Gray Matter

Why do we lay in bed, waiting for our alarm to go off, even though we're already awake?

He stared unseeingly at the neon green numbers. It was already 7:32AM, but he had been awake for hours ever since that coughing fit took over. His glasses lay on a book that had gathered dust on his night stand. It was the same book he picked up and leafed through every time he couldn't sleep and even then, he couldn't tell you what it was about if his life depended on it.

The conversations from last night drifted through his mind, like the last cheerios in a bowl of milk that he always chased around with a spoon, never catching them.

He rolled over and looked at her side of the bed. It was empty, he had felt her get up an hour ago. The pillow wasn't warm anymore. He suspected she got as much sleep as he did, both awake for the same reason, re-running the same conversations in their heads. In a way, being awake for the same reasons should have made them closer, but then why did he feel so much distance between them even though they slept inches away from each other?

And the hardest thing about it all was that he could have closed this distance. Just one word from him would mend all the things he said yesterday.

He thought about this as he touched her pillow, the same place her head had rested just an hour ago. And when that wasn't enough for him, he rolled over onto her side of the bed and rested his cheek on her blue pillow case, breathing in the scent of her hair.

That was when he noticed the stack of books on her night stand. She liked to read when she couldn't sleep too. Her books all had similar keywords: child care, babies, pregnancy.

Except the book that lay at the top of the stack. This one was "Eat to Fight Cancer". He brushed his fingertips across the spine of that book and thought back to the lonely book that was gathering dust on his nightstand.

He picked up the container of her hand cream from on top of the books, unscrewed the cap, and sniffed it before screwing the cap back on and replacing it on top of the stack of books. His eyes lingered on that cancer book for a second longer before he rolled over and sat up on his side of the bed.

One word from him and everything would be okay. He didn't want to do it. He was a grown man, pushing fifty, and he never made his own decision, not once.

He had a solid argument. He didn't want to spend the rest of whatever time he had left in hospital beds. He wanted her to understand. Maybe she did. But there was no taking back the hurt he saw in her eyes. There was no taking back the tears she quietly sobbed into her pillow last night when she thought he was asleep.

He reached over and took his glasses off the book on his nightstand and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

She was standing over the sink scrubbing at a pan, her belly making it difficult for her to get closed to the sink. She stopped scrubbing when he wrapped his arms around her, resting his head against her shoulder, the scent of her hair stronger here than it was on the pillow case.

"Alright."

She turned her head slightly to the left. "Alright what?" she asked.

He waited before saying the words. "I'll do the treatment."

*     *     *

For those of you who found this post a little familiar, that's because it's based on an episode from the TV series Breaking Bad. I started watching it a few days ago and this scene really just got to me. You know how sometimes you see something really beautiful and you're just so awe-struck by it that you wanna recreate it and show it to the world? Maybe that's why we take pictures of sunsets and post them on facebook, because we want to share that beauty with anyone, everyone. That's why I had to re-create this scene, except I did it in what I'm good at - writing.

I guess imitation is the highest form of flattery.

Hijab: A Love Story

"Why do you wear that?" she asks as she traces invisible circles around her face, referring to my hijab.

Whether its at a da'wah table, or while I'm standing in line at a 7-Eleven, or even during group projects at school, the question always comes up. After being a hijabi for ten years (going on eleven), I've learned to anticipate the question. I've gotten so good, I can almost predict when it'll come up.

You'd think that answering this question would have gotten easier over the years, but it hasn't. To me, hijab is my most loyal friend; my hijab is part of me, it makes up a good portion of my identity. I can tell you why I wear the hijab, but I can tell you what the hijab has done for me so much better. But I guess in order for you to understand that, I'd have to start at the beginning, when I first began my journey.

Alhamdulilah, I started wearing my hijab around this time, when I was in seventh grade. At the time, we were living in Egypt for a year and my parents were on Hajj, so my Aunt, who wasn't married yet, was staying with us. I woke up for school one morning and BAM! puberty. My Aunt pretty much asked me, "Do you want to start wearing the hijab?" I said yes, and that was the end of that. It wasn't anything I really thought about. I was raised all my life in an Islamic school, and I knew that once a young lady hit puberty, hijab becomes mandatory. All my other friends were wearing it, my teachers wore it. My mom and aunts wore it, as did my cousins. It was a no-brainer for me. I never went a sleepless night because I was up thinking about how people would start treating me once I wore my hijab. Hijab just wasn't something I worried about.

Looking back at that segment of my life, I now realize that I took that comfort for granted.

I didn't start becoming aware of my hijab until I was entering eleventh grade in high school. My parents transferred me from Ghazaly to Marist High School (long story) and just so you know, Marist is a catholic school. Obviously I was extremely upset with this decision (and I took advantage of every opportunity possible to illustrate this), and that was before I even digested the fact that this was a catholic school and I was coming from an Islamic school. Let's just say that it wasn't really the smoothest transition. Ghazaly was my entire life, it was the bubble within which I existed; I knew nothing beyond it's pecan-green (I wonder what color they are now) walls. If you asked me to recite a Surah in the Quran, I'd recite it to you and even give you the Tafseer in a jiffy. If you asked me where in the Sunnah it described the steps to Tayammum, I'd rattle off the hadith, no problem. If you needed a du'aa for something, I'd give you two. But if you asked me why I wore the hijab, I'd tell you, well duh, because it's fard, and I'd expect no further questions after that. Obviously, this isn't a sufficient answer for a non-Muslim; I didn't understand that. If you asked me my views on the trinity, I'd have no idea what you were talking about. Point is, I had a solid Islamic education, but when it came to giving da'wah, I was all stammers, blank face, and baffled stares. In a way, I knew everything (not even) and nothing at the same time. But anyway, I digress; if you wanna read a little more about my experience at Marist, just click here.

Entering college was just another step on the journey. I liked the college atmosphere much better than I did the high school one. People were more mature, less judgmental, all that good stuff. And in the occasional event someone did make a snide remark about my hijab, the first few weeks at Marist had already hardened me against that, and I didn't respond with anger or tears; I was more rational, alhamdulilah. Hijab did that for me; it showed me the real world and it made me stronger, and above all, it made me fall in love with my deen over and over again.

Walking into a lecture hall on the first day of classes and seeing another hijabi is a very comforting feeling, you men don't even know. It's like I automatically have a friend in the class, because it's totally cool for me to go and sit next to her, smile, and introduce myself. She'd automatically know that I chose to sit next to her because she was also wearing the hijab, and it wouldn't be something weird. It's like the hijabi code. That's part of the reason why hijabi's tend to "flock" together. We're all on the same journey, and yet, we're on different ones. It's really somethin' else.

Hijab has made me a better person, too. If my years at Marist taught me anything, it's that if you wear the hijab, you're automatically labeled as a Muslim. I mean, it's different with men and the Sunnah beards, because that's not necessarily exclusive to the Islamic faith. Hijab, on the other hand, is. My hijab is the reason I make sure to take the extra few seconds to hold the door open for someone. My hijab is the reason I'm patient with rude people and women drivers (joke, ha ha). My hijab is the reason I really try to bite my tongue when I'm angry. My hijab is the reason I volunteer to do things even though I reeeeally don't want to (y'know, to get the image out there that Muslims aren't complete hermits).

My hijab is a constant reminder of who I am, and of the religion I am following. It has done nothing but improve my character. But you wanna know somethin' else? My hijab changes the people around me, too. Sometimes a classmate will refrain from cracking a dirty joke around me because I'm Muslim (as evidenced by my hijab). Sometimes people will apologize profusely when they curse in front of me for the same reason. My hijab has taught me to respect my religion, and myself. And consequently, when you have respect for yourself, people start having respect for you, too.

Hijab is so beautiful, just absolutely beautiful, and I can't see a hijabi as anything but the reflection of that. Is it really a wonder why I get so aggravated when girls use sub par analogies to describe their hijab? Enough with the "hijab is like a shell, and a hijabi is the pearl" nonsense. We can do so much better than that!

Makes me that much stronger,

Makes me work a little bit harder,

It makes me that much wiser,

So thanks for making me a fighter.

Made me learn a little bit faster,

Made my skin a little bit thicker,

Makes me that much smarter,

So thanks for making me a fighter.

I love my hijab, alhamdulilah.

Choose Your Own Adventure: Hurricane Sandy

Nothing makes you feel more uneasy about an upcoming storm than going to a Home Depot and finding out that they're all out of sand bags, generators, and flashlights.

I mean, this whole thing started off as "Tropical Storm Sandy" and then before you know it, phrases like "category two hurricane" and "coastal flooding" and "damaging winds" flooded the local news station, and everyone is split evenly down the middle between "It's no big deal" and "OH MY GOD GET IN THE CAR, WE'RE EVACUATING".

I stood in the long line at the cashier with the last two packs of AA batteries (one of which was open and missing a battery) and 7 feet of chains in my basket to tie stuff down, still trying to decide which side I was on. In front of me, I could hear the conversation of two teenage boys with identical mops of brown hair.

"I'm telling you, this is just a conspiracy to get people distracted," the shorter one said.

"Distracted from what?"

"I don't know, more important stuff. The elections. It's slowing us down."

The taller boy shook his head. "I'll start taking it seriously when they cancel school."

The shorter one snorted. "Yeah, like that'll happen."

In the next lane over, I watched as a Home Depot employee helped an older couple with their cart. Behind them, a father with a his brows knit in a worried frown tugged at his toddler's sleeve, who kept trying to grab at the candy by the register.

My peripheral vision caught sight of something moving on the ceiling. I looked up and stared at the hanging light. Either it was moving very subtly, or my eyes (and mind) were playing tricks on me.

"You saw that?"

I turned around and looked into the wide, cerulean eyes of the young woman standing behind me. "What?" I asked.

She pointed at something above us, and without even looking at what she was pointing at, I knew she was talking about the hanging light.

"You saw it move?" She asked.

"I'm not sure. I thought I might have been imagining it." I felt uneasy.

"I don't think so." Her wide eyes shifted from mine and settled back on the hanging light above us. I saw her touch two fingers to her right shoulder, then her left, then forehead, and finally the center of her chest. She was crossing herself, and for some reason, her fear was contagious. I turned back around to face the front of the line, and in spite of myself, I glanced one last time at the hanging light above me. I wished people would just hurry up so I can get out of here.

And that's when the lights flickered and then went out. Aside from the wind howling outside and a sudden "oh my God" muttered by someone a few lanes over, an abrupt hush settled over the occupants of the store as everyone held their breath and stared at the lights hanging from the ceiling. I could hear the young woman behind me reciting Hail Mary frantically. The sudden darkness inside the store made me acutely aware of how dark it was outside as well. I looked at the glass doors at the front of the store and saw angry clouds rolling in, fast.

The lights came back on just as suddenly as they had went out. The two high schoolers in front of me laughed nervously, and the girl behind me paused in her recitation briefly. People didn't resume their conversation though. Everyone was warily eyeing the lights above, which swung slightly every now and then - this time there was no doubt about it. The tenseness in the air was thick enough to cut through with a butter knife.

As soon as the cashier rang up my items and bagged them, I made a beeline for the doors, hurrying to get to my car. I wasn't really prepared for what I was about to witness.

As soon as I stepped out, the wind whipped at my clothes, pushing me back towards the automatic doors. I gasped and gripped my plastic bag tightly. I clutched my sweater closed and hustled to my car. The wind slammed the door behind me, and as I sat there behind the steering wheel, staring at the sky, I was suddenly overcome with fear.

The clouds were unnaturally dark, and they lingered low in the sky, heavy with rain. It reminded me of the way the sky would darken in the Harry Potter movies when Dementors were about. Just along the horizon, I could see where the dark clouds ended, and it made me think only NJ was going to suffer the brunt of this disaster. The wind nudged the side of my car, screaming at me through the window panes. There was so much paper and leaves and empty chips bags flying around in the air, swept away by the violence of the gusts. Lightning lit up the sky, turning the darkness into the brilliance of a morning in July, if only momentarily. I counted seconds until I heard the thunder, and when I didn't get past four seconds, I started laughing hysterically. What was it, three seconds to a mile? So this, this thing was only a mile away? The thunder was loud, and I saw two women crossing in front of me crouch down in a knee-jerk reaction and stare at the sky as the thunder ripped through the atmosphere.

I could go home. I mean, would it be safer than here? Bayonne is surrounded by water. But I was fine during Hurricane Irene. Maybe this would be the same.

I could leave, too, I guess. Head more inland. Blairstown maybe. Or I could leave Jersey altogether. Go to Philly or something. But would I make it there in time? What if I got caught in the storm?

...to be continued.

If you chose to stay, click here.

If you chose to evacuate, click here.

[I'll update soon. In the meantime, think about your path.]

Untitled Feeling.

I've been feeling this way for days, on and off, but it just won't go away. I don't even have the perfect way to describe what I'm feeling like. It's not something convenient enough to explain in a word or two or twenty. I wish I could just bottle this up and give you a drop.

I feel like a book that someone forgot on their back porch overnight in an unexpected thunderstorm, and then the next day placed it in the sunlight to dry, but last night's rain still left some chapters stuck together and big ugly craters in the pages.

I feel so indecisive. Like when you're driving at 2AM on a deserted highway with no GPS and an uncharged phone, and you're not sure if you already passed your destination or if you still haven't gotten there yet, and so every time you approach a U-Turn, you slow down. Do I take it? Do I keep going? What if I take the U-Turn and it turns out I just missed my destination by a quarter mile? So you keep driving. And you tell yourself, Okay, if I don't get there in four more miles, I'll turn back. And after you finish the four miles and you still haven't arrived at your destination, you still don't know if you're turning back too early. For all you know, it could be just over there. Should you turn back now? And it tears you apart, the indecisiveness. And it frustrates you, the darkness, and the way you can't see beyond the brink of your headlight's glow. And it makes you realize how small NJ really is (there's that dreadful "LAST EXIT IN NJ" sign), and how you're not as good with directions as you thought you were. And it makes you wonder why more people don't drive around at 2AM?! Oh yeah, because they're not fools like you.

I feel so tired. Like I went to the gym and the personal trainer that was there that day was the ex-marine with a buzz cut, a permanent frown, and a shirt that is stretched so tight across his chest you could see the breath fill his lungs every time he inhaled. Except it's not attractive, it's gross. And then after the gym I ran fifty miles to a beach where I swam against the current in my gym clothes, so that every time I tried to kick, my sweat pants would threaten to either come off completely or weigh me down so that I sink to the bottom of the ocean. And after I made it back to shore with my arms limp and my eyes barely open, I had to walk home in my wet clothes, and my sister had finished all the hot water during her bath, so I had to squeeze myself into the corner of the shower, shivering under the stream of cold water. And then I couldn't go to sleep afterwards because my ruffled thoughts make an uncomfortable pillow.

I feel like staying home all day and reading, but every time I pick up a book, I find myself uninterested, and I go through my entire book collection trying to find something that will satisfy me but I keep coming up blank. So I settle for some mindless television, which is a little better, until I realize that I've seen this episode of Friends way too many times and that this episode of The Twilight Zone reminds me of my tenth grade history class, and I hated my tenth grade history class. So I settle on something animated instead, maybe some DBZ, but then I remember that I can't even talk to anyone about it because no one I know likes DBZ. So I just lay there on the couch and stare at the television screen, without really seeing it, and when I reach for my cup of coffee, it's empty because I already finished it two hours ago.

I feel so fed up with people. Everything they do aggravates me. Or makes me want to burst out in tears or stifle a crazy laugh or pull out my hair. Or pull out their hair. Like the way the boy that sits in front of me in class always stretches his arms so that I have to either lean way back in my chair or duck so that he doesn't touch me. Or the way the girl sitting next to me in lecture always puts her handbag too close to my feet so that I can't move without moving her bag first. Or the way people ask me if I'm sad just because I'm not smiling; there are other emotions besides "happy" and "sad" you know. Or the way people can't just let the silence be; it's not always an awkward silence, and you don't have to fill every gap with words. I don't feel like smiling to be polite anymore. I don't feel like sitting through another MSA meeting anymore. I don't feel like chuckling at someone's joke just to be nice even though I don't think it was funny. I don't feel like agreeing just to keep the peace anymore. I don't feel like taking the time to see something your way anymore. I don't feel like being patient anymore. I don't feel like tolerating the company of people I don't get along with anymore. I don't feel like taking my ear buds out to make friendly conversation at the library anymore. I don't feel like talking to anyone anymore. I don't feel like listening to your "words of advice" anymore.

I don't feel like explaining myself anymore, because you still won't understand. I just need some space, and I think you do, too, because even I wouldn't wanna deal with myself in this state.

Hope for the Hopeless

With feet as heavy as lead, he made his way down the ever-stretching hallway towards the elevators. The stiff collar of his shirt chaffed the underside of his neck, but he payed it no attention. He realized that the rolled up document in his clammy hand was damp with sweat, leaving small craters of moisture on its virgin white surface. Without taking his attention from the paper, he reached with his empty hand and groped the wall until his numb fingers found the elevator buttons.

He had done many things he was not proud of in his lifetime, but he did not deserve this. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath catching in his throat. I don't deserve this, he pleaded with Him silently.

He stepped into the elevator, which to his dismay was not as vacant as he had hoped. He made his way past the two men and stood in the corner, flattening the palm of his free hand against the cool metal wall of the elevator, bracing himself against it. With ears that did not listen, he heard the taller of the two men speaking to his companion animatedly. His companion nodded, interjecting with the occasional grunt of agreement with whatever it was the taller man was saying. The taller of the two suddenly turned towards him, and his lips shaped words that he could not hear. The shorter man stared, raising his cup of coffee to his lips. The taller man's smile strained, and his lips reshaped themselves to form the question he repeated to him: "Which floor?"

With lips that acted of their own accord, he felt them part in speech and he heard himself say, "Ground floor." His voice sounded alien to him, like he was hearing himself speak underwater.

The taller man stared at him for a second longer before jabbing the ground floor button. He turned back to his companion and shrugged, resuming his conversation as though nothing had happened. They got off at the next floor, leaving him to his thoughts until the elevator doors opened once again. He vaguely heard the computerized voice announce their arrival at the ground floor, but he payed it no attention as a swarm of people rushed past him into the 4.5 by 6 foot space, pressing against his shoulders. He tried to squeeze past them to the front of the elevator, but it seemed that the more he pushed his way to the front, the harder they pushed him back. A woman's purse hit him in the stomach, and she touched a manicured hand to his forearm in apology. He shook her hand off, ignoring her baffled look, as he finally made it out of the sardine can  to the front lobby. He walked past the receptionist with the blue eye make up and frizzy mop of hair, past the security guard that eyed him warily, and past the metal detectors that led to the automatic doors.

He got home as the sun was setting low in the horizon, and he headed straight for the small forest that surrounded the back of the apartment complex he lived in. Cigarette butts littered the trail that was formed not by paved stones, but by the constant flux of treading shoes. He wondered silently if any of the other residents of the complex came back here to be alone with their thoughts, as he occasionally did. He stared at the cigarette butts for a moment longer before falling on his hands and knees, eyes red-rimmed with insanity, suddenly embarrassed by their stark white contrast against the hard-packed dirt. Paying no attention to the suit he wore, he scraped at the cold dirt until it filled the recesses underneath his nail bed and his fingers bled, still recklessly determined to bury the nasty things from seeing eyes. With shaking hands, he reached into his pocket and took out the small box that housed new cigarettes identical to the ones he just buried, and with a twist of his wrist, he tossed the entire pack into the hole he had dug, momentarily surprised by its depth.

When he was convinced that he had filled the gape with his sins, he remembered a line he heard when he was just a child from the Friday sermons he attended. He did not consider himself a religious man anymore, although he was raised in a religious household. But he couldn't help his wandering mind as the memory of this particular verse resurfaced.

On the Day We will say to Hell, "Have you been filled?" and it will say, "Are there some more?"

He was filled with a strong sense of nausea and he tasted bile in the back of his throat. Isn't that similar to what he was doing? Pouring his sins into this dark pit, knowing that it was not nearly deep enough to contain all his wickedness? Would he one day help fill the dark pits of hell?

Hopelessness descended on him like a thick blanket, suffocating him with its heaviness. His eyes were glassy with unshed tears and his tongue felt too big to sit in his mouth comfortably. He suddenly found himself wondering if it was true what they said, that you could swallow your own tongue. He sat back and faced the setting sun as tremors shook his entire body. He deserved this. He was an arrogant man, living an unabashed lifestyle. What would become of him tomorrow?

Everything was going wrong in his life. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place, and that's when he realized you don't need water to feel like you're drowning.

~      ~      ~

He didn't wake up the way it was always described in books; he didn't bolt up in bed, realize it was just a dream, and then go back to sleep.

No.

This was much slower, more drawn out, and much more real.

His eyes fluttered open and he stared at the wall opposite him, his heart beating in his throat, thundering in his ears. He sat up on his elbows, his eyebrows knitted together in despair. A sheen of sweat lay above his top lip, and on his forearms; it pooled in the hollow at his throat and slid down his back between his shoulder blades. His eyelashes were damp and his cheeks were moist and he tasted the saltiness of his tears on his dry lips.

He sat up in bed, crestfallen, and his shoulders shook as he squeezed his eyes shut, tears seeping out through the sides and falling into his lap. He hid his face in his hands, shame heating his body and turning his ears red. Every memory of sin he ever committed drove him deeper into his own disgrace, until he thought he would drive himself mad. He lifted his chin and his watery eyes looked up, seeing past the ceiling of his bedroom as he raised his hands to the Creator.

He wracked his brain for a duaa to say, anything, but he could not remember a single one and this did nothing to lessen his anguish. His mouth popped open, and nothing came out. He didn't remember a single duaa that would be appropriate for the moment. He needed to ask forgiveness for his great crimes, past and present. He needed to ask for help, he needed to ask for guidance. He trembled under the weight of his own trespasses, realizing that he was asking for so much. His sins were great, but he knew that the Mercy of his Lord was far greater. If He were to forgive him, then He would have forgiven one of His most miserable slaves. And if He were to punish him, then he would have only gotten what he deserved. He blinked, his thoughts swimming in his head, and he tried futilely to form a coherent sentence, but to no avail; silence weighed his tongue down heavily. He thought to himself that this too was a form of punishment, not being able to ask for what he needed. And he deserved it.

Before he fell into a sobbing heap in his bed, two words escaped his lips.


"Ya rabb."

Rant

Who am I?

What am I?

What am I but just one soul, just one life, one set of experiences.

I am one person living within a bubble that is my existence, surrounded by billions of other solitary bubbles of existence.

I type this post from the confines of my bedroom, within my house, within my neighborhood, within my county, within my state.

The state of NJ, one of fifty other states, in one country that is part of one continent.

There are six other continents.

And these continents are surrounded by vast bodies of water all around.

All this makes up just one planet, Earth.

There are eight other recognized planets within this solar system.

And this...this universe? There are so many others, there is so much... space.

What am I?

A drop of water within an ocean?

Even smaller?

Sometimes the insignificance of my own existence scares me; it makes me realize how great His Majesty is. To create something as vast as the universe(es) and something as insignificant as me. And what, to give me the greatest blessing of all - to make me a witness to la ilaha illa Allah.

And yet. With all my flaws, with all my mistakes, with all my nothingness... I am an arrogant, sinful soul.

May Allah SWT forgive us all. Say ameen.

Humbling, no?