Travel | existabovethenoise

“Where I’m from, do you know what your name means?” the doorman said with a knowing smile. “Uhh… yea… I’m pretty sure, but you tell me,” I said. I’ve been here before, so I am more cautious than I used to be. I used to just blurt out, “it means precious. Of course I know what my own name means!” But these days, I’m much more reticent to assume that I know what it may mean in every country the world over. Perhaps it means frog legs where he’s from, and I would surely like to know that now before I spend a lifetime considering myself a gem of the earth.

“It means precious,” he said. “Phew,” I thought. “Yea, I know,” I said with a sigh. “But not like pretty precious, not like gold and jewelry. I mean like air.” With my ‘whatchu talkin’ bout Willis’ face on, I inquired further. “It is precious, as in essential. Something you cannot live without. Think, like water, air. You know, it’s about being essential to life,” he said.

And there in lies my identifier. No one with an understanding of Arabic language or Islamic culture will assume that I am not of the same. I don’t always look the part. I am a bit unassuming in appearance and sometimes I require an explanation – mainly because of my American last name. But, upon introduction I am asked about where I pray. Am I married yet? No. Why not? How old are you? “You need to marry a Muslim man. It is time.” This is generally the progression of things. I am not usually asked to explain myself beyond, “my parents are Muslim. I was born Muslim.” Even in this North Indian world where I have about as much a place as an albino leopard in a gorilla’s cage, I can belong as a Muslim.

It’s interesting though, because I’ve never wanted to belong as a Muslim. It is possibly one of the few identities I could attach myself to that I never needed the validation of attachment for. I have read the Quran in its entirety. I went to Islamic school when I was quite young. I have worn a hijab for days on end for no reason at all. I was born Muslim, so I don’t owe an imam my shahada. Allah and I have had conversations where I confessed that I will never practice my faith as heretics claim the literal Quranic translations should be lived. I’ve never felt the need to explain my beliefs or their waverings. And, I have never needed to be Muslim to believe in Islam.

Perhaps it’s hard to understand how those of us Nation of Islam babies, or us Sufis, or us Ahmedis, or us Bhoras get along in life – accepting a level of culture that stands apart from the religion itself. The assumption is, of course, that the world’s Muslims are either Sunni or Shi’a. The assumption is, of course, that Muslims speak Arabic, pray 5 times a day, and lock their women in cages with a “Polygamy is my mistress!” sign on it. Some Muslims subscribe to certain ritualistic prescriptions of the religion itself, and others subscribe to the cultural narratives their elders have taught them about how to live the religion. Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish one from the other.

The fighting for jihad, the guns, the guts, the restrictions – dare I say, come out of Middle Eastern cultures that encapsulate its many rigidities into beliefs about Islam. But their beliefs in Islam are not universally recognized or understood by the rest of us who could call ourselves Muslims. Nor would I argue that their beliefs are wrong. They aren’t consistent with what I believe, but who am I to say wrong?

And this comes after being told in high school that most Muslims don’t consider the Nation of Islam’s subscribers to be Muslim. “That is not true Islam,” I was told. And this comes after the Ahmedis living in an Islamic country are considered blasphemous and, thus, persecuted as if they were proselytizing the word of Yahweh and eating pork chops on Mohammad’s birthday. There are the Sufis of West Africa and South Asia who fast, whirl like dervishes, see djinns and praise Allah just the same. There are the Bohras who even pleasantly surprised me when I discovered them in Mumbai last week, with their established high society, colorful capes, and formal events where only men do the serving.

I have spent all Ramadan fasting. And instead of reading the Quran, I’ve found myself reading about the cultures of Islam. From “City of Djinns” to “A Thousand Splendid Suns,” I’ve pondered the practices and the mythologies; these conversations and spaces of holy worship that are socially accepted in certain regions, but lay outside of the universal religious prescription. They have given me much to think about this holy month.

While the intertwining of God and politics has always been accepted in America when it comes to Christian values, my birth into Islam came at a time when Black people chose a counter norm. No doubt, Islam in my life has been as much political as say the politics of shari’a in Saudi, but my politics are fixed from an inner pulse of core values that don’t require stoning or penal codes to reinforce. I can surely say that Jews aren’t the only ones who get to be ‘cultural’ or ‘religious.’ I’m claiming my space as a card toting cultural Muslim.

For every salaat I have not made, I have – without provocation and/or a second thought – said ‘stafallah’ when I killed a bug or spat a foul word. I feel bad when I don’t say grace before eating and, yes, I still say it half in Arabic like I learned it when I was 4 years old. Pork is not allowed in my house, though alcohol is a favorite meal. Submission to life’s way is something I fully subscribe to, but some things are worth fighting for and that, too, is life’s way. I understand that hair is a crucial aspect of vanity and I love shoes and black eyeliner just as much as any Muslima. I have learned to be content to walk alongside religious Muslims, but not with them every step of the way.

What Ramzan (the Indian pronunciaton of Ramadan) in India has brought me is a fuller understanding of what Islam means to me and a greater respect for what Islam means to others. What faith doesn’t motivate and inspire – some to their highest point, others to the weakest of states? While some feel the need to travel to Mekkha and Medina to venerate God, I have had enough frank conversations with God in the comforts of my own home that I’m pretty sure that me and Allah already got a thing going on. My understanding of Islam is that it can be just as ample as the wind – sometimes whimsical, sometimes dangerous. Like the Jordanian version of my name, I remain focused on life giving. Some pray for daily sustenance. Some of us find God in the art of living. We can all be called Muslims, that is, if we want to be.

Eid Karim!

Tanya Everett is an actor and writer in New York City. Her latest endeavors have included staged readings of her one-act play, A Virgin Christmas, with David Zayas (Dexter). This fall, she will be starring in “Munched,” which will partner with W.O.R.T.H., a nonprofit organization that helps formerly incarcerated women to begin anew. Her website will soon be live for viewing: http://www.tanyaeverett.com

Last night, I boarded a Chinatown bus at 8:54 pm in New York City. It had just begun to rain, and the city streets were slick and iridescent. I headed to Lucky Star, only because the bus ratings are marginally less offensive. I settled myself in for an evening of work, but found that the bus seemed to be coming apart at the hinges, and I’d be better off taking a nap. When I awoke, we were already bouncing into South Station. We arrived just before 12:45, so I bounded off the bus, hoping to get to the Red Line before the last train.

After midnight, South Station is tied up like a virgin before her wedding night, so I knew getting home would be more difficult than catching the G train in Brooklyn on a bad day. Downstairs in the station, I asked the guard if the last train had left. His monosyllabic “Yep,” was unconvincing. I figured I’d try my luck and test the waters, so I trotted over to the station. I was let in by another guard to the main terminal and, with another gentleman in tow, bounded down off to the Redline entrance. I asked the MTA employee and her colleague, and they insisted that the last train to Ashmont was coming. I bought a ticket and I headed towards my train.

At the bottom of the stairs was a lone woman. She asked me “Is there a train coming tonight?” I said, “There should be.” She insisted on checking, so she rode back up the escalator, and received the same answer I had received just minutes before. She then proceeded to hoist her suitcase back down to the platform for a second round of waiting, this time more patiently and less nervously.

With nothing left to do but take a watch and wait approach, we struck up a conversation. We had gone to neighboring high schools. She was in town from Oakland for her mother’s 80th birthday; I, for my grandmother’s 75th. We both dance and write plays. Both of our families are the clingy types that insist that when we visit we spend every waking moment in their presence, kissing babies and washing dishes. I secretly hoped she’d have some insight as how to CHANGE that predicament, but we were too similar for that to be a realistic expectation. Her mother is Jamaican and set in her ways. My grandmother is of Ukranian and Polish descent, hence as stubborn as the day is long. It seemed like no coincidence that she and I met on that platform in that moment. Perhaps we both needed the good vibes of someone similar, but different, to remind us that we were on the right track – and I don’t just mean in the T station.

I saw a light in her eyes that shone from faith, perseverance, and experience. She mentioned more than once how much she enjoyed my energy. When the train finally arrived, a man in a Red Sox cap mustered the nerve to interrupt our vigorous chatting. He stopped me mid-sentence and said, “Excuse me, miss, I don’t mean to bother you, but I was just tellin’ him, you have star-quality.” From the looks of ‘him,’ they didn’t even know each other. But I was pleased by the content of this interruption, so I asked his name. “It’s Devine.” “Huh? I’m sorry, can you say that again?” asked like a bumbling fool, unworthy of his compliment. “Devine. It’s spelled with an ‘E’ though.” He went on to tell me that I had something that caught his eye and that he told a complete stranger about it. It may have just been a pick up, but for me in that moment, I had the sense that this second encounter with this second stranger was also no fluke. It could have been a lack of sleep, but finding a new friend from the other side of the country and meeting a Bostonian with the name of a demi-God felt like exactly what I needed in that moment.

Admittedly, I have a tendency to attract all kinds of people, celebrities and homeless vagrants alike. My roommate thinks it’s hysterical, because I make a new acquaintance daily – even the kind some people don’t want to meet in a lifetime. I believe it all stems from my grandmother. See, Linda (my grandmother) turned seventy-five that night, while I was chatting it up on the train platform. Oddly enough, she has spent my entire lifetime paving the way for me to have choice encounters just like these. She’s the one to speak to strangers on the subway at one in the morning. She’s the courageous, go-getter that never stops, despite limited means. She has always been ferocious and fearless. She is an avid believer that you can accomplish anything with a “glass half full” outlook on life.

Sometimes it is hard to keep her outlook handy in my own life. Lately, I’ve been struggling to find my voice as an artist, to create value in my work. And the weight of these burdens can sometimes undermine my grandma given optimism. What’s worse is that I find myself struggling against what is simply the natural order of things, begging winter to be spring (faster), asking lean years to become fat years (sooner), demanding that life slow down now so that I can catch up and grow at my own pace.

I have been known to ask for too much, but I have also been known to deliver great things. My own flare on grandma’s wisdom is that when preparedness meets timing, and a little bit of grace, all things are possible. But we wouldn’t be human if, every now and again, we failed to recognize that we are perfect in our imperfections. We forget that the very things that seem like character flaws are our most interesting characteristics. As an actor and a writer, I constantly mine for unique character traits. I’ve come to celebrate the triumph of the hero over her toughest opponent: herself.

As I rushed towards home that night, I was reminded that all the world’s a stage and it’s about time that I applied some of this leeway I give to my scripted protagonists to lil ole’ me, the girl that makes besties with late night commuters. The conversations on that platform reminded me that my inherited positivity is what attracts people, and that my own darkness is what makes me human. I was reminded to enjoy the discoveries along the journey, not just the destination. And there’s something simply perfect about celebrating my own divinity in the wee hours, at the crack of dawn, on the day the earth welcomed the source of my greatest gifts. Don’t think my grandma doesn’t make me repay the favor. Did I mention that August is her birthday MONTH??