We love Islam, and because we love it so much we refuse to reduce it to an inflexible and fossilized way of life. We don't believe in a monolithic practice of Islam. I pray (sometimes), fast, recite the travel supplication before I start my car's engine, pay my zakkah (an annual charitable practice that is obligatory for all that can afford it) and, most importantly, I feel very Muslim. Some might even get to know me and still label me as a non-practicing Muslim-I drink whiskey and I smoke weed regularly. (The most dominant Islamic schools of thought consider a woman's ankles to be 'awrah, meaning an intimate part of her body, and revealing it is undoubtedly a sin.) Nothing in my outward appearance speaks to or represents the beliefs I carry. I don't cover my thighs, let alone my ankles. My hesitation in these scenarios comes from knowing that a sizable number of people from my religion look at people dressed like me and write us off as women who have lost their way and veered off the path of Islam. I'm guilty of judging and projecting my thoughts onto her before giving her a chance to receive this information and respond to it. I don't want to read her mind as she hesitantly responds, "Wa'alaikum a'salam." The reason I don't connect with her is that I'm not prepared for a possibly judgmental glance up and down my body. I pretend that we have nothing in common and that I don't understand her native tongue or the language in which she prays. I don't notice them until I have to blow my nose or until I meet someone not accustomed to face piercings. Then I remember my two nose rings, one hugging my right nostril, the other snugly hanging around my septum. My hair is a big, curly entity on top of my head still air-drying after my morning shower. A pair of distressed denim short shorts, a button-down Oxford shirt, and sandals. Then I look at what I picked out to wear on this day. "Should I greet her with A'salamu alaikum?" I ask myself. That I also face East and recite Quran when I pray. That I grew up in an Arab state touching the Persian Gulf where the majority dresses like her. Something that indicates that my mother dresses like her. I want to say something, something that indicates I'm not staring because I'm not familiar with how she chooses to cover herself. I realize this must make her uncomfortable, so I look away. I stare at her briefly and think to myself, "She can't tell if I'm staring at her because I think she is a spectacle or because I recognize something we share." Ankles modestly hidden behind loose fitting pants or a long, flowy dress. It's tightly fastened under her face where her head meets her neck. In some scenarios she's standing behind the cash register tallying up totals and returning change to customers. There's a woman shopping in the store that I can clearly identify as Muslim. The scenario I'm about to describe has happened to me more times than I can count, in more cities than I can remember, mostly in Western cities here in the U.S.
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