Pray and Work for Protection

During the 1970s, my Dad drove a Ford Thunderbird. He would pick us up in that big car with the plush comfy back seats, cover us in warm blankets, and begin to drive. Always there was music playing. We would listen to the peaceful hum of the engine along with the soothing tunes of The O’jays, The Supremes, The Temptations or some other band. Gladys Knight and her pips would take us on “The Midnight Train to Georgia.” I learned the words to all of those songs as we sang and rode. I’d listen until I fell asleep. And always like magic, I’d awake when we had arrived at our destination.

Once we were driving at night on the freeway. The back door opened. My bare feet scraped the surface of the ground as I almost slipped out of the car. Dad yanked me back inside. I recall the strange sensation of my feet scraping the ground. It didn’t hurt. I also remember Dad wrapping me in his arms and kissing my bare feet. He was so grateful that I was not harmed. I was fine and wasn’t in any pain. I didn’t realize the extent of the danger that I was in at the time. I just remember being rescued.

On one of our trips to the Pacific Ocean, I swam out far into the sea. I didn’t realize how far away I was from the shore. I just remember that I could no longer hear my Dad’s voice. I saw him waiving at me to return to shore. So I began to swim back to him. Unfortunately, every time I swam forward, the current would pull me backward. Suddenly, Dad swam out to meet me. He grabbed me and threw me toward the shore. Swam to me again and threw me forward. He did this repeatedly until we had once again reached the shore. He said, “You kept swimming but your little arms weren’t making any progress. I knew that you would get tired soon.” I looked at the waves and felt their awesome power. My heart was filled with gratitude that Dad was there to rescue me.

On another occasion, Dad, my older cousin Johnny, my brother, sister, and I were driving in Los  Angeles. Dad made a wrong turn onto a one way street. When he realized his mistake he began to turn the car around. By the time the car was righted, we were surrounded by the police. The officers forced us out of the car at gun point. We were in front of a Carl’s Jr sitting on the curb, when we were handcuffed.

Then we were separated from Dad and Johnny. No longer were we sitting in comfortable seats covered with blankets. The seats in the back of the police car were hard and angry. Bars separated us from our captors. The handcuffs ached as they dug into my wrists. We were not charged. But we were jailed. My sister and I, because we were female, were locked in adjacent cells. My brother, who is one year and a half younger than me, was placed in a cell with juvenile boys in another part of lock up. He was away from our father who was placed in adult lock up.

We worried so very much about it all. We cried uncontrollably. We then decided to console ourselves by singing songs that we had learned during those car rides. We began to sing. Our jailers must have felt some pity for us after hearing us sing. They told us that we could come out of our individual cells and remain in a larger cell together. We asked if our brother could be placed with us. We asked for our phone call. We asked for our Dad. We were behind bars for hours. Our requests remained unanswered. My cousin, Jackie, came and saved the three of us from jail because she had received a call from Dad. They did not release Dad. He remained behind bars.

When Dad was released, he found out that his mother, Ida Mae, had died the night we were arrested. Dad said, “All of my life it was her prayers that protected me. I had never been incarcerated because she was praying for me. It was the day that she died that I went to jail. Her prayers lifted when she passed away. I am going to pray for you the way that my mama prayed for me. I am going to pray hard that Allah protect you and that you never have to suffer and no harm touches you.”

Prayers of protection have the power to heal our wounds and trauma. I have heard a lot of people say that they are tired of requests for thoughts and prayers because the government remains inactive. My Dad prayed for me. But he also rescued me, kissed my wounds, wrapped me in warmth and security. My brother, sister, and I were blessed by our Dad’s prayers and his unconditional love. His prayers and unconditional love worked. He made me feel secure and like my life mattered. Dad made me feel safe.

Racism is real. It is a cancer. I think my grandmother’s prayers covered my Dad all the days of his life. That doesn’t mean that he didn’t have to deal with the hardship and pain of racism. However, it was her prayers that helped to heal him from the pain so that he could show us the love he did. And I know Dad’s prayers continue to cover me. I have not been made secure from racism. However, I feel blessed because of the love that my family has for each other. It helps us heal from the trauma of racism. I pray for protection for my children. I also work everyday to make them feel loved, secure, and safe. I pray for protection for the children being separated from their families at the border. Prayer alone isn’t going to end racism. May our prayers cover us and may our work strengthen and unite us in this fight.

Fly with the Fishes

When I was seven years old, I told Dad I wanted a monkey for my birthday. It was 1976, and Dad was returning from a trip to Mecca on Hajj. Dad was excited about returning home in time for my birthday. He called to tell me he was coming to visit and to ask what I wanted. I said, “I want a monkey.” At the time, Pippi Longstocking was my favorite show on television. Pippi was the strongest girl in the world. She could beat any man, had a horse, and her own pet monkey. I seriously believed that my life was a television show. I was the star of my show, just as Pippi was of hers. I also believed my Dad was going to bring me a monkey for my birthday.

Dad simply said, “Sure Baby, I will bring you a monkey for your birthday.” He came to visit us carrying a large cage in his right hand. The cage was covered by an oversized rainbow colored beach towel. I snatched the towel off the cage to discover a beautiful parrot. Dad said, “I tried to get you a monkey, but couldn’t bring one through customs. So I brought this parrot instead.”

It wasn’t a monkey. But, it was amazingly beautiful and mine! Mom had given me a Swahili alphabet book entitled, “Jumbo Means Hello.” The book had words that represented the Swahili alphabet with English translations and illustrations in it. I named my new parrot the “R” word, Rafiki, which meant friend. I learned that my friend, Rafiki was a Patagonian Conure. He was brilliantly colored with bright green and orange. I did my best to teach Rafiki to say words and repeat after me. He refused never learning to say anything. I did, however, teach him to sit on my shoulder. My moments were spent with enjoyment watching him play and burrow under newspaper in his cage.

When we let Rafiki out of the cage, he flew all around Mom’s two bedroom, one bathroom apartment. He flew  in circles from the living room, to the kitchen, out into the hall, and back to the living room. We worried he would hurt himself when he flew close to the bookshelf or the television set. After much deliberation, we decided to clip Rafiki’s wings. It was the saddest thing I had ever seen. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that Rafiki would bleed from the clipping. Immediately, I regretted the decision. Rafiki kept his head buried under his clipped wings. He refused to come out of the cage for a while. Finally, after healing he did fly once more. I promised him I would never clip his wings again.

The year after Rafiki came to live with us, my siblings, Rafiki, and I moved in with my Dad and cousin Jackie in Long Beach, CA. Jackie had three kids and a Doberman Pincher named Trigger. Trigger was a guard dog who was chained to a tree in the backyard. He was mean. His meanness was probably a result of the fact that he remained chained up all day. Whenever we went into the backyard, Trigger would bark at us. He would also run towards us until he reached the length of his chain. No one messed around with Trigger.

One day, I came home from school to find that Rafiki wasn’t in his cage. I looked all over and asked everyone. I checked all of the windows in the house to see if they were closed. I was distraught. I accused my cousins and siblings of letting Rafiki fly away. That evening, I asked Dad if he new what happened to Rafiki. He said that he decided to take Rafiki for a walk. He placed a leash around his neck and walked him in the backyard. Rafiki took one look at Trigger and flew away. Dad said, “I didn’t know Rafiki could fly. I thought his wings were still clipped.” I hoped that Rafiki didn’t fly too far away. I looked in the sky and in every tree for months. One day, I asked Dad why he let Rafiki go like that. He told me that he felt sorry for him. He said, “He was caged and that meant he was tormented. Once he got his wings back, it was only right to let him fly freely.”

Dad helped me realize that truly loving someone means that sometimes you have to let them be free. Before Dad passed away, he said he wished he could just walk out of the hospital. I asked, “Where are you gonna go Dad?” He said, “I am gonna fly with the fishes!” My Dad also has found his way to fly freely.

Harlem Lessons

Riding the Amtrak train today, reminded me of the ways Dad used popular culture and storytelling to teach life lessons to us. When Dad lived in Easton, PA, we would often drive into NYC, Dad loved NY. He passed that love on to me by taking me through the sites, sounds, and lessons of Harlem. We would often ride the NYC subway uptown. Before the rides, he would remind me how to behave on the train. He told me that I should not stare at anyone because someone would inevitably shout me down with, “What are you staring at!?!” He joked that I should not step on anyone’s Nike shoes. He also said to where my purse in front of me and across my chest to avoid getting it snatched. But the most memorable lesson was when Dad taught me about racial segregation by comparing our ride to the ride that was taken by “Brother From Another Planet” This 1984 film is a satirical depiction of a Black man who is a mute alien that lands in NYC.

There is an iconic scene in the movie in which Brother rides the subway uptown. His companion asks, “You want to see all the white people disappear?” Before the train enters Spanish Harlem, all the white passengers depart. As Dad and I rode the train, he repeated those words to me. I watched all of the white people exit the train at about 82nd avenue. Then watched the Black and Latinx who remained on the train. Although I dared not stare at my co-passengers, I would often listen to them and learn little tidbits of their lives as we rode together. I remember the high schoolers with their thick NY accents, the elderly folks riding the train home from work, and the richness of the stories and the cultures. In addition to learning of the people through riding the train, Dad was sure to impart the stories of the authors and artists of the Harlem Renaissance to me. He would describe how Blacks were segregated from whites who would not dare come uptown on the train because of their fears. He also made sure that I knew and understood the difference between being fearful of my people and aware of my surroundings.

During our visits to NY, Dad took the time to show me around Harlem. We walked up and down Lenox Avenue, 125th street, and stood in front of the Audubon Ballroom where Malcolm X had been assassinated. I bought t-shirts and other paraphernalia from the street vendors.  We strolled through the Apollo Theater. I was enthralled by the wall of fame with all of the inspirational artists of the past. Everything about the rhythm of the city, the sounds, the smells, the tastes was mesmerizing for me. Dad wasn’t alone in his love for NY. I loved every bit of it.

Dad always led  me to believe that NY was in my blood. He told me that I was born in NY on a snowy November day. According to him, he and Mom didn’t have enough money for a cab ride to the hospital. So Mom decided to hike through the snow all the way from their apartment in Harlem to Mt. Sinai hospital . After we left the hospital, Dad said that New Yorkers tossed money into my stroller just to get a glimpse of me. Dad made sure to let me know that he believed I was beautiful from the start. He also reminded me to respect my mother who was a strong Black woman for me to emulate. He would say, “Your mom never backed away from nothing. That’s why she walked miles through the snow to give birth to you!”

In addition to teaching me to love NY, myself, and my mother, Dad’s stories helped me learn lessons about the type of person  I should be. Once Dad came home with a VCR that he bought from a Harlem street vendor. Dad was elated because he bought a brand new video player for $50. This was, according to him, $150 dollar discount. When he got home and opened the box, Dad discovered two bricks instead of the VHS recorder. We all got a good laugh out of the fact that Dad paid $50 for bricks. He laughed the most saying that the brother must have needed that money more than he did.

I will never forget our times in Harlem because Dad taught me to love myself, my mom, my people and the City.  I also learned that when life hands you bricks, laugh long and hard.

Is Turkey Halal?

During the month of Ramadan, I wake up early and make breakfast for my family. We usually start off with the works. For example, the first day of fasting, I woke up at 3:28 am PST and made grits, toast, turkey bacon, and eggs. This morning two weeks into the fast, the breakfast was much lighter. I made eggs, hash browns and fried salami. My son, Sadiq, looked at his plate when he entered the kitchen. I could tell he was itching to complain. But he dared not, because of course it was 4:00 am. All he asked was, “Did we run out of meat?” I laughingly conceded that we had.

My family is lucky that I cook at all. When I was a kid, my Dad and my step mom, Najma did not cook. Najma and Dad met at Loyola Law school in Los Angeles. The two of them had much in common, including their brilliant minds. What they lacked was the ability to cook anything. Najma hardly even boiled water. What she was good at was ordering. I remember my ninth-grade year, it seemed like all we ate and drank every day were Pizza Hut cheese pizzas and Pepsis. Najma actually smoked cigarettes and drank Tab.  What can I tell you? It was the 80s.

Once they graduated law school, Dad and Najma opened a law firm in Easton, PA after passing the Pennsylvania Bar. My younger brother, Sundiata moved in with the two of them. I remember traveling to visit.

They had a beautiful three-story Victorian home with dark burgundy wood and red brick coloring. At the front entrance was a porch, where I would often sit and look out at the other lovely homes on the block. The first floor housed Dad and Najma’s law offices, living room, and the unused kitchen. There was a cherry wood banister that lead upstairs to the second-floor bedrooms. Then on the top floor, there was a prayer room with richly colored Middle Eastern rugs and Qurans.

Dad would wake up, stand at the second floor banister, and call the Adhan every morning. We would sleepily saunter out of our bedrooms to the sound of his voice booming through the halls. We would clean up for prayer and then go upstairs to the prayer room. After we prayed, we sat together and read Quran.  Sitting here, I can still hear Dad calling the Adhan. His call reminded us that “prayer is better than sleep.” He gave us this important reminder every dawn as he called out to us.

When I was 19 and visited Dad, his best friend Ola was staying with him. This was the year that Ola taught me how to drive (but that is another story). Walking distance to Dad’s house was a deli. I remember going there and ordering a delicious turkey submarine sandwich with lettuce, tomato, cheddar cheese, and all of the fixings. It was 12 inches long, the size of my arm! Back in those days, I weighed 115 lbs soaking wet. I carried the sandwich  wrapped in deli paper up the front porch into the house. As soon as I entered the front door, I ran into Dad and Ola. Just as I was about to unwrap the sandwich to take a bite, Dad said, “You can’t eat that. It is not halal.”

I responded, “It isn’t pork. It’s turkey.”

He replied, “It may be turkey, but it’s not halal.”

Ola interjected, “Turkey is alright isn’t it?”

I said, “I’ve been eating turkey my whole life!”

As a bit of background, my parents divorced when I was a toddler. The one rule that Dad and Mom both abided was that we were not allowed to eat pork growing up.

Dad said, “Well I have learned that if the meat isn’t prepared properly it’s not halal. So you can’t eat it.”

I retorted, “I just bought this. I’m gonna eat it!”

Dad said, “Well you can’t eat it in this house!”

So, I took my 19 year old, size 3 wearin’, turkey sandwich holdin’ self onto the porch. I brooded as I ate that sandwich like it was going out of style! I savored every single bite of it. Once I returned inside, Dad and Ola bust out laughing. Dad had a way about him, he couldn’t stay mad at his kids. He never really raised his voice to us. Whenever he did, we knew how serious he was.

I continued to eat turkey sandwiches that were not halal for about six more years. When I was in my twenties, Dad gave me a book about eating halal. I read in it that when we eat halal food we receive a blessing with every bite. Since then, my husband and I only eat and prepare halal for ourselves, children and loved ones.

So today, I guess I need to run to the store and get some more halal turkey bacon. Or maybe, I will make a halal turkey sub sandwich and eat it on the porch.

Perfect Pitch

My Dad, Musa Al Rashid passed away ten days ago. Dad died after battling with a brain injury for over a year. During this time, his memory and physical ability deteriorated. Earlier today, my husband and I were walking in Golden Gate Park. As we walked, I began to cry because I had a sinking fear that I would forget my Dad. When I told my husband about this, he asked me what I thought I might forget. I said, “I am afraid I will forget little things. Like when my Dad yawned he’d say, ‘ho ho hum’ that tickled me. I am afraid I will forget how it sounded when he yawned.”

I am committing myself to this blog as a space for grieving the loss of my father and to reminding myself and others of what a great man my Dad was. Each day, I will post a memory and a photo. Something that reminds me of Dad and connects to what I am doing that day. Today, when we walked through the park, we sat in front of a bust of Beethoven. There was a brass band playing music in the amphitheater. My Dad loved music. He especially loved jazz. He had a great ear and would often sing songs that he liked. Many of them were obscure to me. Sometimes, he would break into song and sing show tunes, jazz songs, spirituals, or R&B tunes.

One day, I asked Dad who his favorite singer was. I explained to him that I loved Ella Fitzgerald because she had such clarity in her voice. It was unlike any other voice I had ever heard. He said, “Julie Andrews.” I couldn’t believe it! I laughed so hard. I mean, Julie Andrews??? He said, “She has perfect pitch.” I wanted to know more about what Dad meant. So, I watched Andrews sing, “Sound of Music” on YouTube. I could hear the pitch, the clarity, the brightness in her voice. I liked it too. She was not my favorite, but I understood why Dad appreciated her as much as he did.

When my Dad first became ill, he lost his memory. I told him that I thought he needed to connect to things that were in the recesses of his mind. My hope was that listening to music and stories would connect Dad to his memories. I brought my laptop and played, “The Sound of Music” for him. My Dad began to cry. He hadn’t been able to speak for  weeks. All of a sudden he said, “perfect pitch.”

Today, when we walked through the Park and listened to the band, I too remembered, perfect pitch. I am grateful today for the “Sound of Music” because it reminds me of Dad.

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