I need a head transplant.

Most of my life, from my early teens on, there has been a person who has to randomly ask me “Why so sad?” whenever we meet. In middle school, it was my teacher Mrs Brown. I’d be reading, drawing or thinking, and she’d lean over in that patronising grown up way and ask me in that confidential voice: “Is there anything you want to talk about?” Yeah – why are you blocking my light?

In high school it was Imran, my best bud’s elder brother. When he’d see me in the halls, he’d pass closely, or stop me, and say “Owl, why do you always look so sad?” Uh, dude, this is high school. It’s a war zone. Pardon me if I don’t go around looking like a squirrel on crack. I’m just chill. I’ll let you know when I’m sad.

There have probably been a handful more since then. Here in Dubai, it’s Miko, one of Hem’s good buddies. Whenever there is a lull in the near constant silliness in the group, he will look over to me and say “Ms Owl, why is it you are so sad?” Of course, I’m not. I may be lost in thought. I may be quietly listening. Or I may be trying to avoid getting pulled into the constant flirtation that is the group’s standard mode of interaction. But I’m hardly sad.

And now that I’m at My Office, it’s Orange. He’s a hilarious extrovert in the marketing department who was hired the same time as I was. When I rushed into our ‘induction ceremony’ a few days back, mumbling my apologies for being late before I sat down, he said ‘Yes, but why are you upset?” I was totally taken aback and laughed, “Am I? I feel fine.” Then yesterday when I was in the cafe getting my lunch I heard a distinct voice from my left ask: “You’re still mad?” I turned and there he was – Mr Orange. Again? This time he got my now standard reply to such comments – a wan smile and the line: “It’s just my face. It looks like that.” He laughed and said “Get a new face.”

Ouch.

After a lifetime of apparently going about with an ugly mug, I’m giving it some serious thought. I don’t like the fact that I’m unconsciously broadcasting my seeming sadness. Firstly, I’m not even sad. Granted, I’m also not happy. It’s more just a neutrality. I just … am. My face, when I’m not talking, smiling or frowning, apparently reverts to a look that somehow means sadness. And because I have a little mouth that turns down at the edges, neutral looks despondent. It’s just what my ‘screen saver’ looks like. When I’m engaged, I flicker back to life and laugh and talk and wear a million expressions on my Manga-like face.

So what should I do? In the past I’ve just ignored the comments because it wasn’t deliberate on my part and changing my unconscious behaviour to please a few folk seems rather much. Plus I don’t do pretences. I’ve always hated the expectation that people should walk around with a bland smile on their faces just to keep up appearances and not worry anyone. I smile when I want to. When I feel like. Otherwise it’s a meaningless contraction of muscles.

But it does worry me that I’m somehow giving people the impression that I’m always upset. I’m not. Who knows what sort of damage to personal and corporate relationships that has done. I like to think that I correct the erroneous impression when people talk to me. I’m no wet blanket. When I’m not in screen saver mode, I’m leading conversations, cracking jokes and getting to know people. Generally anyways ;). I have my bad days where I’m not able to push past my inherent shyness and insecurity and put myself out there. But they’re outnumbered by the days where I’m just your average friendly sort.

So much of growing up though is about coming to terms with reality and letting go of childish ideals. And maybe my insistence on not recalibrating my neutral expression to be one of passive happiness is one of those things I need to do away with. Dunno. I’m afraid that what I gain in outside perception I am going to lose in recognition. If it’s smiling, it can’t be Owl, can it? ;)

I have exactly 59 minutes and 23 seconds to write a blog update before I go *DING* like a mighty piece of toast and shoot out of my office straight into a solid traffic jam. Toast AND jam, my favourite!

Incidentally, my computer here at work thinks I’m British. It wouldn’t be the first time this mistake has been made. There are some 200-odd Boston Muslim Students Association members who know me only as the Girl With the Oily Skin and Posh Accent. It was for a skit. And in my defence, they’re a sheltered bunch, those kids. Probably wouldn’t know a real Brit if it bit them on the arse.

But yes, I did say “job.” As I got one. In an office. As in a place where people actually want me to be. They PAY me to stick around. Seriously yo, best idea ever. I’m not going to tell them that normally I sit around and do nothing for free at home. That would spoil it. They think they got me for a bargain. I’ll let them keep that delusion. Secret is, Owl is the cheapest date EVER. I’d ‘work’ for nuttin just cuz it’s fun and I’m bored.

I started yesterday, and so far, so good. Not only have I NOT been fired yet, but I got free cake! (Hence the zinginess of this update?) Oh, and I got made a boss man. Which is SHOCKING. Only partly because I’m not a man. Mainly because, I’m not boss material – or haven’t been for a while. I’ve got this mile-wide anti-authoritarian streak that’s always been a bit problematic. Now that I’m the authority figure, I gotta wonder, does this mean I have to sass myself? Cuz I’ve received express instructions to stop being mean to me.

It’s weird being a boss person. I mean, I was one from 2001 to 2005. But not since. I sorta shut up like a telescope after I left my fancy job in Pakistan, and have been becoming progressively less managerial ever since. When I came out to Dubai, not only did they reduce me to being a measly reporter in the suckiest Snakes and Ladders Career Edition bite-on-the-butt sorta way, but they also happened to put me in a department where everyone was older. It wasn’t so bad though, I mean, at least they were from the same generation. But then I went even more Back to the Future when I got my fellowship. There I was DECADES younger than the average fellow. I spent the year feeling like the cute kid who snuck into the adult party, when I wasn’t giving myself a complex hanging out with REAL cute kids (undergrads), but that’s another story for another day.

So you can understand why it caught me off guard when my boss was introducing me to the team and when we came to a cluster of desks full of veteran staffers I was given The Look. You know, the “don’t bite me, I’m worth my keep” wide-eyed and wary stare/smile. But being slightly slow, as I am, I didn’t catch it. Just thought – well they’re super polite! A little rabbit-like, but that’s ok! Later when I was in conference with my boss he said “I’m excited you’re here Owl. Those guys out there need shaken up. You have to be firm with them!” *blinkblink* “Uh, you mean you want me to boss them?” The man choked on his drink a bit before spluttering “Of course! In case you were put off by their high-sounding designations let me make it clear – YOU’RE IN CHARGE.”

Oh my. Right. Dang.

*Digs out scary Madame Face from storage. Dusts it off. Puts it on.*

Boo.

Hope I can manage being bossy again. I had it down PAT back in the day. But I’ve apparently retracted my claws and lost most of the bristly exterior since then. Owl is a domesticated animal. She’s house trained and everything. Hell there are some, who shall not be named, who claim I’m even adorable and cartoon-like. But I guess the Company isn't paying me to be fluffy and naive and want me to crack the whip. So I shall try and revert to Patron of Productivity, Queen of Quality and Mistress of Mayhem. (The last bit is to keep me entertained.)

*WHOOSH*

When I was in the US this year I spent my time with demographic I haven’t been among for a long time - the educated, informed and involved Muslim-American population. I wasn’t ever much in the community when I was growing up back in Chicago and I left pretty young. I’d just turned 18 when I jumped ship and went nomadic. So being with the college-age and young professional set was new for me. And so also was their fixation on reevaluating long-held Islamic mores and jurisprudence.

One of the popular talking points in that group is whether Muslim women should be allowed to marry non-Muslim men. Traditionally, according to Quran and hadith, only men have been allowed to marry out of the faith into Christians and Jews – People Of The Book - with the condition being that the children be raised in Islam. Muslim women have not been allowed to marry out of the faith, the reason given that it is assumed that the husband in traditional patriarchal households would undermine or overrule the wife’s values. She would be forced to raise her children in his faith – an utter tragedy considering Muslims believe that to die in disbelief is to condemn oneself for eternity.

But in this era of rationalization, revisionism and ijtehad, many question whether the prohibition on Muslim women should still be considered valid. After all, women have come a long way since the time of the Prophet (peace be upon him). They are educated, empowered and assertive. This isn’t ancient Arabia – women today marry as they wish, divorce when they want to, and can be in control of their own lives if they choose to be. If that is the case, why shouldn’t a woman be allowed to contract a marriage with a non-Muslim provided he agree to raise the children in the faith in the same way a Muslim man would require that from his wife? Allowing Muslim women to marry Men Of The Book would be a vote of confidence in their strength and show the tolerant progressiveness of Islam. And as the pool of eligible Muslim men is rapidly depleting, drained by the greater ease men have in choosing not to marry, converting their partners or marrying out of the faith, more importantly, it would solve the huge ‘spinster problem’ in the Muslim community.

That’s the argument anyways. And it’s one that I’ve come across repeatedly as I crisscrossed the states and bounced through different social circles. And though it’s become a hot topic that everyone wants to talk about, the conversation isn’t one I’ve really participated in. Generally, I’m not one for arguing. It’s not one of my favored pastimes. People tend to believe what they want to believe regardless of what you tell them. I’m not averse to an exchange of ideas when we all keep an open mind, but I don’t really try to convince anyone of anything. To each his own.

But also, the problem is that this issue is personal. I was raised in a mixed faith household. My mom is Christian and my father is Muslim. The four of us kids are the odd result of that combination. And though we’ve all ended up rather unique – to put it politely - there is one issue that we have unanimity about – not a one of us recommends Muslim + Non marriages. Whenever asked, we say: “Don’t do it!” This despite the fact that we come from the rarest of the lot – a mixed faith household that is functional. My parents are still married and love each other. None of us kids are too warped. And most shockingly of all, my three siblings and I ended up all choosing to be conscious Muslims as adults.

But the ‘don’t do it’ response to women AND men is not the answer most people are wanting to hear. Yeah I am a tolerant and accepting person. Some of my best friends are non-Muslims. But I recognize the damage wrought when one grows up hearing a contradictory faith narrative from the two people you trust the most. It's confusing as hell. To this day I can't keep my Bible stories and my Quran stories straight. And even more damaging to a child is the thought that one of your parents has rejected The Truth and will stand in judgment for that. It is terrifying.

Beyond that, people forget that even the most wonderful and patient people cannot help but become emotional and inflamed when it comes to an issue as sensitive as their belief. It's easier to make the verbal agreement to raise your children under another faith than it is to actually do it. And when that agreement is ignored, the home becomes a battlefield and the arsenal is faith, values and family bonds. It’s a combustible environment that can and does explode rather easily and it’s the kids that bear the scars. And in case you think I may have just grown up in a dysfunctional home, my parents were part of a social circle of mixed families when I was growing up. Of the whole group, save us, most of the children and all of the marriages were lost in the resulting conflicts.

So because my response to the question is not only Islamic Renaissance Flavor of the Month-Unfriendly, but also critical of the traditional allowance, I tend not to say much on the subject. I mean, I can’t make haram what Allah made halal. If I’ve been seeing the Muslim + non-Muslim = marriage equation as being problematic, there must be a glitch in my calculations. Perhaps rightly I have been accused of failing to be objective in assessing the debate because of my own connection to it. After all, this isn't a dry theory for me - it is my life. I lived the experiment.

But while surfing Meccho the other day I came across an interesting take on the topic that really resonated with me. Dr. Abou El Fadl, when asked about the proper response to Muslim women marrying Men Of The Book, revealed that he was not always comfortable with Muslim men marrying out of the faith. He referred to the Hanafi, Maliki, and Shafi'i views that it is reprehensible for Muslim men to marry Women Of The Book if they live in non-Muslim countries. In a response on Scholar of the House he said scholars from those schools of thought “argued that in non-Muslim countries, mothers will be able to influence the children the most. Therefore, there is a high likelihood that the children will not grow up to be good Muslims unless both parents are Muslim. Some jurists even went as far as saying that Muslim men are prohibited from marrying a [Woman Of The Book] if they live in non-Muslim countries.”

Once again, it is a reprehensible act to forbid what God has allowed, so I wonder at anyone, jurists or not, “prohibiting” an act that the Quran or hadith did not expressly forbid. But I understand the sentiment and it somewhat explains to me why my siblings and I had it so bad. We grew up in the US. Mixed faith marriages are difficult in the best of circumstances, but when Islam is the minority in a culture that is nearly the antithesis of Islamic values, then it becomes even harder to retain the faith. Not only do you have your one parent’s disapproval and disbelief to grapple with, but also the society at large, which rather supports you in your doubt and celebrates your rebellion. There are very few examples of successful marriages when faiths are mixed when the ultimate criterion for success is the status of the offspring. How many of us end up sane? How many fewer Muslim?

So, there’s my answer. I know it's not going to go down that well. I know it doesn’t help the scores of despairing single Muslim women. And I know it may give ammunition to the feminist critics of Islam. And I know it's not modern and edgy. But it is in defense of the most defenseless – the children.

Everyone wants to know what I’ve been up to. With the past year spent travelling and studying, now that I'm back ‘home’ I’m sure to be up to something good. That fellowship must have taught me something and I must be bursting at the seams with plans for global domination and madcap productivity.

Yeah. Um. Not so much.

* Read five books in four days. Only one had any redeeming value – John Humphry’s Beyond Words. Sorry dad, I don’t think I’ll ever be cured of my accursed ‘fiction addiction.’ On the plus side, it will forever give the world a scapegoat for my rotten brain and patchwork slang and vocabulary.

* Been thrashed in bowling and table tennis by my betters. Bhai, I hope NOW you’re satisfied. What’s a few losses at badminton when you’ve got such a sharp cut on the table that I can’t even figure what quadrant the ball has been hit to?

* Got back to running. Only to discover that my latest battle wound isn’t quite healed. On the inside anyways. And my right knee still swells up at little provocation. Vat is this nonsense! I won’t be dictated to by faulty body parts. Quit it! On the plus side, I think the ruptured adductor has finally healed. Or conceded defeat. Either one works for me.

* Cooked some “great” chicken quorma. Which was later downgraded to “edible” after I fed it a guest who took one bite and politely pushed it around her plate for the rest of the evening. No need for applause.

* Punched a hole in the outfield. Apparently my moonlighting on three softball teams simultaneously in Boston actually did some good – beyond making some fun connections with the Ivy League’s pseudo-jocks. I’m not usually a power hitter, but I’m getting there. Yay!

* Scrubbed the shower, unstopped some drains and washed the outside of my host’s home. Oh, and I may have alphabetized the spice cabinet. Sorry Hem, you know I don’t handle boredom well.

* Did something drastic to my hair. Now I’ve supposedly shifted nationalities again and can pass for a Roma, Russian or the world’s only shabby Lebanese – depending on if I’ve held on to my “tan” or not. Pair that with my new silver hoop earrings and forever smeared kohl and you’ve got the female Jack Sparrow. Or so I’ve been told. 0_o

* Started my post Ramadan fasts.

* Got sand in my toes from walks on the beach at night. And sadly, the giant cockroach UFO has not been reclaimed by its host planet. Boo. Btw, it’s even uglier on the inside.

* Operated my air popcorn popper without the lid on. YAY FOR EDIBLE CONFETTI! Instant pahtay.

* Scheduled many interviews and reunions. The latter are lovely, the former, never so much.

* Fallen behind in my letter writing. Sorry yos. I know, I’ve got dozens of emails that are sitting in my mail box awaiting response. I’m functioning on cups of borrowed connectivity and a still overwhelmed head. But I’m getting there.

* Oh, and I think I got a job. :)

It’s no big secret that I’ve been rather in the dumps for the past few weeks. Months really. Subhanallah – there has been no real tragedy in my life. It’s just that, sometimes you can drown in a puddle if you haven’t got the strength to lift your own head.

But I don’t do the big dramatic depression thing. I’m just sort of … absent. I’m never so stricken that my world becomes bleakly black and white. It’s just a bit grey. Like the coloring has faded. Things don’t smell as sweet, taste as nice, or sound as lovely as they used to. And worst of all, nothing is ever quite funny.

The word to describe it is numb. When you have had your heartstrings pulled at by selfish hands and raw nerves indelicately prodded time and time again, they can’t help but lose sensation. And once it’s lost, it’s hard to get back. It just becomes easier to stay that way – senseless.

It’s still not the best place to be though. Partly because it upsets your loved ones. Though I do pretty well at compartmentalizing it – ‘time and place’ – it does sometimes show through. “Owl, even when you smile, there’s a sadness behind it.” Those who notice and care have no peace until they ‘fix it.’ Problem is: they can’t. It’s all on me.

Which is a bit unfortunate, because in Owl’s book, there’s nothing better to jolt one out of a melodramatic funk than pain. Because as much as you may not be ‘feeling’ the more delicate senses, you can’t help but feel it when you’ve thrown out your back sprinting and stopped a couple line drives with your body. Add a seriously bruised knee cap and the periodic pangs from an unhealed gash and you’ve got your own full-body ‘bring a girl back to reality’ system.

Each ache reminds you of the fact that you’d conveniently forgotten – you are STILL alive. And you STILL have much to lose. And it could ALWAYS get worse. So quit moping and work with what you have. Lest I have to break something else to bring the lesson home.