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!