I chose to be a Muslim when I was 14. Soon after I realized I would need more than just a silent declaration to truly live my faith. My gypsy upbringing and mixed race background created a chameleon, letting me blend seamlessly into each new community and culture as one of the crowd. But being held only to the least common denominator of morality wasn't going to help me "be" Muslim. I needed to have the luxury of flying beneath the radar taken away from me. I needed a banner and a reminder of my convictions. I needed to wear hijab .

It's been 12 years now and my hijab is still with me. That is a long time for what is often a phase for Muslim girls. The trend that my decision seemed to cusp has petered out for most of my peers. It is a hard choice to live with, and I don’t judge my friends that have left their hijab. For me though, it is still important to be hijabified, even at the price I pay in grief from non-Muslims, and more painfully, from Muslims as well.

You see, despite the fact that I fall under the label of hijabi and am hopelessly removed from the norm of non-Muslims – one can never be too covered. There is a fixation in some quarters of the Muslim community on how “their women” dress that borders on obsessive. It is as if nothing else is important in a woman’s faith than how they appear in public. The true gauge a Muslim woman’s goodness is in the length, fit and extent of her clothing. And that status is public domain. If you don’t fit the bill, you’re in for trouble. Everything else – those superficial things like constancy, sincerity, honesty, generosity, charity, mercy, and devotion – are unimportant.

But sarcasm aside, it is not as simple as that. What hijab entails is often in the eye of the beholder. The Quran’s reference to covering talks only about ‘drawing veils around all except that which is apparent, so that the believing women should be recognized and not harassed.’ Hadith, on the other hand, is a little more specific, with the Prophet (peace be upon him) urging a believing woman to cover all but the face and hands when in front of non-Mahram men. Still debate remains, and even if what hijab entailed was written in stone and extremely exact, implementation of hijab, like all other matters of faith, is a personal decision.

Just as some men may grow a beard to their belly buttons while others will be content with a goatee in an attempt to meet the Sunnah of being bearded, hijab too follows personal interpretation. Some say you need to veil everything but the eyes and shouldn’t be able to guess the wearer’s weight to within ten pounds. Others draw the line at face and hands. More ventilation-loving groups allow for the feet to get some air. For some women their hijab is a symbolic bandanna, hat or scarf around the shoulders. Others still call it a state of mind and way one carries themselves and has nothing to do with an actual article of clothing. Throw in preferences for the tightness, looseness and opacity of the various articles of clothing a woman may consider her ‘hijab’ and you can see how complicated a simple concept can get.

And in the mix – smack dab in the middle - there are those like me for whom hijab is both a piece of cloth and a symbol, its specifics, however differing in each society I move through. When I was in Pakistan, I wore full-sleeved shalwar kameez and an opaque dupatta over my hair indoors and the burqa when out. When I was in the Gulf, I initially wore the abaya but stopped when I realized it only communicated that I was Arab (which I am not) and not necessarily of a ‘religious’ bent (which I am). A head-scarf paired long skirts and blouses seemed the better fit there. And now that I’m in the non-Muslim West, my hijab has evolved again. Remember, my goal as a ‘hijabi’ is to remind myself of my conviction to be a Muslim, to announce my moral standard to others and through that protect myself from temptation and the pitfalls of vanity. Here I find I can do that in a pair of straight-leg jeans, some artfully layered shirts and occasionally a fedora on my hijab. Hey, no one said hijab had to be boring.

To each his own. I don’t dare suggest that my way is the best way. I only know that so far, it works for me. Mine is a constant state of evaluation, decision and evolution, and sure I make mistakes. My hope however, is that if I keep on praying for guidance and staying honest, then I will keep drawing near to my goal - to represent my faith and be the best Muslim I can be.

And yet, my continual statement of "I’m imperfect, but I’m trying" isn’t good enough for everyone. Somehow I need to be lectured, harangued, and browbeaten into more fabric. And I’m not being over-dramatic when I describe it that way. I can take a polite suggestion or a well intended talk. But what I get often extends into the realm of verbal attack where forgotten is a more important tenant of our faith - Muslims believe that God will judge us by our intentions. I can be cloaked so much that even the most conservative types are satisfied, but have no desire to please my Creator through that action. Is that considered then a meritable act? Should I be satisfied with looking the part but being rotten on the inside? And yet I can look like a painted harlot to some, but having got even that far through an intense struggle to please my Lord. Should I be written off for not being good enough?

And again, I have to wonder, what good are the critics hoping to accomplish? Practice needs to stem from taqwa – love and fear of our Creator. If I lack the taqwa to up my practice, I don’t think yelling at me is going to help. Only prayer, dhikr, fasting and reading the Quran is likely to improve me. And I would rather be kindly urged to do more of those things than be told simply that if I’m going to wear jeans I might as well take my hijab off.

Because if, at the end of the scolding, I do swap my jeans for a long skirt and my t-shirt for a tunic, then I probably did it just to quiet the critic. Not to please my Lord. And practice for the approval of my fellow man, instead of my God, makes one a hypocrite. Not a better Muslim. Which was the supposed goal all along.

(hey all. So, some of you know it’s not actually all self-inflicted injury and laughs in my life. There’s a whole lot of drama that takes place, very little of which ever makes it to my blog. But I’ve decided to try and answer some of the issues I’m grappling with in writing, and what better place to put my responses than my bloggie? So please pardon the verbose seriousness that follows. I know it’s not Owl-like, but you’ll manage, yes?)

It's strange the things people react strongly against, particularly Muslims. When they learn that I am a journalist – a profession known for its instability and danger – only some worry. That I am a 26-year-old unmarried female globetrotter goes down a little harder - with a few raised eyebrows and mental pity for my parents. But when most Muslims hear that I am ‘athletic,’ that sounds the alarm without fail.

Let me explain my athleticism. I am no professional. I am nothing exceptional. I will never win a trophy for what I do and to the passerby, resemble nothing more than your average young woman. I am simply a person who makes regular time for sports and fitness. I love being active and pushing my own physical limits.

That tends to translate into team sports, personal fitness endeavors, and a puppy-like love of chasing after a ball. When they’re handy, I find my way into softball and basketball leagues. I’m always the one with the badminton rackets at picnics and am a regular at the local batting cages. I have a love of the casual game of football so strong I once biked 5 miles in a snow storm to play.

And when I can’t find willing others to put together a game, I’ll content myself with solitary fitness pursuits. I am probably the only person you know who got their money’s worth out of an expensive piece of workout equipment. I used my elliptical trainer nearly every day for all the years I had it in female-sports-unfriendly Pakistan. I’m always trying to up my game on push-ups, curls and crunches. And first aspiring only to be able to run a 10 K, I have since finished a half marathon and can predict I’ll be training for a full one sometime soon.

It’s not just sports and fitness. I like simply DOING things. This year I surfed, skied, and kayaked for the first time. I also used a bike as my primary mode of transport for a whole year just to see if I could. I love learning new things and overcoming challenges.

But most of this I have to keep as secret as a criminal habit. Because to most adults in our community, Muslim girls are not supposed to be like this. And when it gets out that I am, I get treated to a range of reactions that vary from concerned lecturing to interventions to even fatwahs.

The most puerile concern I hear is “Ooh, that isn’t very feminine! How do you expect to get married if you’re manlier than most men.” First off, I’m not manly. “But all those things you do, don’t they make you overly muscular?” Er, no. I’m not pumping steroids and maxing out on the weights. I’m playing sports, exercising my heart and keeping tone. I am neither big nor butch. Being athletic does not mean necessitate being masculine. I’m still very much woman and look and behave as one.

The next question, which I tend to hear is: “But I don’t think men like girls being, you know, athletic.” Some wouldn’t. Some would. But frankly I don’t think it’s healthy for anyone to life their lives trying to please a faceless unknown. God willing, I will one day marry, but I count it as no loss if a man passes on me because he’s threatened by my fitness. He isn’t much of a catch then either. Simply there is no action any of us can undertake that will please everyone. It is best then to try and please our Lord first, and those we love and ourselves after.

But the rub comes when people tell me my athleticism would be unpleasing to God as well. “It’s very unIslamic to do what you do,” I am often told. And this upsets me.

First comes the lecture where the earlier concerns are repeated in pseudo-religious terms. “Men are not to imitate women and women are not to imitate men. Those who do are cursed.” By paraphrasing a well known hadith the arguer is trying to make the case that athleticism is purely a male quality and any woman pursuing it is defying God’s social order. I doubt sports have ever been a purely male domain historically, and in the present the sport culture is shared out fairly equally between the sexes. Context and relativity play a significant role in determining the social propriety of action, even in Islam, and in the era and culture I live in, there is no risk that pursuing fitness will alienate me from my gender. And though some may say women making any sort of entry onto the field to be a failure of faith, in the time of the Prophet (peace be upon him) women were known to even take to the battlefield, so I doubt a little thing like swinging a bat is that big a deal.

Then there are those who say things like my half marathon endeavor were straight up haram. “Hadith says that on the Day of Judgment we will be questioned for even stepping heavily on the earth. What is running but stomping around?” Firstly, I think the hadith had more to do with arrogance and useless action than the physical weight of a step. Based on the latter logic, Muslims would never ever do more than walk gently and slowly everywhere they went. I don’t recall ever reading a hadith where Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) forbade us from running, jumping, or moving quickly. In fact, I remember that he used to like to race his wife Aisha. That, I believe, involved running, and was for no purpose beyond their own enjoyment.

But many sports go beyond pure enjoyment, I am then told. They extend into willful self harm. After all, Allah does say, "...make not your own hands contribute to your destruction..." (Surah al-Baqarah 2:195). Yes, I have had some sports injuries. But then I have had injuries doing the most innocuous things as well. I’m just hazard prone. But what I also get out of fitness is improved cardiovascular health, ease of mobility, and strength – all useful and good things to have. Even running is not half as bad as people think it to be. Researchers at the Stanford University Medical Center have recently found that regular running, even into old age, comes with significant improvements in lifespan without remarkable joint damage. So within moderation, this, as most things, is very beneficial and hardly harmful.

And beyond physical benefits, there is a huge psychological and spiritual boon from fitness as well. I feel so much more alive and capable after running or playing. Exercising early in the morning charges me up for a day of productivity and positivity. And realizing how healthy I am, and what that allows me to do, leaves very grateful to God and humbled by His kindness and mercy. Activity really is therapy of the mind, body and soul for me.

So why is this such a taboo in the minds of so many Muslims? Well, partly I think it’s a culture clash. I notice many questioners come from ethnicities or generations where women do/did little physical activity beyond child rearing and housework, which are worthy pursuits but currently not part of my life. The idea of women wanting or enjoying sport and fitness is as foreign to them as the idea of women wanting to stay in the home all the time is to my peers. It is simply an unknown to them and they are expressing their curiosity, which is fine. Most retain an open mind and have a willingness to understand, which we all need to have.

But the rest of the complainants are men of a certain bent - men who not only disapprove of my athleticism, but also my profession, my education, and my mind. And as they cannot easily forbid me from any of those – as Islam urges education equally and allows women to earn and own – they focus on my hobby. It strikes me as a control issue, and that saddens me. I am a much more fruitful contributor to my Ummah if I am capable, strong and empowered. To be a mindless subservient would make me drain instead of a boon, and though it would probably be easier to ‘control’ me that way, it would be at a cost of the energies of my ‘controller’ and of the actualization of my own potential.

And to what ends? So that I can fit a preconceived notion of how a Muslim woman should be? To please my community? I’m sorry, but I am more worried about pleasing my Lord.

In life and in blog, I often reference my supposed high tolerance for pain. It’s not bragging so much as an attempted consolation (and distraction) to all the peoples who were at that moment about to dial DCFS and have me taken away. And yes, it HAS been pointed out that at the ripe old age of 26, I can really no longer be threatened by the Department of CHILD and Family Services, because I am well shy of being mistaken for a kid. Boo. Killjoys. But until I can remember that I’m supposed to be fearing PETA now, you’ll have to humor me.

Honestly though, I never actually ever believed my pain tolerance line. Cuz, well, I do FEEL pain. Even the damned emotional kind that I like to pretend has absolutely no bearing on me. It all registers and I probably complain about it all. Frankly, I consider myself a total whiner and a big old baby. So when doctors and dentists tell me “Whoa, that would normally take out a rhinoceros but you’re not even flinching,” I figure they’re being polite and a little patronizing. You know, the whole “Aren’t you a big girl for not crying, have a lolly!” I aint buying it. *scowl*

But I finally agree that yes, maybe I’m not normal.

See I had a rather um, messy run-in with a broken bathroom fixture this weekend. I don’t wanna gross anyone out, so I’ll just summarize. Owl + jagged ceramic = lots of blood, emergency room visit, and a bunch of stitches. And yes, I realize the irony of this happening days after I plead for sanctuary from myself after the now laughable injury to my tooth. I realize whenever I’ve joked about things being so bad they can’t get worse… they do. Perhaps I should stop doing that. *duly noted*

Getting back to my, er, accident. I’m not going to pretend it wasn’t pretty awful. The sight of all that red and the knowledge that it was coming out of me, and realizing I couldn’t stop it, freaked the hell out of me. After I got the blood staunched up as best as I could and myself heading to the hospital, the shock hit me hard. It would be another hour before my hands stopped trembling. But what’s more surprising than that is the fact that it take TWO HOURS before I got any sort of pain relief. But that part didn’t bother me at all.

Emergency rooms are, well, for emergencies. Real ones mind you. Mine wasn't. I'm sure I couldn't have died from it. If I could have figured out how to piece myself back together with paper clips and duct tape - and I did consider it in the panicky minutes I spent before I decided to go to the hospital - I would have. ER docs have lives to save and patching up a bumbling idiot like myself I think is a waste of their time. And, as it took them two hours to come and fix me, I think they agreed.

The doctor that eventually showed up was actually extremely awesome. I can’t remember his name, but wherever you are Dr Eye-Surgeon in Training From Small Town Outside Columbus Ohio, you have my blessing. He was very reassuring, very friendly and very cute. One thing he wasn’t though, was tactful, as he couldn’t keep his “oh mys,” “this is a doozies” and “you sure you’re oks?” to himself. Partly he was amazed that I could be so badly hurt by such a seemingly innocuous piece of home furnishing. Yeah, we just met. Hang out with me, say, five minutes, and you’ll see me turn harmless situations into life-or-death experiences. And I guess the rest was his shock was that I wasn’t crying, complaining, or doing much beyond cracking jokes.

No big shock, but, I sort of respond to stress with humor. (That is, when I’m not passing out from my other stress coping mechanism – narcolepsy. Now you see me, now I’m snoring!) That is why this blog has managed to exist as long as it has. The Crazy with a capital C in my life hasn’t let up, so I have plenty of comic juices to tap into. Hence my questions of “Can you sew me a change pocket and a hammer sling while you’re at it?” “This may open up a whole new career option for me. How does Frankenstein body double sound?” and “If you cut off my leg and give me a new one that’s less attracted to sharp objects, I’ll tip you extra!” *eyeroll* I know, I am such a cornball.

So after stitching me up and issuing firm instructions to not further eviscerate myself on any other bits of my house, the doctor wrote me out a prescription for some heavy duty pain pills. Pills, that I have only eaten two of, one the first night when my side was still heavily protesting it’s unasked for installation of ventilation and macramé, and the other because the pill seemed to help this lifelong insomniac sleep a little better and I needed some rest. And though I am still a little limpy and bloody just two days later, I’m already back to life as usual - juggling nephews, lugging luggage, and cleaning stuff. Cuz that’s how I roll.

And this time, no threats to call PETA ok? Cuz though God may have made me rather a bit self-destructive and hazard-prone, we now have proof that in His infinite wisdom, He paired that up with some thick skin. So it's all good. :)

Sometimes, I wonder if Truman was on to something. When your life is just a series of hilarious disasters, you can’t help but suspect something is up. I mean, either I am really just one of the most unfortunate idiots to walk this earth, or my life is a sick reality TV show of which I am the oblivious star. The latter is a little less damning for me so I'm gonna lean that way. ;)

Take last week. Time had come for more travel – this time to the Durrty Souf for my Happy Potato’s wedding. This was no ordinary affair. Maryam was one of my bestest buds back in Pakistan, and her family are the awesomest bunch of people I’ve ever met. But I had a wardrobe dilemma, and hence the beginning of my sad series of catastrophes in the run up to the party.

See, Pakistani weddings are pretty fancy affairs. All females, from little girls to aunties, get decked out royally. As a still semi-punk tomboy, you can guess I’m not big on the dressing up. I didn’t have a single proper get-up to wear, and was going to be passing as the maid if I didn’t get something and fast. Normally, my lack of bling doesn’t bother me. But my mom wasn’t having me slum it at the wedding of one the classiest and loveliest families we’ve ever known. “Owl, quit dawdling and go and buy something nice. Don’t embarrass me!”

With that, I put on my game face and hit the local desi mall. After perusing shop after shop of amazingly hideous, poorly made and terrifically overpriced concoctions, I finally struck gold. At one store, in a pile of garish monstrosities, I found a shalwar kameez that was sedate and well done. It wasn’t too expensive, and though it had short sleeves, I figured I could just buy a similarly colored fabric and piece on the deficit. On top of that, my perennially dissatisfied mom approved of the selection, so without much ado, I plunked down my money, paid, and headed out.

When I got to the fabric shop, that’s when I realized something was wrong. But of course, if a shopkeeper doesn’t want to wring me for every penny for an outfit that isn’t disgusting, then something MUST be wrong. When I pulled out the shirt to match it against some fabric, I realized the entire front was sun-bleached. In the dim shop I was unable to see what now was obvious – the suit had been stored near a window and the sun had faded the bright blue to a grayish bruise color in an uneven pattern. The back, however, was still vivid, and nowhere else was the faded blue to be seen. It was totally ruined and unless I positioned myself against a wall the entire night, I couldn’t really wear it.

We headed back to the shop and I went in with a sad smile on my face. “Uncle, there’s been an accident. This outfit is very damaged.” I pulled it out and showed him the very obvious problem. But instead of hearing a gasp of shock or a sympathetic murmur, instead I saw the shopkeeper's mustache start to quiver. “This is just a pattern! There is nothing wrong!” Er, a pattern that is totally uneven, follows no logic, and is only on the front but not the back? “Yes, it's a design! I will not refund you a penny. If you don’t want this suit, fine, then pick something else. But you won’t get your money back.”

Now, little known fact about Owl: I hate confrontation. I hate bad blood. I hate raising my voice. I hate arguing. I avoid it all like the plague. I tried very politely to get him to be reasonable, but in the end I just caved. “Fine, show me what else you have.”

But remember, this suit had been found in an endless pile of grossness. All his other shalwar kameez were hideous or too expensive, or the wrong size. “Do you want a lengha or a sari?” he asked. I’m a pretty simple girl. It’s always just shalwar kameez with me. Saris are too Bollywood and lenghas are usually for girls closely related to the couple. “No, I don’t think those would be appropriate. What else do you have?” I asked tiredly. “We have the latest anarkalis,” he suggested. The name rang a bell. That was the style that my friend had pointed out as “harlot outfits” just a few days ago. Based on the clothes of courtesans and dancers, and named after the famous tragic love of Emperor Jehangir – the Anarkali was definitely not my cup of tea.

I immediately said no, and returned to his pile of shalwar kameez, hoping that I’d missed something that wasn’t radio active, glow-in-the-dark, or cobbled together by blind monkeys. No such luck. With a sigh, I asked to see his anarkalis. Of course, they too would be on a palette so scary I wondered why on earth a color-blind man would have decided to open a boutique. But there was one in the mix that was neither whore-rific, tacky, nor vertigo inducing. Yet what color did it have to be? Remember, my life is Murphy’s Law. What can go wrong, will. The outfit was pink. The trademark of Barbie, overt femininity, and bubble gum. The very anti-Owl of colors. *cringe*

Sigh. But it fit. It wasn’t too much more expensive than what I paid for my first suit. And it was there. Utterly exhausted from the ordeal, I ignored my inner tomboy’s protests at not only being dressed as a courtesan but a PINK one to boot, and, paid for the suit.

Fast forward to the day of the wedding. With a few hours to burn before the party got started, a bunch of us decided to have some fun. Go-karting was nominated out adventure of choice and we hurried ourselves down to the nearby course. We got in line, listened patiently to the rules and safety guidelines (“Some cars may stall suddenly. If this occurs, don’t panic. Just pump the gas and the break alternately until the engine comes back online), ignored the ghettofabulousness of the facility (broken seat belts anyone?), got into our karts, joked about ten-kart pileups, strapped ourselves in as best we could, and took off.

The first few laps were great. Out in the front, busting out with my Dubai-driving skills, I was having a blast. But on the third lap my kart decided to do that sudden stall thing, and came to a dead stop. I was busy pumping the gas and break when my world came crashing halt. The boy who’d been eating my dust the past few laps came up fast behind me, and instead of swerving or even slowing, crashed into the back of my kart at full speed. He literally knocked my hijab off and set off sirens in my head. I’ve been in three car accidents, but nothing hurt that bad.

I was trying to figure out if my head was still attached to my body when the course staff came over and said “You ok honey? You wanna keep going.” And without even seeing if I was hurt, straightened my car and started it up again. But then, we already know I’m not one to let a little thing like overwhelming pain stop me. I righted my hijab, located the perp, and hit the gas. Within seconds I was next to him, and gave him a sharp knock into the side barrier before I passed him by and finished the last two laps in the lead. And when I got out of my car, I popped some pain pills and played it off.

Of course it wasn’t as simple as that and by the evening I could barely turn my head without bolts of pain running up my neck. “This is what they call whiplash, with a vengeance,” I thought to myself. "Oh joy. I’m going to look like a turtle, with such a stiff neck I'll be turning my whole body instead.”

It was in that condition that I was struggling to get ready for the wedding. I was wrestling with my Mughal Barbie outfit when I got stabbed in the rib. “Dear lord, first my neck, now my ribs?” I wondered. Rather than traveling muscle pain, it turned out my mom had sewn a pin into the seam of the outfit when she had done my alterations. I couldn’t pull it out with my fingers, so ever the desi, I used my teeth and eventually worked it out. By then running late, I threw all my pieces on, knotted my hijab, grabbed my shawl, and rushed out the door.

Getting ready in the car, I had just finished fixing my fiddly shawl when I pushed the sun-visor mirror downwards and saw my mouth. And my lack of tooth. 0_0 I had apparently chipped one of them when I was pulling the pin out of my shirt. Where before there were two square front teeth there was now one square one and one with a jagged arched edge. *dies* “Um, guys? Does anyone have a metal nail file?” I hesitantly asked. One was offered and like a girly MacGyver I filed down the rough edge of my broken tooth so it wouldn’t cut me or snag some wildlife.

With my scarf and tooth now helped as much as they could be, I then tried to put some make-up on. Again, mother’s orders. I was quickly painting on the basics when my hand slipped and my mascara wand missed my eyelash and landed square on the shawl I’d just spent the past ten minutes pinning into place. *collapses* And was the stain somewhere small or inconspicuous? No, it was dead smack below my ear, in plain view. At this point, I was beyond frustration, and laughed as I started digging around for the concealed safety pins I’d just put in place. The entire shawl had to come off then and be moved around to hide the stain. Another ten minutes later, I was finally as presentable as I could get.

And with that I took my aching neck, stooped posture, stained shawl, chipped tooth, walking disaster of a self into one of the fanciest weddings I’ve ever been to. I’m sure that was EXACTY the effect my mom was hoping for.

"Sanctuary!" (no seriously, I need it. from myself)

I’ve been turning something over in my mind for the past couple days. I set off on my rolling stone lifestyle about 8 years ago. The decision to uproot myself back then didn’t strike me as all that drastic. I had, afterall, spent a chunk of my formative years abroad anyways, and never integrated when I returned. But to nearly all my friends, it was a shocking and harsh choice to make. I’ve stuck to my guns though, and my core group of friends has seen I’ve gained a lot from it.

At least, I thought the core was ok with things. Every couple years I roll in for summers of silliness, with roadtrips, adventures and lots of counseling back and forth. They’d be there, always meeting me with smiles, hugs and jokes. It would be like I never left, so easily we’d find that worn but strong thread of our friendship. It didn’t matter where we all were in our lives, to each other we’d be the same kids and slip back into the same old roles – the performer, the thinker, the therapist, the analyst, the activist, the storyteller.

But there’s been a reoccurring comment cropping up in my life, after finally hearing it from some of those girls, has given me pause.

I was at my latest random short term residence, days after spending some time with my crew, when one of them called.

“Owl, where are you?”
“Around. What’s up?”
“Me and Shmeela were talking, and we’re like, damnit girl, you always do this to us.”
“What’s that?”
“You get us to fall in love with you and then you disappear! We’re going through Owl withdrawal!”
I laughed so hard at this it woke up my 16-month old charge who turned his little eyes at me in shock and surprise. I thought Nado was being her hilarious self as always.
“Oh please Nado!” I snorted.
“No really, you do this all the time. You come back, spend time with us, and get us all hooked on you. And then you leave! And we’re all needing our Owl fix, and you’re far away again!”
“Whoa, um, serious?”
“Yeah, we go through this every time you come back. Why won’t you just stay with us for good?”
“Aw Nado, you know I can’t do that.”
“You’re such a heart breaker! You leave a trail of broken hearts everywhere you go!”

And I dunno yos, but that made me hella sad. I realize of course that Nado was exaggerating (we share a love of hyperbole and a pathological inability to remain serious for long). I am most definitely not addictive (it says non-habit forming right on the label), and I am not some elusive magical amalgam of house elf, unicorn, and gypsy fortune teller. I’m flawed and very human. It’s not all laughs and good times. There is a lot of darkness in me that no amount of personal evolution has managed to completely wipe out. And I’m pretty sure I can be damned annoying some days.

But what I did get from that is this impression that I have a rather selfish lifestyle. I base my decisions on where I go, and when, purely on circumstance. Time comes for a change, I pray for direction, and go where the flow takes me. Beyond basic logistics and a degree of familial input, that’s all that gets taken into consideration. The people I leave behind, well they managed pretty well without me before, so I figure they should be just as good when I’m gone. I’m not a particularly useful person. I can carry heavy things, and I can bake, and oh, I do pro bono editing and writing. That’s about it. So there should be no big loss from my absence. My friends were awesome when I met them, and will keep on trucking after.

But it’s not that I don’t care about my friends. I love them all without reserve. Seriously, if you’re in the circle, I’d take a bullet for you. And it’s fairly easy to get there. There are so many people spread out across the world that are card-carrying members of my heart. And once a friend, always a friend (and F, you’re no exception). I never fall out of touch completely, if it can be helped. I can always be reached on the other side of an email or phone call, no matter where it is I end up. And though I realize that the distance means that a lot of times I may not be called upon in times of crisis, my crew knows that I’d make the trip if ever asked to.

But what to do? I can’t take them all with me. I’ve tried, but they miss their own families and after some time, need to go home ;). And yet, I haven’t been able to really stay put for the past couple years. That may change in the future, but I can’t change the past. With each move, I’ve left bits of my heart around the globe. And until recently, I guess I was the only one getting a raw deal. I was the one who ended up alone and having to start from scratch every couple years.

So, why is that little dialog still haunting me? Because cutting through all the drama, at the end of it, I worry if I’ve inadvertently hurt people with my wandering ways. Then I’ve done the very thing that I’ve been running from all along.

In my super compartmentalized brain, there is an elusive corner where I have funny thoughts. It’s a bit like the Room of Requirement. I can only find it when I really need it. I slip into Silly In A Scarf when I’m drowning in boring social situations (cocktail parties are an instant in), have to take some tension out of the air, or need hit someone over the head with Super Cool. Sometimes, just sometimes, if I stand outside in the cold dark hallway of my brain, with a column deadline looming, and whimper long enough, it HAS appeared. But June’s series of painfully serious blog entries is evidence enough that the funny aint always happening and it’s never at my beck and call.

As it’s been a while since I’ve even tried getting into my Room of Requirement, I’m worried that I’m losing my way. Friends will concede that I’ve been going from wisecracking smartass to being a bit slow and lost. Boo. I mean seriously Owl, if you’re not good for some wicked laughs, what ARE you around for? Or worse, the smartass button flips on at the most inappropriate times and places (Did I just snark at that box of Poptarts?! And why did I just go into Stand-Up mode for that ophthalmologist?). So I need an exercise in flexing my funny muscles. And there’s nothing Owl likes more than an Impossible Mission – not to be confused with a Mission Impossible. I don’t have the girlish good looks to take on anything Cruisian.

That is my new Mission. And all Missions need parameters (less they spiral out and eat the world), so this one will follow the Theme of Stupid Muslim Stuff. Cuz I’m Muslim. And I’m subject to Stupid Stuff. Some of which includes, but is not limited to:

Mosque madness (Entering a mosque is not an invitation to mack out on me or issue fatwas against me – and especially in that order.)
Answering for Obama, Osama and Saddama (No, I’m not related. I have no idea what they’re up to. We are not linked in some cybernetic Borg network.)
Meeting the Uncles and Aunties (great awkward conversation with the parental units’ peers)
Life in the Crosshairs - Muslim Singledom (It only gets weirder the older you get.)
Emptying the Nest (How to escape your parents without being disowned)
The Timewarp (Stories from the other side of the Generation Gap)

I’m kind of pressed for time and can’t seem to collect enough thoughts to pound out a blog, so I’m gonna cop out. I am going to open the floor to yous guys, my readers, THE PEOPLE, to ask me whatever you like.

I realize over the past five years of blogging I have probably spilled most of whatever proverbial beans and marbles I may have, but apparently I’ve been willfully silent on a lot of fronts and some folks are itching to know stuff that I don’t normally blog about. I can’t imagine what that is though. Seriously dudes, I blab about EVERYTHING. Ok, maybe you don’t know my shoe size. Or whether I prefer paper or plastic. And most pressing of all – WHICH OF THE JONAS BROTHERS I LIKE BEST. Yes, this is all terribly important information I have just not shared. So feel free to ask. And so long as you’re not super creepy, I shall answer.

I love my mom. Really I do. She's the source of most of the spacey sense of humor myself and the Abez have inherited. She's also wicked smart - when she's not off in lala-land, skipping through fields of daisies with marshmallows in her hair - and usually very practical.

I say usually.

My mom does not like my face.

Particularly, she does not like the SKIN on my face. As I cannot change it, this is not practical.

But this does not stop mother-o-mine from constantly trying to get me to change colors. I guess she hasn't quite come to terms with what her mixed race marriage (mom is White-Blonde-Blue Amreeki and dad is Tan-Black-Grey Pakistani) produced - the washed-out semi-olive-toned Owl.

I have a rather distinct memory of one day, when I was about 16 years old, my mother looking up from whatever she was lost in, and suddenly saying: "Owl, are you sick?"

Beyond having a rather severe case of Teenage Angst (I coulda sunk ships with my long suffering sigh and toppled nations with my eye-roll alone), I was, to my knowledge, quiet well.

"Uh, no."

"You sure? No nausea. Or fatigue. Or blood in your stool?"

(Egad. Best question EVER!)

"No, I'm fine."

"Well you don't look fine! You're face is all yellow!"

"Is it? Sorry."

"No, come here. Let me see you."

I did the stoop-shouldered, foot dragging, teenage shuffle over to the mother, and stood. I did not have to wait long. My mom reached out, grabbed the back of my shirt, and without further ado, lifted it over my head.

"Oh dear!" she cried

(I should say so!)

"Mrph?" I asked from within my cottony coocoon.

"This is worse than I thought. You're yellow ALL OVER!"

At this point, I began to worry a bit, though it may have been the shirt-induced asphyixiation. I pulled myeslf free and peered at my hands and arms. Yes, they were kind of yellowy. But nothing out of the ordinary, so far as i could tell.

"But mom, I dunno, I think I always look like this."

"I should hope not! What kind of mother doesn't notice her child's liver disease! You must have the typhoid! Or maybe you're anaemia is getting worse! I don't know, but this can't be normal. I want you to schedule an appointment with your doctor right away and get a full work-up."

Sigh. I think I did, though I don't remember the appointment. I do, however, remember the conclusion. There was nothing wrong with me. I was just mixed race. With one kooky parent who only just noticed this.

Fast forward ten years to today.

I am sitting at the computer trying to do some work when my mom looks up from her internal reverie, squints at me, and asks my brother "So, what do you think Owl should do? Get a deeper tan, or bleach her face?"

The big bro looks over quizzically and offers an articulate, "Whaaa?"

"Does she look better tanned, or that slightly jaundiced pale she does?" mom soldiers on, now sitting up and bringing her discolored child squarely into focus.

This has now become old hat. I've survived ten years of my mother trying to recolor, reshape, and rebirth me. To little avail. My nose, my posture and my personality are all as crooked as ever. And I'm still kind of yellowy.

"Mom, I had a tan all summer. You didn't like it. You said it made me look splotchy. Now it's fading out and this is just my default color."

"But you didn't have a good tan. You should have used my hours at the tanning salon instead of just running around in the sun. Or at least try my self tanner. But this thing you have going on now, it's just not pretty."

At this point, I interrupt my mom (I can only be a good, patient and unsaucy child for so long) to add: "Whoa, you should talk. Mom, your current skin color is shared between you and fried chicken. If you were a race, it would be fast food."

"Well that makes sense. I just found out my BMI is 36," she answers, not even missing a beat. This is why I love her so.

"Anyways, I think I'm just supposed to look like this."

"Oh! Don't say that! I raised you to never accept bad when you can do better!"

Right. Indeed. How silly of me to let genetics bully me around like this. I must fight the good fight! Bring on the fake bake! Or better yet, let me please BOTH sides of my screwed up parentage and bleach myself away to transparent ghostiness.

Now you see me, now you don't!

*poof*

Ladies and gents,

Please take a look at this map:



Notice the red? That is a hellova a long line. It just keeps going and going - over hill and dale, crossing highways and cutting through city centers. That's not a route, that's an ordeal.

WHAT KINDA CRAZY PERSON RUNS THAT?!

Um. Me?

*waves*
*collapses*

I ran - no OUTran - my half marathon today. I did a whopping 14.1 miles in something like 3 hours. Subhanhallah!

And not only did I run my own One Woman Half Marathon, I did it, plus 1 mile. I did it a week earlier than my August 9 birthday target. I did it with only a prior personal best of 9 miles, to jumping to 14.1 just four days later. I did it on practically fumes (no dinner the night before, tiny breakfast, and nothing but water while running). And I did it in the dead of the afternoon on a summer day.

Once again - Subhanallah. All praise is due to God. If you doubt there's a higher power out there, the fact that I could do this, and NOT kill myself, is proof that there is. I am no Iron Woman. I'm an asthmatic, rickety jointed, mangled muscled, bird brain. But I did it.

So... what next?

*grins wickedly*

You know, it’s been a while since I shared some stories of Owlish self-mortification. A reader may think that I’ve finally outgrown this bad habit. But let me assure you I’m as much a hazard to myself as I’ve ever been and have once again put my foot in it – royally.

So my dad lives in an adorably fobby neighborhood where all the apartment buildings are like stationary clowncars filled to overflowing with immigrant families. That in itself isn’t a problem. I’m the proud stock of some cheap-living immigrants. They got to where they are today – the illustrious position as my forebears - by overbreeding and saving money on rent. So there!

The problem isn’t the overwhelming ethnicness (as a racial mutt, I love everybodies), or even overabundance of loud children. Problem is our nearest neighbors. They, like us, are a bit outside of the normal area demographic. A. They are not Brown (they are… Eastern European?! *gasp*). B. They do not reside with their entire tribe. And C. They do not grossly ignore the typical inhabitant to bedroom ratio. But where my dad’s place is inhabited by himself, occasionally my mother, and occasionally my brother and his wife, the neighborinos have two parents, a teenage daughter and two unmarried adult sons.

And therein lies the problem. But before you start cooking up some Bollywood-esque boy-next-door-romance-type-situation, let me explain. These boys are, um, strange. They don’t actually live IN the house. They live on the back porch - the tiny, six foot by four foot landing that we share. I know this because the building has bad acoustics and you can hear them out there all the time, talking to their friends, idly picking at their laptops and exhaling their cigarette smoke. And sure enough, EVERY time I open the back door, I see them, just steps away, sitting in their wife beaters, sunning themselves and flipping their long hair.

Oh yeah, did I mention that they are lithe, delicate and gorgeous. Where I am not.

But again, before anyone starts with “Owl and Annoying-European-Neighbor-Boy Sitting In A Tree” type-junk, let me stop you now. Nothing makes a Plain Jane feel worse than a pretty boy. That I’m going to be out prettied by many girls I meet, I’ve learned to accept. Alas, genetics is a Cosmic Fruit Machine, and you get what you get. But being made to feel blockish and large by… a dude?! Aw helllllllllllll no. That is just NOT right. They’re the mutants and I no like.

To add to my feelings of coarseness, the only time I ever need to access the damned back door is when I’m taking out the trash (how demure!), airing out the mop (lovely!), or trying to cool off the kitchen as I cook and clean and make a general ruckus (enchanting!). Which, also coincides with my daily Caterwauling At The Top Of My Lungs time. So again, I am not in my best form when I chance across these airyfairy loiterers, which makes me want to pick up those scrawny things and throw them off the porch. And you know I probably could.

I should say though that as much as things occasionally irritate me, most folks never have any idea. I don’t think I’ve ever been rude to a stranger. If things annoy me, I keep it to myself, except when I’m spinning it into a funny story to share with friends. The actual cause of my irritation never has a clue.

Until today.

Oh my.

0_0

So I had a bad morning. I was doggedly trying to catch up on my ever-present sleep deficit when I got a call from my mom. Inspired by my running, she decided to go for an early morning walk, and after 3 miles, had tired herself out so badly she couldn’t make it home. “Come and rescue me!” she pleaded into my sleeping ear. I’m still surprised I made it out of the house with shoes on my feet instead of say, a pizza box and a sock, and it was an actual hijab I draped on my head instead of a pile of newspaper. I was that groggy. But I found the car keys, found the car, and eventually found my mom and brought her home.

You would think I would happily return to bed after the rescue, but sleep is an elusive thing for me. Once it’s gone, I can’t get it back, so instead I consented to be my now incapacitated mother’s slightly crabby go-to-girl. In the middle of micromanaged housecleaning, she noticed my luggage. “Put your sneakers on the back porch to dry,” mom directed from her recliner. Ah yes, my sneakers. Four miles of my nine mile run coincided with a rain storm, so they were damp and icky.

“Come on, isn’t there somewhere else I can put them to dry? I hate the back porch,” I grumbled as I wandered into kitchen and fumbled with the door locks. “You know those guys are always out there, like damned bridge trolls. I gotta find my hijab just to open the back door. But I bet it’s too early for them right now though, cuz seriously, they’re even out there in the middle of the night! It’s like, what the hell dudes, GET A JOB!” I happily ranted as I unlocked the door, oblivious to my rising pitch and the fact that acoustics work both ways – if you can hear other people, they can hear you too.

And lo and behold, when I finally got that door open, what did I find? My trolls, sitting in their wife beaters, staring down at their laptops, very politely not scowling at the large, plain, gruff, groggy, and bed-heady neighbor GOAT who just loudly insulted them.

Of course, they WOULD be gentle-trolls to boot.

*crawls into hole and dies*