A personal experience with the hatred of Islam
By Guest Contributor Shawna, originally published at Islam on My Side
This is an old post I’ve pulled out of the Islam on My Side archives, originally posted with the title “Give Me an Unbigoted Break.” It’s a bit more personal than I’ve been inclined to post on this blog, but as personal essays come in from contributors (deadline August 1st, so get to it!), I feel inclined to share a bit of my own experience–the roots of this blog and anthology, if you will.
****
As I thumbed my way through some favorite blogs this morning, I was inspired to touch on a hot topic in the Muslim blogosphere: bigotry. Islamo-Facism Week has encouraged the debasement of Islamic ideals stemming from a bigoted hardline against Muslims. I’ve grown used to being lumped into unfriendly categories. It often happens by friendly people who are misinformed by Horowitz-like others or simply ignorant to world affairs. I’m often tolerant of said lumping.
I spent six years in Oklahoma, three years in Texas, and another six years in Arkansas prior to the eleven I’ve spent in Indiana. For those of you trying to do the math, that makes me twenty-six years old. When I lived in Arkansas, I was the object of some pretty serious hate. My family was the only Muslim family in the tiny town we lived in. I started there in fifth grade. I remember my first day of school clearly. I’d changed schools a number of times as my dad moved up in the job world. I’d gotten pretty good at identifying who the kids I wanted to get in with were from day one. I was thrilled when one of the girls disengaged herself from the medium-popularity clique and offered to be my tour-guide. She never got to guide me though. I was handed off before that first period ended to a girl with wildly red hair who was clearly not as well-to-do or well-looked upon. This girl became my best friend for several years, mostly due to her honesty when I asked her why the other girl had ditched me.
She nodded when she said it, “The teacher says you’re part of a cult.”
It took awhile for the implications of this to sink in. My fifth-grade homeroom/English teacher had discouraged another student from being my handler because she somehow knew my family was Muslim. Or maybe it was because I entered the classroom with a wicked tan, the same type of tan my younger sister sported when we were on the local swim team and another teacher’s daughter came up to her and asked, “Do you take pills to be Black?” or something like that.
Interestingly enough, the Black members of this town were made welcome, and barriers were broken down to give them at least marginal acceptance because they were churchgoers, and perhaps more importantly, they were really good at basketball (or football, or track) and those were this Bible-belt town’s lifeline.
Anyway, I spent the rest of this day following that brave red-head–she’d shrugged off the cult thing–around the school trying not to cry. Give me a break. I was an eleven year old girl clearly being shunned by peers who shifted away and whispered when I walked past. I was the object of a lot of pointing and narrowed eyes. It turns out that my younger sister did better because she was only seven, and the community believed she could still be saved from our heathen household.
I’d like to say that this kind of behavior was temporary, that people opened their eyes and hearts to my family and accepted us. We kept to ourselves. We didn’t make a big thing out of our difference of faith. We never criticized what the other members of our community believed. But the truth is, while some of the kids I attended classes with and was teammates with for volleyball, basketball, track, or swimming did relax a little around me, it was extremely rare that I got an invite to do anything other than attend youth group or go to church, both of which I did because I would take what I could get. I was even saved under a big tent one summer. Afterward, one mom welcomed me into her life, promising to give me a Bible (which I was thrilled at the prospect of even though I already owned one and had read it). But her interest in me came to screeching halt when she said she’d pick me up for church every Sunday. By this time, my parents had decided they no longer wanted to humor the efforts of these families to try and convert me–not because they were afraid I would convert, but because it was a blatant and hateful attack on our beliefs and their parenting. I was confused by the offer of a ride to church. “I’m not going to church,” I said.
The woman looked at me, as confused as I was. “But you were just saved.”
Page 1 of 2 | Next page