They were family friends and my sisters and I were always sleeping over. Their father, who is a Sheikh of the community, would always greet us with the Islamic greeting;“ Asalamu Alaykum”-peace be upon you. These sleepovers were the highlight of my childhood but they carried a foreign practice during their morning hours. We would awake at the prick of dawn and offer our prayers. Although my family and I were practicing Muslims and are considered more practicing than the average American Muslim family, this particular family unified in every aspect of life which was admirable to anyone viewing. After the morning prayers and after I laid back into the comforts of my small death, the message of the Sheikh relayed from his daughters and we were all called to the living room to read our daily dose of The Holy Quran. This was my least favorite part of the sleepovers.
I did not hate this part of the sleepover because I felt ‘disconnected from the faith’ but rather because reading and writing in Arabic was my greatest weakness. I spoke broken Arabic at home and even with it being broken, both my parents and seven siblings always knew what I intended to communicate, which led me to never be corrected. I hated that I had so much passion for Islam yet I was unable to read a single sentence from the book that taught me all the values I embodied or tried to embody. I felt like an imposter within my own faith. Every sleepover morning, I was reminded of that feeling.
I was six years old when my mother placed me into kindergarten at the local Islamic center where she worked as a valued Quran teacher. I repeated kindergarten three times. Maybe it was the familiarity of my mother being there that kept me in the bubble of my broken Arabic. When I had gotten to the level of study that my mother was teaching, I remembered watching my mother take pride in the other classmates and not in her own children. I felt ashamed that my mother, who was a very well respected teacher, taught children who weren’t her own. Meanwhile, her children at home could barely form a proper Arabic sentence.
Sheikh Hamoud was the principal of that local center. Upon entering the living room where he would allow every attendee to read a page, I would attempt to hide behind my sisters so that I would blend in with the crowd of Arabic illiterates. This was the case for a while until this particular sleepover I noticed an improvement in my three older sisters’ Arabic pronunciation. Now I was alone. I had nobody I could watch butcher the reading to make myself look better. I was forced to focus only on myself.
That same year I remembered being tired of the awkward silence I caused during my segment of the reading. I remembered entering my parents room where the air conditioning created this soothing white noise. My mothers blanket stopped below her chest as she sat up with her back against her pillow resting on the bed frame and her reading glasses resting above her Apple cheeks. In her hand was “الرحيق المختوم”-The Sealed Nectar. I approached her while holding a copy of the Quran. She looked at me with a blank stare as her head and glasses were fixated towards her reading. My mother has always implemented Islamic practices in the lives of her eight children, however, during our childhood we did not value them as much as she wished we had. You could assume how she felt seeing her younger daughter voluntarily want to learn. After getting her full attention I asked if I could read with her. She had buried her excitement when she accepted my request beneath her poker face. I knew my mother was smiling. From there on my mother was my teacher.
My reading came naturally after years of constant practice. I had finally matured and experienced enough life to understand that I do not have to remain in a condition. I had the ability to change, sitting back and feeling sorry for myself was not going to teach me Arabic, Connecting to my mothers tongue was. Now that I am older I begin to ponder over the reality that we are in. embarrassment has been instilled within many generations throughout various cultures for one purpose. Although it may not seem like it is positive, It most definitely can be. Embarrassment builds resilience, or at least it did for me. Today I am proud to say that I am no longer ashamed to enter a session of reading with Sheikh Hamoud.
