When my mother became Muslim, I didn’t even know what a Muslim was. I mean, what does a nine-year-old know about religion?
I remember when she first told me. I was tucking the Ebony magazine under my pillow so that my parents wouldn’t know I was reading it. I looked up and saw my mother standing near my bedroom door. Her arms were folded, and she was frowning, looking all upset. I thought she was angry with me for reading “grown-up stuff,” but she just sat on the edge of my bed and smiled at me.
“Naya, I’m Muslim now.” Her eyes seemed sad for some reason.
“What?”
“I’m Muslim.” Her smile seemed childlike, like she was waiting for my approval.
I averted my gaze and pulled the covers up to my shoulders as I settled under them. “Okay.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but since I was pretty sure I wasn’t in trouble, I just wanted to go to sleep.
My mother stood and patted my head. “Thanks, Naya.” She turned off the light and closed the door as she left. I lay awake in the darkness for several minutes before finally shutting my eyes and drifting to sleep.
“Children are resilient.” That’s what my father used to say. Maybe that’s why I jumped head-on into Islam myself and even learned Arabic and Qur’an and thought it was “cool” to live in Saudi Arabia.
Oh my God.
Did I really think that?