Photo by simplerich, via Flickr
The subject of today’s post, and what I’m sure is a more-common-than-I-expect writer’s conundrum, is: How much of your family’s dirty laundry can you air (read: turn into a novel, a book of short stories, or a screenplay) before it is seen as tasteless exploitation and/or potentially damaging to members of your clan and your relationships with them? Are there stories you really can’t tell?
Imam Khalid Latif photo courtesy of delawaremuslims.com
On the 10th anniversary of the 9/11 World Trade Centre attacks, I was humbled by the strength, courage and humility of Muslims as they expressed, many for the first time, how they felt on that fateful day. Over the weekend, I spent some time reading some of these thoughtful expressions (one happened to be written by my talented cousin Dina for her college newspaper – total proud mama moment there). But of all the pieces I found, this story, honestly and beautifully recanted by Imam Khalid Latif, the Executive Director and Chaplain at the Islamic Center at NYU and the Muslim Chaplain for NYPD, was by far my favourite.
Photo courtesy of Joel Cran
In my early 20s I came to the big fat realization that I was at risk of upholding an Arab tradition I never wished to be a part of: to move from my mother’s house straight into my husband’s house. The thought of having no independence – to truly discover myself and my own living habits, good, bad or ugly – was terrifying. To me, it was the biggest failure I could think of. It was giving up on myself. It was too easy. I had to know if I could go it alone. If I could rely on myself solely and completely without anyone’s help. I simply wouldn’t be able call myself an adult otherwise.
