Thursday, July 21, 2011

Real Muslim Housewives of Detroit: Episode #4 Abia Abdullah

How could I let this happen? I’m Muslim. I was supposed to be the smart one. The one no one thought could be so weak. So stupid. At the end I just wanted to get it over with and for them to find out. Without me having to tell them. I didn’t have the courage to have those words come out of my mouth.

It was too embarrassing. Shameful.

I remembered it like it was yesterday. I’d been working part-time and just began my freshman year in college. It was my first semester. I knew what it was like to taste freedom. My parents home-schooled me as well as my other two sisters. I was the baby of the family and the last to leave the nest. I wanted to follow in their footsteps and make it in college smoothly as they had.

That was my parent’s goal. Islam and education. Marriage was last. My Abu wouldn’t accept anything less. For that we were sheltered. We’d be in the basement while my Abu worked and my mother taught. We’d sneak and talk about how it would be cool to go to a “real” school one day.

Since I was the last one, it was hard. I mean I had friends but I needed to be out in the world. I’d speak with my sisters everyday and ask them what it was like to be living the college life. They’d never answer but I found out soon enough. When I got out there.

I was out there.

And quickly was overwhelmed by the world as it rushed me all at once. I was a guppy in a sea full of sharks.

At my first class I met this guy. He was a year older than me and always sat next to me in class. One time he asked me about my scarf and told me how beautiful it was. He told me that I wasn’t anything like these other girls. I was different. That’s where the conversation began. Then it led to him showing me around the school. He was easy to get along with and very cute. I trusted him. We began to hang out every day at school in a group of course. I didn’t want to be with him alone. Not yet anyway.

One day he asked me over to his house to study. We did the most horrible thing. He kissed me. I thought I was going to go to the hellfire immediately. How could I’ve been so stupid to be alone with a non-Muslim man? Or any man for that matter. I knew better than that. At the same time the kiss excited me. I’d never kissed anyone before.

I had all these mixed feelings about it and ended up just not talking to him for a while. I tried to hide at school but on one occasion he found me. Then I let myself go. I began to see him, sneaking out of the house and even lying. My feelings were so strong for him that it engulfed anything else that I’d ever thought. I made myself think that no one would understand our unique love.

That’s what I thrived off of. That was my justification.

We ended up doing it. I was ashamed but couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t know the person it was I’d become. I couldn’t tell anyone. Not even my sisters. They would judge me. I didn’t need that. I needed someone to comfort me and tell me that it was ok and it was natural. And that everyone did it and it was no big deal.

I was his Muslim girlfriend. I was proud of the title around all of his non-Muslim friends. Even though some of his ex’s referred to me as the Muslim bitch. I was ok as long as I was going to get to be with him. Even though on the outside I was happy, the Muslim girl on the inside was always talking. But I told it to shut up. And went on about my business. I continued my horrid ways for six months.

I began having morning sickness. And immediately took a “pee” test from CVS. It was positive. And I was screwed.

They were going to kill me. so instead of telling them, I left the test in the trash bin in plain sight and went into my bedroom and waited. I thought about nothing in particular. Only what the hell I was going to do.

Just ten minutes later, my mom bursts into the room, in tears, holding the test in her hand. my Abu came in from behind, his eyes as big as anything I’ve ever seen. My mother shook me, cursed me and even slapped me across the face. I took it. Because I deserved it. I deserved more than that. My father stood behind her, tears coming down his face saying softly “Why?” over and over again.

It was like an outer body experience as I watched the events unfold from above. My mother shook me again until I snapped out of my trance. “Who is the father?”

Every person wants to know that question when someone turns up pregnant. I looked up and told her that it was some guy from school. She dropped down to her knees and asked what every Muslim parent would ask their child if they ended up pregnant. “Is he Muslim?”

I shook my head from side to side. My Abu caught her as she fell backwards, fainting.

For the first few months my belly grew hard and large. My parents barely spoke to me. my sisters were disappointed but spoke to me uneasily. My family and friends found out through the grapevine as Muslims love to talk. Some of the storied they made up were ridiculous but I didn’t care.

I was six months pregnant and as hungry as ever waiting on dinner to come. My mom was making my favorite, tacos. “So, Abia, what are your plans?” my mom asked as I stuff a taco in my mouth. I swallowed hard.

“About the baby or my living arrangements?”

She dropped a spoon and it clinked on the plate, her bottom lip began to shiver. She covered her face and bowed her head. My father’s eyes bored into my soul. I could silently hear the words he wanted to utter. Instead he sighed and shook his head. My mother regained composure. “About everything.”

That’s all I had time to think about were my plans but it always ended up at a dead end. “I wish I could tell you.” I jumped back in my seat when my Abu’s hand slammed down on the table making the utensils and plates rattle. “Oh, Allah, give me the strength not to hurt my child. Oh, Allah give me the right words to say because this is either a test or punishment.”

“Ameen,” my mother and I said lowly.     

 “Ask her again,” he looked at me but was talking to my mother.

“What are your plans, Abia? For yourself and the baby?”