So people were giving me weird looks today at school–I mean, more so than usual–because in addition to wearing a scarf wrapped around my head in 95 degree heat (small potatoes, I know, for us hijabis at least) I deigned to wear one tossed over my shoulders. Before the whole neck scarf craze–which I am not complaining about, it has made finding cute hijabs all the more convenient–there was the dupatta. That’s all I’m saying.
As another blond clone eyeballed me over the rim of her sunglasses while sashaying by in her short-shorts (or, as my mom likes to put it, “Hotpants!” You have to say it really indignantly, like you’re spitting out something distasteful.) all I could think was, At least I’m not wandering around half nekkid in front of God and creation, for goodness sake.
Why is it that girls with their stretch-marked boobs hanging out of their shirts think they can judge me? Or for that matter, girls with no boobs? What kind of society do we live in that I know these bodily traits about complete strangers because they can’t be bothered to wear something that isn’t made out of the scrap fabric pile?
I won’t get into the religious and political issues of this woman because the romantic in me wishes that we all could just get along. I hope we can discuss her style and self-expression for its genuine nature and celebrate the differences that keep this human family so interesting.
Just…what? The religious and political issues of this woman? All I see is a beautiful smiling Muslim girl who is wearing a rocking, MODEST outfit. I’m not sure what issues you are talking about, sir.
Of course, not a peep about the “religious and political issues” of the other people featured on his blog–like the scantily-clad burlesque dancer.
As Baba Ali likes to say, JHOOOOOOOOOOOOOKE.
In other news, I was flipping through the New York Times (and flipping, and flipping) and finally came across an article about the Free Gaza Flotilla. Buried in the middle of the paper, typ-i-cal. It was a good, in-depth article though. That’s probably why they tried their best to bury it.
The other day in my History of American Journalism class, we were talking about censorship in the news media. I brought up the case of the footage of the American soldier shooting an Iraqi in the head in a masjid, a mosque. The American channels censored it, but Al-Jazeera didn’t. As I was speaking, I could feel my voice begin to shake and my palms break out into a sweat, and I realized as I have countless times before how close to the surface the anger and frustration and sadness simmers, despite my best efforts–despite all our best efforts, I think–to quell it.
I don’t know how to wrap up this entry, so I will end by saying this: My cat is lost. No, seriously. We can’t find her anywhere.
Please come home, Mao. I fear you have run off and joined the Communists, in line with your inadvertent namesake.