Amreekan Hair

The first few days of school were horrible. When our family moved from the US to Pakistan, we were the weirdos, the outsiders. We looked similar to those around us, but we were oh, so different. We spoke Urdu with American accents, had mannerisms that Pakistanis found bewildering, and anything we did (or had) was assumed to be different because we were “Amreekan”. (One kid would tug my head and ask why I had “Amreekan” hair.) And then our mother got sick, and we were told that she might not make it. To say that this time was difficult, would be an understatement.

With time, though, Alhamdulillah things improved. Our mother got better. We learned the ways of the new country, got rid of our accents, learned how to write Urdu. We started to fit in. And, in due time, we began to feel at home. 

The so-called “Amreekan” hair. I think it looks more like a bedhead.

When I think back to that traumatic time, I can still remember the anxiousness, the internal nausea, the cloud of confusion and dizziness that seemed to hang over my head and heart. But I also realize that my parents must’ve gone through so much during this time. I just didn’t notice, or care.

Fast forward three decades. I’m back in the U.S., and now raising my own children. One thing that’s difficult to change: caring about what the other is going through. As a child, I thought my problems were all that mattered. And as an adult, I still tend to do that, even though as an adult, I have the vision to realize that the world is not just about me. 

In my last blogpost, I mentioned how we sometimes think our kids’ problems are not “big enough” to be of any importance. We do this, even though we were children once. We all had our own sets of childhood problems, even if we choose to romanticize the time, remembering only “the good ol’ days” and forgetting the bad. We tend to think that kids have it easy, with few worries, no responsibilities.

As adults, our problems are different. But it doesn’t make them more important.

Building a strong relationship with our children depends on our empathy with them. Sometimes kids might not tell us their problems (or may not be able to articulate them). This doesn’t mean they don’t exist. At the least, we need to recognize that every problem is a problem, whether big or small. If they come to you with a problem, don’t expect them to “get over it” or start listing your own worries. And if they don’t come to you, try to imagine yourself in their shoes, a child once again.

Remember how the Prophet SAW treated young children, with love and compassion. Remember how he SAW responded to the young man wanting permission to fornicate, with empathy and compassion. Let’s bring love, empathy and compassion back into our parenting.

As always, this advice is first and foremost to myself, and then others who may find it beneficial.

A Cat, a Dog, and a Fence

My mom loved Sesame Street. It was one of those things in our household that everyone loved. The show was, of course, made for us kids, and it was clean, often funny, and educational. Our mother, who had immigrated to the US with my father after getting married, enjoyed watching it to learn English. So we watched a lot of Sesame Street.

Many of those childhood images for SS have a place in my head and heart, but one I go back to often is a short, 30-second cartoon featuring two children on opposite sides of a fence. One of the kids looks down and squeals, “Gee, what a nice doggy”. The other child looks astonished, and says, “That’s not a dog. It’s a cat.” Before we know it, the two are bickering loudly about who is right. After a few moments of this, the boy, grumbling, decides to walk around to the other side of the fence, and realizes that the girl was right. It was a dog. Just then, though, the cat peeks from the other side of the fence, and the girl realizes the boy was right, too.

It seems so easy to be able to see the “truth” especially when it’s staring right at us. But many of us often forget that more often than not, there really is more than one side to a story. When I think about this in the context of being a mother, I sometimes feel nauseated to the core at my judgmental self.

I pride myself in trying to reach out to and understand my children and the problems they face. I can’t claim to know it all, but I try. But I fail, too, and when I remember times when I have judged children based on my reality, and my understanding of the truth, without seeing their side of the fence, I wish I had acted with more wisdom. And I pray for that wisdom now and in the future.

For parents who have grown up in different times, different circumstances, and maybe even different countries than their children, it can be difficult to understand our kids’ struggles. We might even dismiss them as “not big enough problems”. But as Muslim parents, it is our responsibility to raise our children on the Right Path, with wisdom and empathy. If we hope to raise our children as good Muslims, we can’t hope to do much good until we try to understand them.