor choices because the solution lies within.

Perhaps my spiritual journey is tied to my self-critical and sensitive nature. Growing up sensitive was not easy, as I was surrounded by critical people. And I tended to draw people near me who were no-holds-barred, tell-’em-like-it-is folks. On top of that, I have an emotive face. Some people call that wearing your heart on your sleeve. Without the mask, I’ve had to be honest and up front rather than let people feel smug for reading me like a book. So that means that I’ve often disclosed what’s going on with me because it was already apparent that something was boiling under the surface.

I have to admit that I’ve always been impatient with flippant responses to my complicated problems. An empathetic ear has always been important because I’ve always been hard on myself. I’ve always been hard on myself, wanting to be a good person by spending a great deal of energy pleasing others. I would want some person who was sympathetic, who could understand what I was experiencing. This was especially the case if I was going through something that was alienating. When I first got the “pray on it” advice from friends and family, I’d get frustrated because I wanted instant feedback or a kind word letting me know that I wasn’t a terrible person, something I experienced was unjust, or that my perception of reality wasn’t off.

By sharing your problems, you may get the instant gratification of feedback. There may even be some commiseration. And misery does love company. But often, sharing your problems with other people often doesn’t fix them. Some things are best left unsaid. I can say that after being hurt by friends and loved ones who have used some information I’ve shared with them in a hurtful way. It’s another thing if you are looking for strategies to deal with a situation. In that case, by all means talk to a trusted advisor, a counselor, or true friend. I suggest an advisor or counselor because the nature of your relationship is unlikely to change. God willing, you have a confidentiality agreement so they won’t share your personal information.

Things aren’t so bad, alhumdulillah, you’re still living. There’s nothing to worry about. If you have your health alhumdulillah. If you don’t, then there is some expiation in your hardship and you’re not dead yet. Once you’re dead, then there’s no need to worry because it is a done deal and your fate is sealed. My mentor was right, pray the istikhara and find that answer within yourself. More often than not, we want advice from somebody who will support us in doing something we planned to do anyway. Only the masochistic take criticism from friends, family, and advisors. Otherwise, deflect….deflect…deflect. Ultimately, you have to live with your own decisions and their repercussions in this life and the next.

Parts of Philadelphia are so blighted that there is really little hope for rebuilding. Those parts that are being rebuilt have become enclaves for the bourgeoisie and their re-gentrification projects. In Philadelphia blight is often just around the corner from affluence. The shift is dramatic and can best be illustrated on certain bus lines such as the 57 going from Penn’s Landing, through Northern Liberties, into North Philly. Some blocks of Philly are are just crumbling shells with just a few row homes suitable for habitation. I’ve passed by blocks where two row homes stood like broken teeth. Some neighborhoods can feel really heavy in their depressed state, forsaken by America. Sure, there are services, such as water and gas, and people can move through the city due to public transportation. But when the bus lines went on strike, I began to wonder about the vulnerability of the poor, disabled, and elderly. What happens if the state fails(I’m talking about the nation-state, not just Pennsylvania) collapses and society collapses?

Photo credit: Michael T. Regan Original source: City Paper
Sometimes I feel like we’re all in the midst of the apocalypse but are in denial. Maybe it is ending slowly, as we are losing our grasp on our humanity. It is not so farfetched, when you really think about it. As a child in of the 80s, I grew up under the threat of a nuclear holocaust. The idea of the world as we know it ending is part of our popular imagination. We have the upcoming Hughes Brothers’ film, the Book of Eli, 2012, I am Legend, Delicatessan, the Road, Mad Max, and countless other films and books.

Some days, I think the end is near. The hints of social decay are all around us. There are parts of Philadelphia, Detroit, and West Oakland that remind me of the Terror Dome. A few weeks ago, I took a wrong turn leaving my school as I headed to the social security office. It finally dawned on me that I have been working in a North Philly post industrial wasteland. Within these streets, the border between the sociopathic and the plain ole ignorant seems to get really murky. Certain honor codes have gone by the wayside. Grown men in army uniform cuss out old ladies on the bus, women prostitute their children for a rock, and little girls get their faces blown off because they come from the wrong neighborhood. The level of violence reminds me that we don’t have to wait for the End of Days. I’ve prayed several janazahs at al-Aqsa where young Muslims lost their lives in senseless violence. Who needs fiction when you’re living your own apocalypse? I think our society, which once valued the untamed wilderness of the West, enjoys flirting with disaster. The urban apocalypse is our new frontier.

I wanted to share a few quotes from a work that is somewhat of a blast from my Academic past. I began working on this draft in 2002 and finished it by 2003 for a “Historical methods” course in undergrad. I was limited to a subject dealing with American history and had to locate a topic that would wield sources easily accessible to an undergrad with no archival experience. I wanted to choose a topic that related to my experience. At first, I wanted to write a paper about political leanings of the Black American Muslim community through the WD Muhammad community and compare that to the political leanings of immigrant led organizations such as ISNA. My Muslim peers were against that idea. So, I decided to work on a paper that didn’t explore the fractures and fragmentation of the American Muslim community. Instead, I chose a topic that dealt with race in America. Like most Black families, we have our family histories peppered with stories of interracial marriages between Black and Native American, accounts of children born from sexual unions between White men and Black women, and tales of this branch of the family or other passing for white. I grew up in a household full of racially ambiguous Black women, which contrasted with my experience as a phenotypically Black woman. In a way of connecting to my sister and niece, I began exploring issues of Black identities, multi-racial identity, white privilege, colorism, and class. For my research project I was initially interested in the history of Free Black communities in New Orleans. But after consultation I decided to explore similar themes through media representations of mixed race Black Americans. I looked at all the films dealing with Black American life and found a disproportionate amount of films dealing with racial passing and very few of the stories were written by Black Americans who appeared to be phenotypically white. I explored this theme in Black films and literature and soon learned that the race passing trope had little to do with the experience of mixed race individuals, but more to do with the discourse on racial place in America. Two films stood out to me because they represented a pivotal time in American race relations following World War II as America tried to normalize and reset race relations.

In light of the discourse on post racial America, Barack Obama, and the Tiger Woods situation, I think it is appropriate to revisit these issues. In 2010, there is less of a need to pass by hiding one’s African heritage. Rather, people are politely passing by checking out of Blackness. James Weldon Johnson’s main character in The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man takes this position when he declares that he “would neither disclaim the black race nor claim the white race.” Many multi-racial people resent the Black community’s opinion of those who check “other” and do not identify as Black. I understand their sentiment, but I think that the ways in which both mainstream America and multi-racial individuals talk about Black America’s ambivalence towards this phenomena tends to be over-simplified. While I am not an expert on racial formations in America, I do think advocates of both the post-racial society and the the multiracial movement both depict Black identities in a ahistorical way. There is still more dialog that needs to occur, as Black identity in the 21st identity is shifting where individuals can have the choice to opt in or out. Now, one can have one drop and still live a relatively white life. There are countless individuals who do it. But back in 1949, that Black drop could be devastating as evidenced by this 1949 film which was based on a true story.

This short film clip is packed with problematic scenes. The one I found most disturbing was the nightmare sequence where Black faces are transposed onto white faces.

Here’s a snippet of the paper:

LOST BOUNDARIES:
The Social Significance of Racial Ambiguity in two 1949 Negro Problem films, Pinky and Lost Boundaries
Margari Hill

“Most anthropologists agree there will be no Negro problem in another two hundred years; by then there will not be enough recognizable Negroes left in this country to constitute a problem.”
Ralph Linton, Anthropologist, 1947

A 1950s scientific study titled “Complete White-Negro Mixing in 1,000 Years,” determined that that 3.6% of genes in the African American gene pool, “are freshly introduced from the North American white population per generation.” Ralph Linton saw this trend as the resolution to racial tensions in America. Once African Americans were physically and culturally indistinguishable from whites, Linton concluded, it would be impossible to discriminate against them. The Mississippi Democratic Senator, Theodore Bilbo, wrote back to Linton saying he’d rather a hydrogen bomb drop on America than see the mongrelization of the races. Linton, assured Bilbo and his readers that race mixing goes only one way—to lighten Negroes.
Regardless of their outward appearance, social institutions and many laws restricted individuals classified as Negro in a system that privileged Whites over Blacks. Race passing was a way that few Negroes escaped discriminating laws. In a society preoccupied with racial identity and classification, racially ambiguous individuals were a special problem.

Race passing challenged accepted norms and was so shocking and controversial that its sensationalism drew movie audiences. In Toms, Coons, Mulattoes, Mammies and Bucks, the leading authority on African Americans in motion pictures, Donald Bogle, lists the pantheon of iconic figures. Bogle writes that the, “moviemaker’s darling is the tragic mulatto.” The following films have explored this theme: God’s Step Children (1937) Imitation of Life (1934) and (1958), Showboat (1936) and (1951), Lost Boundaries (1949), Pinky (1949), Band of Angels (1957), Night of the Quartermoon (1959), Shadows (1960), I Passed for White (1960), King’s Go Forth (1958), Queen (1993), Devil and a Blue Dress (1995), and Feast of All Saints (2001). As evidenced through the changes in the depiction of race passing, these stories reflect America’s changing race relations.

In 1949, the release of three racial problem films broke new ground in the depiction of African Americans. Two of the films exploited the racial passing plotline and were starred in, written, and produced by Whites. Because of various compromises to the storylines, these films were less about the African American experience than White privilege. An examination of the mainstream press’s treatment of Pinky and Lost Boundaries in comparison with African American press reveals that these movies were more of a discourse on White privilege than racial injustice.

If you’d like a copy of the paper, you can email me.

I’m sure there are other converts who experience the Naysaying loved ones who take jabs at your religion when you’re down. Many of our families are not supportive of the struggles to wear hijab, career changes where you don’t compromise your faith, even process of getting married without the whole dating and cohabitating for years thing. Basically by becoming Muslim, they question your judgment. Even if it is not explicit, their implicit disapproval for your religion can be seen in their skeptical response to even your happiest moments. Then their doubts and concerns about your lifestyle commitments become more explicit when life gets rocky. If you are not a happy smiling Muslim, well the problem is your religion. Talking to non-Muslim friends and family members about problems can open you up for critiques about Islam. I’ve heard things from non-Muslim family members such as, “Well, your prayers aren’t working for you” or “Well, what have the Muslims done for you?” or “Maybe this religion isn’t for you.” These statements are not something you want to hear when you are looking for consolation or going through lonely times. Even though the Shaolin monks could kick some butt, you’re supposed to maintain a zen like calm under whatever threats because any human failings such as losing your temper under pressure are blown up to signs of hypocrisy. I guess that’s one of the reasons why I stick to myself, especially as I struggle to gain footing in Philadelphia, to reset my career path, try to make sense out of the ins and outs of this new life.

Those who were born into practicing Muslim families may not experience the occasional bouts of Islam bashing from their families. In general, their families will support decisions to be Muslim. Nor will their families take shots at their religiosity during those hard times. Maybe not from their practicing parents, but perhaps from their non-practicing siblings or other relatives who are not Muslim. But that critique is something that really hurts when it comes from a parent. That family disconnect is what makes the situation of converts alienating. I think that’s why we cling to the ideals of the ummah, feel even more hurt when excluded from particular communities. We have not broken family ties, but we have become the “Other” amongst the people who know us best. I’m not saying I have been persecuted for converting. However it still is an unknown factor, an oddity that they are not entirely comfortable with. I did lose a lot of friends in my spiritual journey and extended family situations can be awkward, especially in the past few years when I began practicing outwardly again. I have learned that over the years I have to tolerate ignorant comments about the Muslim world, about politics, I have to take the pot shots and the jokes in stride just to keep the peace. But on an emotional level, when you are looking for someone who has your best interest at heart, you realize that your relatives and friends are no Abu Talib, and that really hurts. There is an increased pressure to make life appear picture perfect or at least not share my ups and downs with others because my lows can be another indictment against my faith, let alone my decision to practice it with sincerity.

A recent article published in the Journal of Personality and Social Psychology offers something to think about. Loneliness spreads like a virus, as the study suggests, and it is not a personality trait. Instead, it is a condition like hunger. We human beings are naturally social and we crave human interaction. I think this is important to think about because whether we like to talk about it or not, many Muslim women are depressed. Much of it is due to social isolation. And I don’t mean just from purdah (secluding oneself in the home), but isolation as part of the modern condition where mass migration and high mobility separate us from friends and family. I have talked to a number of women, from new mothers, to newlyweds, to ex-pats, and immigrants, and a number of women I know, including myself, have experienced debilitating loneliness. How to combat loneliness? That is a hard thing, especially because it leaves you vulnerable and especially sensitive to social slights. The article states:

While a runny nose might spread through handshakes, people likely catch the loneliness bug through negative interactions. A lonely person will be less trusting of others, essentially “making a mountain out of a molehill,” said study researcher John Cacioppo, a psychologist at the University of Chicago. An odd look or phrasing by a friend that wouldn’t even be noticed by a chipper person could be seen as an affront to the lonely, triggering a cycle of negative interactions that cause people to lose friends.

When you’re down in the dumps, it is much harder to make new friends or repair old ties. I don’t think it is just the lonely person’s fault. Sometimes people can act like vultures and prey on the weak or wounded. It is easy to take a pot shot at someone who is already down. In fact, some people can be downright mean as they see emotions as a sign of vulnerability. The trick for a lonely person is to reach out, slowly build real relationships where both parties earn each other’s trust. Another downfall of loneliness and negativity is that you can attract other people who are also angry and negative. Misery loves company. And as the study suggests, if you are around a lonely person that bug may catch you too. Maybe you can find activities to be around people doing something positive, instead of talking and commiserating. The most important lesson I walked away from after reading the article is that we should work hard as a community to reach out to people who are on the outskirts. We can’t just let people drift away, instead we should help them repair old social ties and create new ones. We all need circles of friends and associates for support. Living abroad and relocating several times has really brought that point to bear for me. We have to think about addressing these issues on a personal level and a community level. We’re all busy, but our modern lives and technology have created more communication but greater social isolation. We can all use a bit more face to face interactions and authentic relationships. Creating companionship is just hard work, but for our own emotional, psychological, and physical health we should work on it. Read more here.

Mabrook to all of the winners, honorable mentions, and nominees for the Brass Crescent Awards. I would like to congratulate Suhaib Webb for Best Blog, Muslimah Media Watch for best female blog, and Marc Manley for honorable mention for Best Design and the many others . This year has been promising due to the high quality of articles produced by group blogs such as MuslimMatters, Muslimah Media Watch, and Suhaib Webb. A number of individual writers have contributed thoughtful pieces throughout this year. Many of them escaped notice during the Brass Crescent Awards. My hope is that this year we encourage a new crop of young writers with an eye for journalism, fresh perspectives, and sharp analytical lenses.

Kul ‘Am wa Antum Bekheir!!

May Allah accept the hajj of the hajjis, including a few of my students and co-workers, and accept our fasts. This year I celebrated along with my husband at Masjid al-Aqsa, where I work. Imam Anas from Quba Institute gave the khutbah, a very thought provoking piece on bridging our ethnic divides in America. We had brunch with some very nice folks, an example of Imam Anas’s message. I started preparing for the ‘Eid feast on Wednesday, cooked all day yesterday and overnight. I have a few more dishes to make and we’ll have guests over. We’re having a traditional soul food ‘Eid: Turkey, stuffing, roast beef, mashed potatoes, peas, yams, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, black eyed peas, rice, salad. All we need is for you to bring the pie. One day I hope to post some of American dishes I’ve prepared during Ramadan and even some recipes from my ethnic specialities. I’ve spent a number of ‘Eids by myself or surrounded by unfamiliars. It is nice to be home and to have someone to share this special day.

…but I don’t have to address every attack against Islam.

The past few days, I’ve received some negative reactions from non-Muslims about my faith. Somehow, it causes a lot of anxiety for people who do not understand why I would be Muslim. People will ask me, “Why do Muslims do this? Why do Muslims do that?” I don’t feel that I have to answer for a billion people, just as most Christians don’t feel that they have to explain Nazism, colonialism, or slavery. I’m not a polemic or an apologists. I don’t think that Muslims have been perfect in history, but Muslims have not committed atrocities on the scale of let’s say the Holocaust or dropped nuclear bombs on cities.

I don’t really care if you don’t understand my personal relationship with the Creator. It is not my issue if you hate my faith and our Prophet Muhammad, that’s yours. I’m not oppressed, but actively engaged in community life. This blog is not a platform for anti-Muslim polemics. I’m not going to engage Islamaphobes on this blog or in emails. Simply, your vitriol will be deleted. I don’t spend time going on Islamaphobe websites wasting my time on polemics. As the famous Ayat in the Quran states: “I do not worship what you worship and you do not worship what I worship. To you be your religion and to me mine.”