Are Muslims the New Niggers?

Nadil Malik Hasan. Add this to your English vernacular, let it join the ranks of other normally-difficult-to-pronounce names from the Middle East. Names like Osama bin Ladin, Sadaam Hussein, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and even Yasser Arafat or Mahatma Ghandi. But wait, something is different about this Muslum in the media, this guy has a title. Meet Major Nadil Malik Hasan:

Major Nidal, a man of Jordanian decent, earned his title from years in the United States Army.

...Wait a minute!

Yes, there are Muslims in the U.S. Army. Surprised? If, in fact, you are shocked, then you need to keep reading. The "don't ask, don't tell" policy still exists, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't apply to men who love the Qu'ran.

Now let me begin by offering the tragedy at Ft. Hood, Texas my complete and unadulterated compassion. NPR's Morning Edition told the story of an Army wife whose husband was murdered by the indiscriminate gunman. The newly widowed woman tried her best to express her grief. I could see her tears through the radio. The journalist observed the woman gently holding her enlarged belly. *gasp* I could feel her grief, her confusion and her pain and yet, the only coherent sentence she could form was a question: In the Army there is a brotherhood, why would they do this?

Her question entered my mind and triggered an emotion. I felt a heat rise in my eyes and I asked a question of my own: Why did the (alleged) shooter have to be Muslim?

Listen, I get it, the man accused of the crime has simply been identified. And as it turns out, he is a devoted Muslim. What's the big deal right? It's just a fact!

... Right.

As consumers of the media it is normal to become accustomed to a particular diet. Follow this recipe: the police officer gathers information about a subject (name, address, DOB, race: the essential ingredients); the journalist gathers as much of this information as possible and adds a pinch of spice (salt, religion and/or character witnesses are all fine); and the news reporter cooks up a big bowl of speculation for us all! Yay, cold gossip stew! Consumers really like this method of cooking. It is a comfort-food of sorts; filling you up with more factoid-calories than you really need and then sending you into a sleepy fog (itis), feeling nourished... satisfied.

Shepard's-pie may make you feel warm inside, but it's not to be consumed in daily doses, at least not for the health-conscious. Just as many Americans have become calorie-counters in the interest of health and longevity, why not try a little factoid-counting with the same goal in mind?

Let's break it down. How does this make you feel?

Are you a non-homophobic heterosexual Christian? How does it make you feel when the media reports these protesters as Christians?

Are you a law-abiding Black male? How does it make you feel when the reporter on your local 11 o'clock news says, "the supsect is a Black male between the ages of 9 and 76"?

If you identified with one of these scenarios then maybe you can imagine how Muslim Americans feel when Major Nadil Malik Hasan was identified as a man who "took his religion very seriously" (NPR, Morning Edition 11/06/09). Choose your unique identifier and ask: does the media exploit it without justifiable reason?

It seems to me, that "the man" has a new favorite target. He fills us up with cold gossip stew, and even the previous butt-of-the-joke gets a bowl. This is one party where even Black folks are allowed at the dinner table. But the "black jokes" have been replaced by with tongue-in-cheek quips about turbans, bindi-dots and the "terrorists" you sat next to on the plane. Sounds to me like people are confusing terms. Since when are "Muslim" and "terrorist" synonyms?

I admit, I probably wasn't invited to this shin-dig. But if I was, when the floor was mine, I'd pose this question: Are Muslim's the new niggers?

... beautiful tastes like semi-sweet chocolate and almonds

Working without creating...

The iPhone car horn sounds at 6:15am. I silence the noise, only fighting the innevitable for the next 45 minutes. Shit. Now I have half an hour to prepare for work. I pour out of bed, my only desire is to remain balled up atop the 16 inch mattress tangled-up in the down-comforter. Flip the switch, turn the knob, drop my panties, open one eye to see if my abs are any tighter and step into the shower. And it's official, the work day has begun.

It's 7:45am and I'll spend the next 75 minutes tapping my break and learning the lyrics to BP3.

I fucking hate the suburbs. A white Toyta Forerunner passes on the right and I try not to look at the driver. Always the same story: another suburban commuter tapping on their phone or gripping the wheel out of terror (the ones really responsible for the fender-benders). But, I look through the window. A WF, "Chris" apparently since the licensce plate so cleverly reads, "4CHRIS."

Jay asks, "What we talkin bout real shit, or we talking bout rhymes. You talkin bout millions, or you talkin bout mine...?"

My imagination reels and I picture Chris on her 40th Birthday, happy to have her husband and friends around to celebrate-- or happy to have them divert her thoughts from that proverbial hill. After dinner and cake and wine Chris walks her guests to the door. Through bittersweet smiles of appreciation and botheration she steps out the door to wave farewell, and *gasp!* There, next to her hand-crafted mail box is a brand new white Toyota Forerunner! Chris looks back at the husband, his face glowing as he lifts both eyebrows two times. Chris walks towards the truck, hands stuck to her face, and says not a word. She examines the front, gently touches the paint and moves to the back. And there it is, the corney license plate that took my mind on a 30 second ride: 4CHRIS.

Really, I hate the suburbs.

8:00am, great, I'm still 45 minutes away and traffic is moving at a snail's pace. How can I waste another second collecting thoughts about the mundane? The mundane is closing in, and I'm only driving 30 mph.

Jesus, I've got to get back into the city.
Alicia tells me, "... there's nothing you can't do, now you're in New York. These streets will make you feel brand new, big lights will inspire you. New York, New York, New Yo-ork!"

The car is in 'park' and I turn the ignition off. I speed walk through downtown, walk up the escalator, turn on my computer and breathe.

Today I wore a red scarf and all black. I'm here to work, I have to be neutral. I'm here to work, not to be creative. I'm here to pay for my 65 mile daily communte. I'm here to nod my head, smile through the agitation and swollow my opinion.

Wait. Why am I here?

And this is when the ugly truth breaks the news: I'm here because I have to be. You know, daydreaming about the suburbs is a vacation compared to this.