Winter

Winter doesn't officially start for another three weeks. This is not an encouraging thought.

Where I live, temperatures have been hovering in the 20s--the 30s if we're lucky. We've already had single-digit days. In short, it's cold.

Now we're facing another three months and three weeks until the official start of spring. And I've learned that when you live up north, the official start of spring doesn't mean much. Last year I was living in New England. We went straight from winter into summer. As I remember, everything was pretty much thawed out by June.

To me there are two logical approaches to winter. Move closer to the Equator, or hibernate.

At least there's the snow. White flakes to break up the monotony of a gray landscape.

If you need me I'll be under the covers, counting down the days.

Manners

I wrote a little on this topic earlier, and I just can't shake it.

I turned on the radio yesterday and heard commentary on George Will's recent column about the decline in manners. I disagree politically with George Will, but I admire his intellect. And on the manner of matters, we are definitely in agreement.

Except that it's not a product of the welfare state, as he asserted at one point. I believe it's a product of "self-esteeem."

Parents and teachers worry about how the little ones will be able to build strong self-esteem. Consequently, punishment is discouraged and children are praised for the slightest thing. That is the entitlement we face. And after a while, stickers and certificates aren't enough. The prizes have to be bigger, better. Otherwise our poor little darlings will be unhappy. And we simply cannot have that.

So far I have raised three kids to the point of high school graduation. All three of them have high self-esteem. They are able to go into new situations, meet new people, and handle themselves well. They are also able to open doors, say please and thank you, and consider the feelings of others. They didn't get that way by being constantly praised and coddled. They became the men they are through high expectations and hard work. Every one of my boys can cook and bake. They can sew and wash and iron their own clothes. All three have worked long hours to earn their spending money. One can take a computer apart and put it back together. He also knows how to speak and travel his way through Europe. Another is certified both as a photo technician and a forklift operator. He is also pursuing his goal of producing Islamic comic books. The third has served popcorn at a movie theatre and risen at four a.m. to bake muffins. A week ago we sent him to study in Malaysia, and he successfully traveled halfway around the world on his own.

I know that all of my sons will succeed in their pursuits, insha Allah, because they are both confident and polite. And they didn't get their self-esteem from meaningless pats on the back.

They earned it.

Profiling

Why is it that when a red-blooded American boy sets off a bomb or goes on a killng spree, he is merely a disturbed individual?

But when a young Muslim man commits an act of violence, he is a terrorist who represents all one-and-a-half billion Muslims in the world?

We used to call that racism.

Generation Gap

I came of age in the early 1970s. My mother always said she was glad I wasn't born five years earlier. I missed some of the most exciting events of that era, such as burning bras, Woodstock and the 1968 Democratic convention. If I had been old enough, I might have been in the thick of it. As it turned out, I was only a spectator.

I do vividly remember one of the mantras of the time. "Don't trust anyone over thirty."

Anyone over thirty was old, last year, out-of-touch and out-of-date. Only the young were "hip" and "with it." The older generation had ruined the world. It was our job to change things. Ah, the optimism of youth.

I haven't seen thirty for quite a few years now, so I guess I'm "over the hill." The strange thing about my generation, though, is that we resist getting old. As I type this, I'm sitting on the floor, cross-legged, wearing a t-shirt. I wear glasses, but I refuse to wear the old lady chain around my neck. I'd rather just keep losing and looking for them. I still listen to the oldies on occasion, and right now I have rap on my CD player--Muslim rap of course. No Lawrence Welk for me.

Even though our generation didn't bring an end to war, poverty and pollution, we refused to get old. We will not "go gently into that good night." Look at all the wrinkled, balding and gray-haired rock stars still on tour.

We were also going to conquer the generation gap. Our children would feel comfortable talking to us about anything. We would stay young, and our children would appreciate our youthful perspective. They would never be embarrassed by us. We would always understand them.

Another fantasy, as ludicrous as the notion that the world could spontaneously break out in peace. Our children want, need to be separate from us. If we try to act like them, they are embarrassed. And there are times when we simply cannot understand.

I grew up in a time without internet, email, push-button phones or CDs. My children have a hard time imagining a life with typewriters, stationary, rotary phones and record players. (I have one. I have to show them how it works.)

In spite of all that, we need to communicate with our children. And they need to respect us for the experience and, hopefully, wisdom we've picked up along the way.

In September, my 19-year old went to visit my mother. She told me later that when he spoke with me on the phone it sounded like he was talking with a friend. I don't have to emulate his slang or preferred-clothing styles, and I certainly don't have to (don't want to) listen to his music.

But we have to communicate. I suspect many of our parents knew that all along. I know mine did.

Muslims and Real Life

When I started the Echoes Series, my goal was simple. I wanted to write books that would address the real-life concerns of American Muslims.

Actually, my initial objective was simpler than that. I wanted to tell the story of one American convert and the difficulties he faced. So often, we converts believe that reciting the shahadah will solve all of our problems. It does solve one problem--spiritual homelessness. But everything else takes work.

So I started with Joshua Adams. An Everyman for the 21st century. Bright, but not too ambituous. Friendly, but not careful with his relationships. Spiritual, but definitely not religious. Abandoned, alienated, detached. Adrift in the problems of 21st century America.

I exposed Joshua to Islam. Then I let him tell the rest of the story. The result was Echoes. The story of a 21st century Everyman who struggles every day of his life.

I intended to write only book about Joshua Adams, but a couple of my friends read my early drafts and asked me what comes next. I sat down and wrote Rebounding. The next chapter in Joshua's life.

When I am finished, insha Allah, the Echoes Series will have five books tracing the journey of Joshua Adams. A man who is transported from nobody to hero, and sometimes back again, through the turmoil of everyday life.

Joshua faces the same challenges we all face. Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn't. His faith ebbs and flows. Which of us can say we are any different?

When my children were small, I looked for media portraying a sanitized version of life. Islam as superhero, erasing all the ills of the world.

I do still believe that Islam, when practiced truly and sincerely, can wipe out all our troubles. If we let it. But we're human. We make mistakes. Sometimes we turn away from Islam, away from Allah. We forget our faith.

As an ummah, we must acknowledge the difficulties of life. Islam is perfect. But people most certainly are not. Not even Muslims.

A Calling

When I was in 4th grade, my teacher told us to bring in a poem. Each student dutifully brought in a poem from a book. I went a step further and wrote my own. My teacher and parents raved about it. It wasn't really very good, but I guess it was okay for a 4th grader. Since that time, I have wanted to be a writer.

Each of us has a calling, I believe. Some love to work with numbers. Some crave contact with other people. From the scientist to the gardener, all of us can use our own talents and interests to improve the world we live in.

But not everyone enjoys working. Some go to jobs they hate, just to pay the bills. Some live and die this way, trudging to work to bring home a paycheck.

I always swore I would never be one of those. And, for the most part, I haven't. I've never been rich, and I doubt I ever will be. But I've almost always been happy in the work I do.

I love to write. I started with non-fiction, researching and writing about military jihad. A few years ago I gave in to my urge to write stories. Constructing people, families, whole worlds from nothing but my own imagination. Sometimes it sounds crazy. But it is so much fun.

I started my career as a novelist with a story about 9/11. That story needed to be written, Showing, I hope, that Muslims are normal people trying to live normal lives. We cry, we hope, we feel fear. There were many innocent people on 9/11. Some of them died in the planes and the towers. Some are still alive, struggling with the memories or the repercussions. Innocent People was my modest attempt to tell that story.

Work is important. But I hope that everyone can find his or her calling.

Thanks for a day of rest!

I promised myself I would write regularly, but my last post was eleven days ago. I try to keep my promises, but this time I failed miserably.

During the last eleven days, I've been running--both personally and professionally. Two kids leaving the nest. My conversion story posted online. Preparing a story for a contest. (It should be two, but I think I'll have to pass on one of thsem.) And still teaching.

Throughout the U.S., families are getting together over turkey and TV for an annual ritual called "Thanksgiving." I don't know how many actually give thanks today. It's a social holiday, for the most part. Being with family and friends. Watching parades and football. Endless football.

I won't discuss "Thanksgiving Day" from an historical perspective. It's too depressing. The hosts wound up being kicked out of their homes. Be careful who you invite to your feast.

In our home, this year, this day is a day of rest. No school. No work. Time to sleep late, read, browse the internet, delete old emails and, yes, for some in my family, a time for football.

In Islam, we don't set aside one day to give thanks. If we are living right, then we thank Allah every day for his mercy.

But it is nice to have an extra day or two off to catch up on my sleep!

Hidden Costs

I bought a new laptop today. I found the model I wanted in the Sunday ads. The price was reasonable, so I took advantage of the opportunity.

My husband and I walked into the store knowing the advertised price. By the time we walked out, we had paid much more. Taxes were part of it, of course. But most of the increase was due to sales based on rebates. Then, of course, we needed to resist as the salesman tried to persuade us to purchase an expensive extended warranty.

He was nice. I have no complaints. He was simply doing his job. But when I walked into the electronics store I had not been counting on the hidden costs.

Hidden costs are everywhere. Life has many surprises. A teenager gets into a car with some friends and ends up in the hospital. A woman believes him when he says he loves her, even though they just met. A middle-aged man takes time away from his family to work through his mid-life crisis, and when he returns he finds they don't want him. All cliches. But all true for hundreds, maybe thousands, every year.

Life has hidden costs. Be careful.

Blaming Muslims

So what else is new? Something goes "boom" and all fingers point to Muslims. Islamic groups issue statements removing themselves from the violence. A video emerges of a man with a covered face taking responsibility for the latest attrocity. Everyone knows Muslims are violent, right?

After all these years of practicing Islam, when I hear the word "terrorist" my first thought is "Muslim." Why? Because I've been programmed to think that way, just like everyone else in the U.S. I know Muslims aren't terrorists, but I've been trained by the media to believe that we are.

When something goes boom, the response should not be to go after the nearest Muslim. The response should be to ask, Who benefits?

Muslims do not benefit from acts of terrorism. Never have. Every explosion creates a backlash against innocent Muslims. So why would any Muslim, even the most fanatic, be so stupid as to keep blowing things up?

And all that talk about Islam being a religion of peace? Well, it's true. If you don't believe me, spend a day with practicing Muslims. Watch them during the prayer. Listen to them greet their fellow Muslims. Better yet, look at their faces as they break the fast during Ramadan. You don't have to accept the teachings of Islam in order to recognize the peace.

There are over one-and-half billions of us on the earth, and not all practice the faith. Some are fanatics. Others are afraid of what the neighbors might say. Many more are simply too lazy. If they're too lazy to pray five times a day, why in the world would they want to go out setting off bombs?

Blaming Muslims. What a simple game. Anyone can play.

But can anyone tell me why Muslims would blow up hotels owned and occupied by Palestinians?

Making the Grade

I promised myself that I would get back into the habit of adding something new to my blog every day. I didn't promise myself what I would write in terms of either quantity or quality.

It's the end of the first quarter, and I have to turn in my grades tomorrow. I teach only part-time. Piece of cake, right?

Not for someone like me, who is challenged in terms of both organizational skills and mathematical prowess. Organization and number are what it's all about at report card time.

So I'm up late trying to decipher a quarter's worth of work, transforming each student's efforts into a single letter.

I do not like grading. I wish there was a better way.

In my fantasy world, I would return to a Socratic method of education. I am touching on that with my homeschooled high schooler. But it will never work in a classroom setting.

So I do my best to calculate the grades, knowing that a few points here or there make a world of difference to the student, and his or her parents.

There must be a better way!

Running

I won't write much tonight because it's nearly 10 p.m. and I still have so much to do.

Piles of dirty laundry. Stacks of ungraded papers. Swarms of unwritten stories.

We keep running and running, never reaching the finish line. But, like Sisyphus, we stay in the game. Pushing toward another deadline. Pushing toward the top.

One day it will end. And then what?

Will we be ready?

Small Deeds

It's the little things that count, right?

It's easy to have big plans. Dreams. Fantasies. Righting wrongs. Addressing injustice. Ending poverty. World peace.

Big dreams usually lead nowhere. They begin and end with the dreamer. Hurting no one. Helping none.

Big dreams are easy. But small deeds? Now there's a challenge.

Stopping to open a door, pull up a seat, yield in traffic. Thinking of others, not of self. Slowing down. Smiling. Sharing. A kind word. A pat on the back.

As I get older, I realize just how significant these small deeds can be. They are the mortar between the bricks. The seeds of world peace.

Minding Our Ps and Qs

These days I'm on a new crusade--though I really dislike using that word, with the linguistic and historic connotations involved. My new cause is. . .manners.

I grew up in the 60s. My mother, like most mothers of that era, taught me to "sit like a lady" and "act my age". The times of my childhood was just a step past "children should be seen and not heard." I remember whispering to my mother when I wanted something while visiting--even when we were at my grandmother's house. "Please" and "thank you" were part of my vocabulary. Outside the home, at least. When we were at home I could hit my sister (but not without rebuke) and plop down on the couch. But when we went out, I knew I had to behave.

Then came the 70s. It was small things at first. Easing of the dress codes at school, for instance. When I was in 9th grade, I met with the superintendent of our school district and asked him to consider letting girls wear jeans to school. Those days, we had a choice of either dresses or those horrible pastel-colored polyester pants suits. So, at first, it was just jeans. Now, of course, it's "anything goes." I've heard that the latest craze is wearing pajamas to school.

So in the 70s we did small things to challenge the establishment. Just a light easing of the rules and restrictions surrounding us. Contrary to what my sons' generation thinks, not all of us smoked pot. In fact, no one I knew did. We listened to our transistor radios, bought LPs and got really excited if our parents decided to buy a color TV. We lugged our books to school in our arms because bookbags hadn't been invented yet. We stayed up late to watch our favorite old movies because videos and DVDs were still decades away. We rebelled in small ways, like clapping at the streaker who ran across the football field. Some of us, those who were older, went out and protested the war. We were all happy when Nixon resigned. And once or twice I did actually write anti-war letters and send them to the White House. (I wanted to be on Nixon's enemy list.)

Most of us were good kids. We ate dinner with our parents, graduated from high school and went to college. And we always remembered to say "please" and "thank you".

Now I see that our small rebellions in the 70s led to much larger things. No more dress code. No more civic-mindedness. And no more manners.

There are still some "good" kids who remember to say "please" and "thank you". But for every good kid there seems to be five who demand their rights, expect adults to earn their respect and refuse to do anything until they know what's in it for them. I know they're out there. I teach some of them.

I don't want to return to "the good old days". The days when the White House was occupied by conservative (and somewhat paranoid) Republicans and the U.S. fought an unpopular war overseas. The days when anti-war protesters were arrested and black men were beaten by p0lice officers. No, in my days of middle-age I continue to hope for something better than that.

But I sure would like to return to a society where parents teach their children to be polite.

Eid Mubarak!

Ramadan has ended.

Sometimes it seemed to drag. Especially at five a.m. when I was trying to wake up and eat before the fast started.

Mostly, it went too fast. I wish I had more time. Time to read more, pray more.

Now it's back to everyday life. Hopefully, we'll all carry the lessons of Ramadan with us as we negotiate the challenges of surviving each day. Hopefully, we'll remember Ramadan. Hopefully, we'll remember Allah.

The month of fasting is over. Now the really hard work begins.

Eid Mubarak to all!