My wardrobe is not properly equipped for hot weather, but what is the proper attire for desert adventures and camel-back riding? I booked my ticket to Dubai last week on an impulse and everyone who knows me is busy LOLOLOLing because I can barely handle an English summer … what will I do in Dubai?? I don’t want to imagine the struggle.
But after the year I’ve had I felt as though I deserved a break, and after my Aunt made a week-long surprise visit home last week I needed very little persuasion to join her there in June. My cousin will be joining me – we’re both nervous fliers and don’t do well in confined spaces, nor can we sleep whilst travelling. Our 8-hour flight will be interesting.
My plans for the next few months can be summarised as follows: Dubai! Ramadan! Summer vacation! New career!!!!!!!!! The blogging goes without saying, of course. And the excessive use of exclamation marks entirely appropriate.
Ramadan Kareem to our dear readers – may this month be filled with joy, beauty, blessings, laughter & love for you all!
That is my first confession: I spend endless hours drowning in lovelorn prose and will sigh over Georgette Heyer and Jane Austen and sundry YA titles (though I draw the line, pragmatic to the finish, at Juliet and her Romeo).
It is not an admission I am ashamed of. There is nothing wrong with a steady diet of fluff and fairytales – a little whipped cream to mask the harsh reality of day-to-day college life and the steady awareness that I am in a smaller circle of friends than I used to be.
There is an obvious line drawn between the single and…well, those who used to be single.
The first Muslim in my life carried Islam around like a ball and chain.
The time we shared together was short-lived. We only dated for a few months, and broke up a bit before I converted. But the brief moment our diverging paths met offered me a glimpse into what dating while Muslim may be like.
Most of the Catholic by birth kids I know who abandoned the religion never seemed to regret the choice much, myself most definitely included. Her departure from Islam was different.
Trigger warning: Sexual abuse.
Slathering Mediterranean Rose bath gel over
preparing for my monthly
hands slipping and sliding as the
sweet-smelling aroma of rose rises
to my nostrils,
taking me away from the present task,
transporting me back to
numerous summer afternoons,
alone in my bedroom,
lying on top of my white chenille bedspread
amidst a field of pink and blue
eyes rolled back into my head,
breathing long and steady,
perky nipples perched
atop minute mounds of soft flesh
that in my 13-year old mind
passed for a woman’s breasts,
nipples as hard as
fresh-shucked sweet peas,
the touch of my own hands
feeling far better than the touch of anyone else or
including that of my Uncle Tony.
We love this story out of Minneapolis, where young Muslim girls designed their own basketball uniforms with the help of the University of Minnesota Design School and the Tucker Center for Research on Girls and Women in Sport. Watch the video, here. Good luck with the rest of the season!
Why do we shame our soft boys and our quiet ones?
The boys who stand with their mothers in kitchens instead of sitting with their fathers in front of the TV.
The ones who are gentle with their love and their hands. The ones who don’t care to throw a ball, or play swords with sticks. The boys who prefer to read, or chat, or none of the above.
The ones who can say “I feel” without cowering beneath the disapproving glare of masculinity.
Why do we yell, “Be a man!” at children who are barely out of diapers, forcing tears back into their eyes by telling them not to be babies, not to be little girls, not to be soft.
What are we afraid of when we ask a four-year-old if he has a girlfriend and he says “No” very definitively.
Why do we ask him again if he’s sure?