Ms. Drugge, my 8th grade math teacher, was explaining that the model we were dissecting was called a parabola. In an instant, our Vice Principal ran into the room and exclaimed that our country was under attack. Little did I know that this September 11th morning would define the rest of my life.
In the wake of the attacks, my feelings of anxiety and concern soon turned into intense nationalism and pride. Aspirations for Harvard and Stanford took a back seat as I looked up the entrance requirements for West Point; I wanted to be a part of the solution. An American flag was placed alongside my Jerry Rice, Cris Carter, and Michael Jordan posters. I could not sit on the sidelines as my country was attacked. I soon realized, however, that my nation was not the only institution that was attacked that grim morning.
As the days turned into months, the attacks of 9/11 settled in. The news would describe the terrorists as Muslim men, from Muslim countries, with Muslim beards, and with Muslim intentions. I became more cognizant of my environment and how my peers perceived my faith. When my mom would pick me up from baseball practice, I noticed uneasy eyes directed at her headscarf. During Ramadan, when I fasted through lunch, friends began commenting on how I was 'terrorizing my body'. Our country was uniting together against a common enemy, and I became the enemy because of the faith in my heart.
The next years would be the most challenging of my life. As a thirteen year old, I wanted nothing more than to fit in with my surroundings. Being a devout Muslim certainly wouldn't help. I instructed my mom to pick me up fifteen minutes after practice was over so my teammates wouldn't know that she wore a head scarf. During Ramadan when I fasted, I went to the library instead of the lunchroom, hoping to go unnoticed by my classmates. I was ashamed of my Islamic identity and felt that others couldn't see me as an American because of it.
These experiences forced me to reflect on my faith. Being born into this faith would not be enough; I would have to believe in it. If I didn't, Islam would be tucked into a corner of my life, away from the sight of others. The more I read, challenged, and questioned, the more I was propelled to become the best citizen I could be. To care for those in need, to positively contribute to my community, and to sponsor equality and justice, Islam made me into a better American.
Years after 9/11, I learned in math class that the bottom-most point on a parabola is known as an inflection point - the point where the slope of the line goes from negative to positive. September 11th was my inflection point, without which I would not be the Muslim I am today.
He exists; only the wilfully blind could miss the simple sincerity in this post. I knew him, by the way, but perhaps that endangers my existence as well, rather than confirming his. It doesn't matter; by doubting his existence you make his case, as precisely as the Koran burner's case is made when a passing hipster can say "Dude, you have no Koran."
Dude, it doesn't matter whether you have an Amin; we do. He's one of us, and we're proud of him, and he's smart and good and right.
ice
And here's another "curious" observation" of mine. Mr. Aaser wrote a well-articulated and moving article relaying some of the poignant circumstances of his then-burgeoning faith. He titled it, "I am a Muslim Because of September 11" and he published it two days before September 11. Besides being articulate and engaging, he is courageous. Yet, I posted on September 9, came back 24 hours later, and found that I was still the only one who had commented. If that constitutes a good response "by your lights," I think you need to add a little oil to your lamp.
My questions of "does Mr. Aaser really exist" and "what's going on here?" were nothing but rhetorical. Rhetorical questions are often used to call attention to a more obvious truth. It's just not possible that I was the only one in the world who saw that article -- for a period of roughly 24 hours. My questions were meant to be provocative, not unkind or dismissive. To use your own words against you, "you would have to be willfully blind" to have missed my sincerity.
I was thinking during my church service today, during a moment of silence for all of the additional lives lost in the "War on Terror" we've fought since 9/11 in Muslim countries, that not once during my time in the Middle East was I EVER made to feel uncomfortable or treated with unkindness based on my identity as an American. I met Iraqis whose lives and homes had been destroyed, who lost innocent family members, and they invited me to dinner.
I find a few of the comments on here truly shameful, as regards their racism and disrespect for minority communities. It continues to be important for us to separate one of the largest religious communities in the world from the acts of a few crazy people.
Excuses:
"I *did* question what mommy and daddy believed in, and I eventually came to the conclusion that their beliefs were best"
(Oh really? Out of all the possible belief systems on the planet, mommy and daddy just happen to have the best, do they? How convenient.)
"Mommy and daddy said that we shouldn't let what others think get in the way of our ability to be different"
(Real diversity comes from individualism, and not sectarian tribalism, as inherited down through the ages.)
"Mommy and daddy say that the harder it is to believe, the more we must perservere in our beliefs"
(Great, the next time a new cancer warning is issued, or a science theory is changed, then keep persisting with your old knowledge and see where it gets you.)
We've all grown up with different experiences. Some of us had families who were non-Muslim minorities in Muslim-majority societies. Try seeing things through their eyes sometime. You might find it eye-opening.
How are any of jaysan's statements "racist?" I would truly appreciate a response from you because I'd like to know what I'm missing. Personally, I can see nothing in jaysan's statement that is intolerant of anything -- except maybe people who aren't atheists! LOL
While I, myself, do not believe in a personal God, or a blonde, blue-eyed Jesus, I hesitate to call myself an atheist because I think it's the height of arrogance. I've never seen evidence of what I would consider to be a "personal God," but I also realize that that does not mean that there isn't one. Having been born and raised in a "christian society," what I've learned about "God" is that neither he, nor his blonde-haired, blue-eyed son would care much for me. Also, NO WAY could Jesus have been blonde and blue-eyed! What's up with that? I think we know.
Now please don't get me wrong. I do not hold atheists in low regard. I have known many fine atheists, and found them to have much more compassion, open-mindedness, and an ability to deal comfortably with difference/diversity than many Christians (and that includes my own mother, whom I love very much).
Honestly now, I've looked at jaysan's comments several times since I started typing, and I don't understand why s/he is racist. Or to [mis]quote Tina Turner, "What's race got to do with it?"
In all my years, I have never seen two religions more welcoming to people of every color than Buddhism and Islam. I have never been barred from attending a gathering of Buddhists or Muslims. I have, however, had a white Lutheran minister refuse to shake my hand after stopping to greet him as we filed out of church. My only problem with Islam is its homophobia. It's a shame that people think that Islam is synonymous with terrorism. Thank you for your story, Mr. Aaser.
(a) I'm interested in whether the sentiment communicated in the article can be appreciated by readers. If so, under what circumstances have the feelings of 'otherness' been experienced?
(b) I'm interested in the experiences of other Muslim-Americans and whether the depiction I provided resonates with them. If so, how were you able to gain consensus in your battle with identity?
Amin G. aaser