Three weeks in a row I’ve been going for jumah this January. I’ve been trying to be mosqued again. “Get off your butt and get involved,” I’ve inwardly yelled at myself for years. “How can you complain when you don’t involve yourself?” Everyone who watches the Unmosqued film tells us this. At all those community assemblies, the imams and directors say, “Dear sisters, how can you change anything if you don’t come?”
It’s a familiar cycle. I go to juma; I feel like shit; I stop going; then I feel like shit for not going.
My husband went with me. He just goes in, prays, and leaves. He’s not aware of anything but stinky socks near him.
I lug my body around – my woman’s body.
I am conscious of all parts of my body as if they were 500-ton breasts, a 900-ton vagina, 1000-ton buttocks, and 20 tons of hair on my head. I’m aware of my wrists and ankles too now. I’m triggered.
Today I wrote the current front-page story at http://sideentrance.tumblr.com/
A couple of weeks ago I wrote this one: http://sideentrance.tumblr.com/…/1698634…/no-space-for-women
Two weeks ago, at a local mosque (Mosque A) I found there was no space for women. I wasn’t a category. I parked myself in the corridor to pray.
Then I went to another last week, (Mosque B) and was in a no-sightline balcony. Chandelier. I stayed in the hidden balcony for the khutbah (there were no other women, and the main musalla was about 10% occupied anyway). Then I hurried down for the prayer, putting myself carefully in an unobtrusive corner – I’ll be here, guys; I won’t bother you or contaminate you. If I go back and do the same thing, will they ask me to retreat? I don’t know. Maybe I won’t go back. It’s a calculation.
A sightline-balcony is an effort to do an at least. Here goes:
Today, at a desi/Arab large mosque (Mosque C) when I entered the women’s area, my first thought was, ‘oh hell no’ as I saw women sitting in a closed little room with no visual access to the congregation and imam, listening to audio of the khutbah. But then I followed the staircase to the balcony. This is interesting. You can see the main congregation (because, well, the men’s congregation is the main congregation, right?) and the imam for 2 structural reasons: a) the balcony isn’t so high as to make visual access to the lower musalla impossible (you know, when you only see the chandelier, as was the case last week for me) and b) the balcony is headed by a glass wall, not concrete/wood. Fear not, though: the glass is one-way. No men may sneak a peek into crowds of abayah-clad grandmas. Phew.
(So, recommendation for new masajid: if you REALLY don’t want an inclusive main musalla big enough to accommodate women, – which is what you SHOULD have – think about a LOW balcony with a glass wall.)
Last week, for example, at Mosque B, I could see the chandelier, and if I really peeked over the wall, I saw the balding heads of men. (Caution: very sexy heads).
So at least today I could see the imam through a one-way glass.
I am no fan of at leasts. I don’t want to attend your At Least Mosque. I don’t want my daughter to attend your At Least Islamic Center. I don’t want her thinking of herself as an At Least. I want her thinking of herself as enough. In charge.
But at least (see?) I have a place to occupy there. Even if it’s a place that tells me I must be hidden away, I must shrink. An assigned place, right?
But shrinking and hiding are triggering.
Shrinking and hiding in hidey-holes remind me of awful situations. Like listening to a man beating his wife in a room, as I hammered on the door outside to stop him. Like locking a door and standing outside it with another woman, as a man hammered on it, threatening to hit both of us. Like standing at a bus stop, shrinking into a corner. Like being in an alley-way, as a drunk guy yelled misogyny at me.
Shrinking and hiding aren’t benign things. They are triggering. Calligraphy on the walls doesn’t make them better.
And what’s more triggering is when someone – male or female – confronts you and your body, touching it without permission, with demands to cover it or hide it.
When I entered the mosque (Mosque C), on the bright side (we look for bright sides) we entered together. Small victories, right? We go in through the same entrance – and I realized how much of a difference that made to me, that I can occupy the same spaces as the men. My husband and I walked in together.
It was a political sort of day, as Toni Preckwinkle was in the lobby, introducing herself as contesting the Cook County Board president position again. So women were present in the lobby at tables and booths. This made a difference later, as Ms. Preckwinkle was introduced via microphone and she spoke to the entire congregation. Lucky you, I thought to myself. (But she’s non-Muslim, so she’s free. Like Angelina Jolie was.)
So at Mosque C, after the khutbah (long story, into which I will not go, but folks need some education into how preaching against fahsha and zina does not sum up issues of consent, Larry Nassar, etc.; issues of consent need to be raised separately) and namaz, I got up to leave.
Suddenly I heard someone call out, “Excuse me,” and I thought, “Oh, someone wants to talk to me. No one ever wants to talk to me.” So I turned with a smile.
Lady in abayah, total stranger, comes up to me, grabs my wrist – not gently either, but pretty firmly YO PEOPLE LEARN NOT TO TRIGGER OTHER PEOPLE WITH YOUR BODIES BACK OFF AND DON’T GRAB OR I WILL SLAP YOU. Then she grabs my nice ¾ length sleeve, and tugs it down, saying irritably, “you must cover!”
How many times has this happened in the past?
Listen, girls. I am now almost 50 years old. I am not playing nice anymore.
I tugged my arm away from her, and snapped sharply, with my palm out at her in a back-off gesture: “I’M FINE. I am FINE.” Then I pointed to the heavens and said (she’s not a native English speaker): “Your heart. It’s about your heart.”
But then, I thought, no, it’s not just about your heart. It’s about bodies too. And she needs to learn to respect bodies.
As she walked away, I called out to her – just as she had called out to me. She stopped and turned, and I said, nice and audible: “ And don’t grab my arm again. OK? Do NOT touch me.”
Her eyes darted, shame coloring her face, as she realized other people could hear me. I am not embarrassed anymore. But you touch me, I will embarrass you.
Why can’t people respect each other’s bodies in holy places of prayer and contemplation? Why don’t women – especially – realize that putting your hands on others to grab and stop them and tug their clothes is unacceptable?
You can preach to us to attend and participate. But if every aspect of this space triggers us negatively, there is no way we will attend.
Teach your congregants better. Respect others’ bodies.
As my husband and I exited, a big man in a nice heavy coat was parked in front. He asked my husband for money. Then he parked himself in front again, in the line of worshippers. A panhandler who’s probably not even a mosque attendee doesn’t have to shrink and hide. Because he’s a man.
I’m all upset now. My heart is disturbed.
All my struggles through my life, carrying a woman’s body around, have rushed back to me. The threat, the ever-present threat of being grabbed, of being invisible, of being hurt, are back again.
I swear, I have been trying these past few weeks to return to being mosqued.
My efforts are waning and my heart is weeping.