Wrestlemania 23, Takbir!

Last weekend I celebrated the Prophet's mawlid at Wrestlemania in Detroit.   It was the most perfect Wrestlemania weekend in all eternity, it must have been for the Prophet's sake.  I met my beloved Sabu.  I saw the Sheik inducted to the hall of fame.  We had 14th row ringside seats.  Now who but God could arrange that?  I walked around wide-eyed saying, alhamdolelah, over and over.  I put on hijab to meet Sabu at a photo-op event.  I thought it would be a good way to make introductions faster.  Hey, I am wearing a scarf, guess who I am?  When I walked up to him, he bowed slightly and said, "Assalamu alaykum."  He was dressed in a suit with his "I am an Arab-Muslim Heel" headdress on.  I returned his salams and asked to take a picture with him alone. He grabbed me and said in my ear, "Let's take this somewhere private." I replied, "Let's go. I'm a good Muslim girl, but not that good." He and I chatted some more, he gave me a hug and I was on my way.  Unfortunately, I did not find a slip of paper with his room number in my pocket. 

I decided to keep the hijab on.  It seemed to be working as a gimmick.  I shouldn't have been surprised.  Fellow wrestling fan, Amir Hussein, noted that the hijab has always been a gimmick.   I started feeling comfortable in it, though.  I started feeling comfortable being a public Muslim.  I took the scarf on and off with the kind of nonchalance with which I push my sleeves up or down.  For the Hall of Fame I had a homemade "I love you Sheik" t-shirt on.  I had written on the back, "I love a Muslim Gimmick."  I was wearing my scarf.  Dude behind me complimented my attire as an awesome gimmick.  I told him I really am a Muslim.  He grinned even more.  It was like that all weekend.  "No, really, I am a Muslim."  Grins all around.  Mike Knight reminded me that the best gimmicks are true. 

I wore the scarf with a matching short sleeve t-shirt to the main event.  A short sleeve t-shirt.  Kathleen and I stopped to get some beers before we found our seats.  We got ringside and I handed Kathleen the camera to take a picture of me.  I had both beers in my hands.  I suddenly realized that there was now photographic evidence of me and beer, together.  Not just that, it was a two-fisted beer shot!  I didn't used to drink.  Until a couple of years ago, I had been overly conscious of what a good Muslima acted like and looked like.  I had been overly conscious of my clothing, my voice, my actions.  It wasn't a riya thing.  I was conscious in private, too.  I want to please God.  Other Muslims helped to enjoin the good.  If I said something I shouldn't in public, a good finger jab in the ribs from the ex would shut my mouth and lower my head.  He was always so thoughtful.  Some other Muslim brothers and sisters were thoughtful that way, too.  Always a kind word to remind me of my place.  Good Muslims, it seems, are not touched by worldly experience let alone speak of it.  At the time, I always felt deeply ashamed before God.  I would try to do better. 

Sometimes I get e-mails from concerned brothers and sisters.  The circumstances have changed these days, but the sincere advice is always there for me.  They say I should not speak about my life so openly.  I should realize how people are talking about me.  I should have some shame about the violence I have endured.  I also get comments suggesting that I pretend to piety.  Activists, it seems, are pure creatures who know nothing of sin.  Most recently one of Tarek Fatah's little friends called me "a bimbo who thinks she is Islam's Joan of Arc."  Since I no longer feel obligated to bear other people's shame before God, I responded to this suggestion in true wrestling-promo style.  I replied,  "I would gladly list the names of all the men I have had sex with, if I could remember them all."  I cannot manage other people's expectations.  Maybe that's my gimmick.  But the best gimmicks are true, walhamdolelah. 

Wrestlemania was awesome, walhamdolelah!