COMM5 Instructor Manual Chapter 7
7-8
near Central Park. I listened as he talked about his past relationships. Not the most
appropriate topic for a first date, perhaps, but more comfortable for me than the typical
pressurized questions: “Do you cook?” and “How many children do you want?” As he talked
about the girls who either broke his heart, or whose hearts he had broken, I watched his
hands, wondering what they would feel like to touch.
After brunch, we walked through the park. I spoke with ease about my own
confusions, ambitions, faith, and fear of making the wrong decision about marriage. I told
him I wanted someone who liked eating out, prayed five times a day and didn’t drink
alcohol, and who made eye contact when talking with girls. He said he wanted a wife who
wasn’t conservative and could fit in with his non-Muslim friends. He had most of the items
on my mental checklist.
We kept getting to know each other by phone, often talking for hours at a time. If I
was driving when he called, I would roam around aimlessly just so our exchange wouldn’t
end when I reached my destination. I hadn’t yet told my parents about him, not wanting to
get my mother’s hopes up.
Our lingering problem, however, was the difference in how religious we each were;
he hadn’t planned on marrying someone who wore the traditional head scarf. His ideal
woman was less strict, more secular. But I reveled in the recognition. Covering was a choice
I had made in high school, partly out of a need for identity, and partly out of fear. The fear
came from what I had heard at Muslim summer camp, which scared me enough to start
covering and praying. Instead of ghost stories, we had “judgment day” stories about the
terrible things that would happen if you strayed from God, which scared me enough to start
covering and praying.
In the years since, that fear has evolved into understanding. Most girls will say the
scarf is for modesty. I see it as a protection. It keeps me from making stupid decisions. To
me, the scarf is more than a piece of fabric—it’s a way of life. On my wedding night, going
topless would mean unpinning my scarf and letting it fall down.
In order to get him over his hesitation, I planned our dates to take place in very
public places. We played miniature golf, ate out at restaurants, and went blueberry picking.
I looked at his objection as a challenge, a project. I wanted to convince him that even
though I did stand out with my hijab, it didn’t matter because no one really took notice of
the scarf after the first glance.
And I had my own doubts, although I was afraid to admit them: Namely, why should
I push forward with this when we weren’t aligned in terms of our faith? How could we be a
good match if he didn’t approve of my hijab? Would I have to change? Should I?
One evening he called to tell me he had gone to a lounge with a few of his buddies.
“I visualized what it would feel like to have you sitting next to me,” he told me.
“And how did I feel?” I asked.
“Pretty good,” he said. “Manageable.”
After, I finally called my mother and told her about him.
Before him, I had never gone past the second date. But by now he and I were
approaching our fourth date—plenty of time, in my mind, to decide whether a man is right
for you.
And then came the night of the movie, his idea. I’m a movie fanatic and remember
the details of almost every movie I’ve ever seen. I can’t remember the title of the one we
saw that night. I looked over at him and smiled, convincing myself that the weightiness I
felt was because I was in uncharted territory. We were moving forward, talking about
meeting each other’s families. So when he leaned over and asked, “Can I hold your hand?” I
didn’t feel I could say no. I liked him for taking the risk.
Nearly 30 years old, I had thought about holding hands with a boy since I was a
teenager. But it was always in the context of my wedding day. Walking into our reception as