often thought I’d be more than comfortable if I had become a history professor, not only teaching, but holed up in my office, surrounded by the worlds I was interested in, not only reading, but writing about. As such, while I was aware of the world around me, I still spent most of my time paying attention to worlds of the past, especially in my reading, so I wasn’t as up on current affairs as I probably should have been.
I was aware of the changing face of my country; immigration had been going on for quite some time, and we celebrated the fact we were a multi-cultural society; I knew there were more and more different types of faces passing me by on the streets, but it really didn’t matter to me. People are people, take them or leave them. As my Father had taught me, it isn’t the culture or racial background that makes someone unlikable or a jerk, it is a personal thing. Every culture has great people and those you really wouldn’t want to socialize with – it’s never just one way or the other. I knew there were, for lack of a better description, more and more brown people around – a group I mistakenly lumped into one, South Asian. It’s like Asians, there are many different types, from Chinese to Japanese, to Korean and so on, but, in our ignorance, we often lump them all under one convenient definition – Asian. It was the same with those of Indian descent, where they could be either Pakistani, South Asians from India, maybe Sri Lanka or Bangladesh, or even from the West Indies and South America; they weren’t all the same, but diverse, as were their religious leanings that ran from Muslim and Hindu to even Christian and Catholics. I was conscious of the changing face of my country, but really hadn’t paid attention, but, now, with Safia, I was more aware.
I was very conscious of the word, Muslim . Now when I heard it on the news I took notice. To me it had always just been another religion, nothing to get too excited about; even after 9/11. I figured the men behind that attack were radicals – the exception, not the rule. But now the word meant something to me, because whether I liked it or not, I was crazy about a Muslim girl – I had the potential to fall in love with a Muslim girl.
What does that mean?
Before, whenever I met a woman I never had to think about that – religion. It was always just a matter of determining if we had any common hobbies or outlooks on life. This was different. For instance, I know Safia had to sneak out of her house on false pretenses to go on that date with me. She was a grown woman, but she lived at home with strict parents, who held strict beliefs. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. On the one hand, if we continued dating, I guess, I’d be spared the always trying experience of having to meet the woman’s father. This often went well for me, but was always a crap shoot – some of them saw through my charm. On the other hand, if all went well, I guess there’d be no Norman Rockwell type Sunday dinners at her parent’s house. I mean, if all went well, how long could she continue sneaking around and seeing me, and if caught, what would be the repercussions? Would her parents force her to break up with me? Would they have that kind of power and control? If we fell in love, could they ever come to understand and accept that?
I realized, as I over thought the matter, which was a trait of mine, that I wouldn’t be liked. And, why not? I was a good guy. I knew how to treat a woman. I was raised right, with morals and values. If love blossomed between their daughter and me, she would be in good – no, make that, great – hands. They’d be lucky to have someone like me dating and loving their daughter. What the hell was wrong with them? My Mom always said I was a catch, and I knew for a fact she was often right in her assessments.
Dating Safia would open up a whole bunch of new and interesting doors in a relationship, and how they are perceived and
I was aware of the changing face of my country; immigration had been going on for quite some time, and we celebrated the fact we were a multi-cultural society; I knew there were more and more different types of faces passing me by on the streets, but it really didn’t matter to me. People are people, take them or leave them. As my Father had taught me, it isn’t the culture or racial background that makes someone unlikable or a jerk, it is a personal thing. Every culture has great people and those you really wouldn’t want to socialize with – it’s never just one way or the other. I knew there were, for lack of a better description, more and more brown people around – a group I mistakenly lumped into one, South Asian. It’s like Asians, there are many different types, from Chinese to Japanese, to Korean and so on, but, in our ignorance, we often lump them all under one convenient definition – Asian. It was the same with those of Indian descent, where they could be either Pakistani, South Asians from India, maybe Sri Lanka or Bangladesh, or even from the West Indies and South America; they weren’t all the same, but diverse, as were their religious leanings that ran from Muslim and Hindu to even Christian and Catholics. I was conscious of the changing face of my country, but really hadn’t paid attention, but, now, with Safia, I was more aware.
I was very conscious of the word, Muslim . Now when I heard it on the news I took notice. To me it had always just been another religion, nothing to get too excited about; even after 9/11. I figured the men behind that attack were radicals – the exception, not the rule. But now the word meant something to me, because whether I liked it or not, I was crazy about a Muslim girl – I had the potential to fall in love with a Muslim girl.
What does that mean?
Before, whenever I met a woman I never had to think about that – religion. It was always just a matter of determining if we had any common hobbies or outlooks on life. This was different. For instance, I know Safia had to sneak out of her house on false pretenses to go on that date with me. She was a grown woman, but she lived at home with strict parents, who held strict beliefs. It shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did. On the one hand, if we continued dating, I guess, I’d be spared the always trying experience of having to meet the woman’s father. This often went well for me, but was always a crap shoot – some of them saw through my charm. On the other hand, if all went well, I guess there’d be no Norman Rockwell type Sunday dinners at her parent’s house. I mean, if all went well, how long could she continue sneaking around and seeing me, and if caught, what would be the repercussions? Would her parents force her to break up with me? Would they have that kind of power and control? If we fell in love, could they ever come to understand and accept that?
I realized, as I over thought the matter, which was a trait of mine, that I wouldn’t be liked. And, why not? I was a good guy. I knew how to treat a woman. I was raised right, with morals and values. If love blossomed between their daughter and me, she would be in good – no, make that, great – hands. They’d be lucky to have someone like me dating and loving their daughter. What the hell was wrong with them? My Mom always said I was a catch, and I knew for a fact she was often right in her assessments.
Dating Safia would open up a whole bunch of new and interesting doors in a relationship, and how they are perceived and
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