Musings of a muslimah

Briana glanced at her fingernails. Now a half of an inch long. Womanly. She liked them. They gave her confidence when she gripped the subway poles. She knew they were judging her. With their corporate eyes and business smiles. She wrapped her hand around the metal bar, envisioning the germs seeping into her pores, sure to giver her a cold in a few days.

She stared awkwardly at her cell phone. It’s sleek cover and high-tech model gave her a false sense of security, worth. I’m just like you, she thought. I can buy what you buy. Use the same things.

She had no internet access and was not in the mood to play any game. Nor in the mood to use any of the Islamic apps she had so carefully downloaded earlier that morning, lying in bed after fajr, trying to see past the deep sense of failure that seemed to wash over her every few days. She had failed herself, failed her ambition to be perfect.

To want nothing from no one so strongly as she had done. Instead, she decided to check her messages. “Good morning beautiful, As Salaamu Alaikum”. She read his text message again. Wishing it evoked some emotion, some heightened sense of love. That love that she felt months ago, though unaware of its name. It stormed into her heart this time in a way that she could not identify, so when the captor left her standing in the storm, she had nothing, no shield, no defense.

She just stood there drenched, unable to mentally connect the cold rain with the shivers shaking her body. This text message was no blanket, but it would do. He would continue to send empty gestures of affection and concern like all men do when they are playing that role, not yet into themselves, not yet fully a man.

No, this message was not like the love she had felt for him. It did not grip her heart, making her hang on every word. It did not push her to recite more Quran, and stand up dutifully in prayer, hoping and sure that Allah had blessed her with such joy. It did not inspire her.

And yet, she wondered if this was the beginning of her true self. Her true story.

Maybe no pure, inspiring love waited for her in her late 20s. No happy home would comfort her in her 30s. She would not rest on the shoulders of an established man in her 40s. She could not meet this love again.

She was to be messaged. Emailed. Called irregularly. Shallow. Shielded this time. Just as she imagined. Those years before: empty advances, meaningless insinuations, and empty promises, was all that she was familiar with. Briana decided that she was not worthy of the only love she had desired. Such a love is for the weak, the needy, the worst of the sinners. To inspire, shape, and support one’s full destiny.

No, she did not deserve this kind of love. She was too strong. Destined for greatness. She could only do the inspiring. She could only love, but so many times, the men who were never meant to love her in return.

Her story was written etched in gold, the maiden that she was. She had failed herself, as she gripped the cold subway bars. She failed in her logic, in her heart, in her rationality. Indeed, she had succumbed to the grimacing idea that her happiness was impossible. Immature, even, to assume that she could ever meet it. At least in this life.

Now, she just coped, tightened the pins on her scarf, and as she stepped out of the subway, hit play to same track that she entered with.