I dropped the flowers. They slipped through my trembling hands. Potted plants never lasted long in our home. I was hungry for a life of many colors. With black-and-white photography on the walls, I felt imprisoned within a thick frame of consciousness. I gazed at a classic photo of Martin Luther King, Jr. giving a speech in Washington, DC. His words ignited something on the inside of me. I also had dreams. I knew what it meant to shake in the presence of greatness.
You hadn’t held me in weeks. I was new to the faith. I converted for the sake of love. The ring on my finger constricted my blood flow. I throbbed. I did not exist within your worldview. Until then, I had no place of my own. From being in the care of my birth-given family to being chained to a man without mercy, I was held hostage by the whims of another. Despair is all I knew.
I somehow gave birth - not to a son or daughter, but to a new version of myself. I cleaned up the mess - the soil-stained carpet. You came home with your distinctive beard. I noticed those few white hairs amidst the dark black strands. You aged gracefully. I was still a child. You could not be a husband and a father, though you desperately wanted to play a role in my life. You were too self-centered to be available for an outside commitment. You put God first. Then, the Prophet, peace be upon him. You prayed. You believed, but you had no faith in me. Our relationship, as weak as a spider’s web, was wiped away with my last set of tears for you. I butted heads with Islamic rulings on photography. I knew the scholars meant well, but I didn’t want a religion to invade my home.
It never occurred to me I had rights in a marriage. I tried to play by a Muslim rulebook, but I was not made for the mosque. I didn’t wear hijab. Was I deserving of love? I spoke to Allah Subhanahu wa ta’ala more than five times a day, but outwardly I did not look pious. I looked humble - clothed in modesty and compassion. Yet, I was not considered a believing wife. I heard the murmuring from my in-laws - their palpable distaste for me felt like I was food sent back to the kitchen at a fancy restaurant. Nope. Not good enough. Not for our family. I was as delicate as the flowers I tried to care for, but I had to let go of the act and turn on music. I had to sing and dance. I had to take photographs to turn my home into a performance space with art on the walls. I now know what it means to live in a museum - elegant and orderly. I know what it means to live alone. My last days in a failed marriage with a broken smile almost emptied me of hope. Yet, I learned not to fear or grieve. I redefined my faith until I was no longer blind, until my soul could see...
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