Category Archives: Suckool

Too cool for school

Casa420 and Familia, Conversations and Encounters, Suckool

So I’m sitting at my dad’s computer, plugging entries into Quickbook in an effort to reconcile my checkbook. Bored out of my mind, I decide that downloading sample biology midterms must be far more thrilling. Along comes my cousin, Ahbid, equally bored out of his mind after having spent the entire evening helping out with the yardwork, at my dad’s command, of course.

“Whatchu doin’?” he asks, flopping onto the daddy-o’s bed.

“Downloading biology exams. Exciting, ain’t it?”

He groans. “Why are you taking a biology class? What’s wrong with you? I took one of those in high school. We had to dissect a frog, so I picked the nerdiest kid in the class. I pointed at him, and was like, ‘Hey, you, you’re my partner.’ So he did all the work, and every time the teacher came around to our table, I just kinda poked at the frog, to look like I was busy. She was like, ‘Wow, Ahbid, good job, you’re showing wonderful improvement!'”

Ahbid just graduated from high school in June. At his graduation ceremony, it took us seemingly forever to find him amongst the sea of graduating faces in the stands. After all, his graduation was held at the freakin’ baseball stadium. Imagine that. But his cocky walk down to receive his diploma was distinctively him, as were the smug grins he flashed at all our cameras afterwards. After his two-hour session of endless, although stomach-crampingly hilarious, stories the other night, I’m starting to wonder how this boy even managed to graduate in the first place. I wish I had tape-recorded the entire conversation, because he’s a damn funny storyteller and this post isn’t going to do him justice.

A few of the highlights:

– On biology:
“So we had this student teacher for biology. This was sophomore year. He was a college student. His last name was Stauffer, so we were supposed to call him Mr. Stauffer, but someone decided to call him ‘Stopper,’ and it stuck. [I raise an eyebrow.] Uh uh, not me. I didn’t come up with the ‘Stopper’ thing. I just harassed him about the whole backpack issue.

“I used to get kicked out of classes all the time, so one day I came in and it was his first day. I figured I was ’bout to get kicked out soon anyway, so why even bother taking off my backpack. So I sat at my desk with my backpack on, and he goes, ‘Take off your backpack.’ I was like, ‘No.’ He was like, ‘Take off your backpack. I was like, ‘Why does it bother you so much, huh?’ He was like, ‘Take it OFF. NOW.’ ‘No.’ ‘Get out. GO.’ He had this one vein from the top of his forehead to his eyebrow, and whenever I pissed him off, his face would get all red and the vein would start pounding. It looked like a worm.

“He used to come in right from class, so he’d always have his own backpack on, too. So I was like, ‘You take off your backpack, Stopper.’ He be like, ‘No. I don’t want to.’ Sometimes, when I really wanted to piss him off, I’d be like, ‘Okay, Stopper, I’m putting my backpack back on now!’ The other kids in the class started doing it, too, leaving their backpacks on.

“Oh, and the shoes. My shoelaces would get untied, so I’d sit there moving my feet around, banging my shoes against the floor, making all this noise, and it’d drive Stopper crazy. He’d be like, ‘Mr. Khan, tie your shoelaces.’ I’d be like, ‘No.’ ‘GET OUT!'” He started watching me all the damn time. It got to the point where if I so much as sneezed, he thought I was ’bout to make a smartass comment, so he’d be like, ‘GET OUT!’ and kick me out of class.

“I was doing hella bad in that class. I failed all the tests, cuz I never knew the answers, so I’d sit there and color in the bubbles to form diamond patterns. Or I’d make a cartoon out of the bubbles. Stopper hated it. When I walked in to take the final exam, he was like, ‘Why don’t you just turn around and go back home, Mister.’ I was like, ‘No, I’m here to take the final, man.’ He was all pissed: ‘This is a waste of a perfectly good scantron! I catch you making any diamonds, and you’re out of here!’ I aced the final and got a C in the class.”

– On French:
“The student teacher for my French class, she was really young, like 26 or something, but from her face she looked like the mom from the Brady Bunch. The first day, she sat down and was like, ‘Hi, so I’m from New Jersey, and…’ I was like, ‘Get on with it. We don’t need to hear your whole life story. Aren’t you supposed to be teaching us, or something?’ She gave me a big ol’ dirty look.

“Okay, so we had this thing called ‘pay moi,’ which means, ‘pay me.’ Basically, the teacher would take away five points from a student if we were misbehaving or something. So, on the second day, the student teacher went around to check off the homework. I mean, who the hell assigns homework on the first day of school?! So I didn’t do it. And she was like, ‘One pay moi.’ I was like, ‘WHAT? You don’t get a pay moi for homework!’ She goes, ‘There’s a second pay moi.’ I was like, ‘What the HELL?’ She goes, ‘Third pay moi.’ ‘Sh*t.‘ ‘Fourth pay moi.’ ‘Oh my God….’ ‘Fifth pay moi.’ ‘Argggghhhhhhh….’ ‘Sixth…’ It just went on like that. The next day, she called me in at lunchtime and started crying about it, cuz she felt bad or something, I guess. I was like, ‘First of all, I’m at like negative forty points in this class, for no reason, and it’s only the third day. Second, you make me come in on my lunch break. And now, you’re crying. What’s wrong with you? I’m leaving.”

– On English:
“My English teacher was short and round. I used to call her ‘Oompa Loompa.’ Once, I kept asking her how long she was gonna keep teaching at the school for. She wouldn’t answer the question. She was just like, ‘Oh, I don’t know…’ Finally, she got all nervous and goes, ‘Wait, you’re not planning on having children, are you, Ahbid?'”

– On his infamous reputation, part I:
“We weren’t allowed to wear hats and hoods at school. It was a security measure, cuz they wanted to make sure no strangers were wandering around campus. Even if they didn’t know all our names, they knew us all by face, so as long as they could see our faces, it was cool. One day, I was walking around with my jacket hood on, and this guy came up to me and was like, ‘Okay, Ahbid, I need you to remove your hood. It’s against school policy.’ I was like, ‘Man, it’s raining, I’m not ’bout to take off my hood. And who are you anyway, and how do you know my name?’ He ended up walking me straight to the office because I wouldn’t take off the hood.

“I asked the lady at the office, ‘Who was that, and how does he know my name?’ She was like, ‘Oh, that’s Mr. _____.’ I was like, ‘Yeah, but how does he know me?’ She just looks at me and goes, ‘Students like you are the main focal point of teacher meetings.’ I was like, ‘WHAT? You mean, you have teacher meetings and buy fifty dollars worth of food because you need to be entertained, and then you talk about me, instead of talking about school supplies or the size of the hallway or how ugly the school is? You guys talk about ME? What’s wrong with you people?'”

– On his infamous reputation, part II:
“We had to check in with our counselors towards the end of senior year, so I went in to see mine. At the end of the meeting, she looked at me all serious and goes, ‘Ahbid, ninety-nine percent of the teachers here are glad to hear you’re leaving. I just thought I’d let you know.’ I was like, ‘WHAT? They SAID that?’ She was like, “Yes. Just like that.’ ‘BACKSTABBERS!’ So at graduation, every teacher that looked over at me, I gave ’em a dirty look back, like, ‘I know it, you’re one of those ninety-nine percent, aren’t you?'”

– On unsuccessful guilt trips:
“You and Yaser lalaji though…” he says, referring to Somayya‘s older brother, “You two never helped me with anything! Some cousins you are. Ruthless, both of you.” Obviously he has forgotten the many times he instant-messaged me, using me for my math tutoring skills, asking, “Hey, do you know how to find the surface area of a rectangle?” And the time I sat there at Somayya’s kitchen table, laying out the entire plot summary of To Kill a Mockingbird for him. And the time I was supposed to tutor him back when I was in sixth grade, but instead we all sat around watching cartoons and he and my brother gulped down pancakes as their after-school snack of choice. Yeah.

What else to say about a cousin with whom one used to have AIM conversations like the following:
A: I’m just playin’ around, don’t cry
A: just kidding
Yasmine: uh, the yaz doesn’t cry
A: the yaz?
A: well the bob doesn’t either
A: or the ahaabieb
A: or the abied
A: or the albert
A: we all don’t cry
A: hahahahahahahahaha

I love this kid. What a smartass.

Summer daze

Glorious mundanity, Suckool

Lately, I’ve been feeling really bitter.

In the past four years, I haven’t had a summer vacation at all. My university is on a quarter system, and we have two optional six-week sessions every summer. Every single summer for the past four years, I’ve taken two summer classes per summer session. That means I’ve been in school year-round for the past four years, except for 2-3 weeks of winter break and a few days here and there for spring break and at the end of summer, right before fall classes start.

This spring, I had had enough of it. All through spring quarter, I told everyone that I was only going to enroll in the second summer session this year. I was going to take the first half of summer off from school and spend time with my family. I was going to do all the things I never get to do anymore, like, get a full night’s sleep, check out stacks of books from the library, rekindle my long-abandoned artistic abilities, relax.

Instead, the night before first summer session began, I decided to register for biology. And so, during the past two weeks, I’ve been angry with myself for making my parents shell out another thousand dollars just so I can take one measly class and for once again cheating myself out of a summer vacation even though I’ve been burning myself out for four years and could most definitely use a break.

But then, during this past three-day weekend, I slept in everyday. I shared cake and laughter with the girls at my weekly halaqa. I spent hours talking to and making plans to meet up with a high school friend I haven’t seen for over a year, and a college friend from San Diego. I curled up on the futon and re-read Jorge Luise Borge’s Labyrinths: Selected Stories & Other Writings. I took lots of naps, and ate real meals. I prayed. I got out my sister‘s oil pastels and did some artwork for the first time since high school.

I had a beautiful three days, and I’ve realized I can still enjoy summer, school or not.

So, in the spirit of my previous “to-do list, part 1”, and with much inspiration from Jen Gray’s recent “Summertime” post, here are things I would like to do this summer:

This summer –

– I will watch cartoons.

– I will take detours

– I will play hopscotch

– I will help someone learn

– I will buy something I really want, and give it away to someone I know will appreciate it just as much

– I will blow bubbles

– I will prepare an entire meal, and invite friends over

– I will make funny faces at people

– I will order double-scoops of ice cream on a waffle cone, and try new flavors

– I will listen to the sound of silence

– I will drive with all the car windows rolled down

– I will add a quarter to a stranger’s parking meter

– I will stop by my local farmer’s market

– I will give myself pep talks. I will tell myself I can do it. And then do it.

– I will give thanks

– I will eat watermelon

– I will take walks more often

– I will pay all my library fines

– I will volunteer to pull weeds in the garden

– I will listen to my mother, instead of just hearing her

– I will pray more often, and with concentration

– I will clean my room and get rid of all the boxes

– I will take more walks in the garden with my father

– I will bake snickerdoodles

– I will stack all my post-it-scribbled book recommendations in a pile, pick one at random every few days, and read

– I will sit on the wooden bench in the shade at the base of the fig tree on our lawn

– I will teach people to smile more widely

– I will stop automatically assuming I will fail

– I will cook dinner for my family

– I will take time off from school without feeling guilty about it

– I will eat fruit straight off the trees

– I will stop getting parking tickets

– I will do the work I love, whatever that happens to be

– I will take naps anytime I want to, without feeling guilty

– I will visit local bookstores, and browse to my heart’s content

– I will do artwork

– I will apply for scholarships

– I will spend more quality time with my brother

– I will continue with my newfound sewing streak

– I will take more “road trips” to Berkeley

– I will read Urdu novels

– I will learn to be more generous and open-hearted

– I will say “I don’t know” when I just don’t know

– I will remember that I don’t have to do everything I set out to do

And you?

polly wanna peptide? So, check this, peoples – …

Suckool

polly wanna peptide?

So, check this, peoples – I’ve passed my first biology exam since high school! I’m still confused about the proton-motive force and I kind of b.s.’ed my way through the definition of feedback inhibition, but don’t worry, my friends – I spelled substrate-level phosphorylation perfectly. Thank you, thank you. There is indeed hope for me yet, because perfect spelling has got to be worth something. Would you believe me if I told you that I even wasted a few minutes correcting the professor’s spelling/grammatical mistakes on the exam packet, since I’m obsessive-compulsive like that?

Note that I said I “passed” the exam, not that I aced it. Still, this is huge news, peoples, because I’m just not a science person, and this is the first bio class I’ve taken in three years. I’ve been paid to tutor calculus to freshman students for two years, actually enjoyed calculating acid/base titrations for chemistry classes, and had fun taking my b.s. skills to whole new heights in the physics series. But those freshman-year bio classes just turned me away from the idea of being pre-med. Still, when I tried using my “I’m not a science person” line on Somayya the other day, she retorted, “Yes, you are, Yazzo. You’re just lazy, that’s all.” It’s great having friends who tell it like it is.

Special thanks to Najm for reminding me to magnet my exam to the refrigerator door, and to Chai (med student extraordinaire) for acknowledging that bio makes one humble oneself (“I mean, you feel really accomplished, once you pass one of those suckers.” Heck yeah, you said it, woman).

I still hate analyzing amino acid structures though. And who even cares about covalent bonds anyway?

Today is whatever i want it to be

(3)BeautifulThings, Blogistan and the Wide World of Webs, Conversations and Encounters, Suckool

today is whatever i want it to be

I have so many stories to share with you – insights, conversations, observations, incidents, interactions, meetings – each playing an important role in my two-week hiatus from this weblog.

I don’t even know where to start.

I could tell you about my sister – whose final exams ended two weeks before mine – chauffeuring me sixty miles to school (and back) for nearly a week because most days I was too exhausted to drive. She loves my friends. The feeling is mutual. We’re one big happy family.

I could tell you about sleeping three hours a night, if I did sleep at all, for weeks. And about how pulling all-nighters makes me cold down to the bone, so that even steaming hot showers can’t alleviate the chill for the rest of the day, even in the midst of our blazing Northern California summer.

I could tell you about how I drove home anywhere between 11pm and 2am for two weeks. And about how beautiful the stars look at that time of the night. And about how I barely saw my own family during that time, much less ate a real meal with them.

I could tell you about prayers made in gratitude, and others made for strength and patience.

I could tell you about Somayya preparing for her neurobiology final exam by regaling me with information about the osmotic pressure of urine.
“Why would you even need to know that?” I asked with slight distaste.
“Because,” she answered patiently, “if you’re a doctor and a little kid comes in and says, ‘I can’t pee,’ you have to test him accordingly.”
“Oh.”
“This is why I love pre-med classes,” she said, “because you can actually apply them to real life!”

I could tell you how, an hour later, we (Somayya, my sister, our friend L, and I) met up with a fellow weblogger at an Austrian bakery, and laughed about using the renal system as a pick-up line. Maria is just as beautiful, warm, and approachable as she comes across on her weblog, and she has earned my never-ending gratitude and respect for her immediate attempt to pronounce our names correctly. Interestingly, our conversations touched less on medicine and weblogs than I had expected. Among other things, we discussed reasons why we feel Bush is an incompetent nincompoop. When I confessed that I frequent the bakery just to practice my rusty German (and then proceeded to absolutely butcher the pronunciation of Zwetschgenfleck, or plum cake), Maria solemnly assured me that wanting to know the name of what one is eating is a valid concern. I could tell you that when we all marveled at the fact that she updates her weblog every single day, she replied simply, “You make time for the things you enjoy doing.” Which, I know, doesn’t say much for my writing efforts over the past month or so, but I promise I’ll try to be better. Maria is my hero.

I could tell you about my and my sister’s Islamic Sunday school kids (aged 6-7) presenting in front of everyone and their momma, literally. I’m talking about an entire hall full of people here – parents, grandparents, siblings, and dozens of other people from the local Muslim community. The kids, dressed in their fanciest outfits, were calm and cool, in contrast to our rattled nervousness. I felt like such a mother. I could tell you how, as soon as their presentation ended, two of our kids gleefully folded their fancy-schmancy Islamic school certificates into paper airplanes and launched them into the air. Yes, I laughed.

More than anything, those two weeks were about people and laughter. I remember remarking to someone recently that, after four years, I’ve finally learned to separate the friends from the acquaintances, learned to realize that there is a select group of people I consider close friends whom I know I’ll make an effort to stay in touch with even after college. It amazes me to think that I didn’t even know some of them a year ago. But I am blessed to know the beautiful people that I do, and to be surrounded by them on a near-daily basis.

I could tell you how it has only started to hit me what a transitory state college is. After the recent whirlwind round of commencement ceremonies and graduation parties, I’m left with friends and acquaintances who are still dazed and hesitant about what to do now that college is over. I could tell you about how there’s a Real World out there, about how most graduating seniors I know are terrified of the Real World, and about how glad I am that I’m sticking around for an extra year.

I could tell you about laughing and eating with friends – avocado sandwiches on the rooftop patio, Chinese lunches at the blue tables, pizza dinners in abandoned classrooms, late-night snacks purchased from basement vending machines and sneaked into the library.

I could tell you about taking naps in the library when I should have been studying, about socializing in the library when I should have been studying, about our endless migratory parades from the ground-floor to the third floor to the basement to the reading room and group study rooms on the second floor, shuffling our belongings from table to table, trading batteries and CDs, sharing books and lecture notes, practicing Arabic calligraphy on white boards meant for neurobiology review. And, yet, it seemed as if we did nothing but study. But there was always laughter, even when we were frustrated nearly to tears by stress and studying, even when we had papers and exams in such rapid succession that it left us breathless with exhaustion.

I could tell you about interviewing three students over the course of a week, in preparation for an internship paper on intercultural relations, campus climate, and diversity issues on our university campus. I could tell you about what an amazing experience each of those interviews was, the highlight of my week, about how stimulating and satisfying it is to have in-depth conversations with people who feel as passionately about multicultural issues as I do. E, a White friend of mine, touched me profoundly with her perspective and observations. “In my heart, I would like to be a part of changing the status quo,” she said, “but I think I use ‘I’m busy’ as an excuse not to. I don’t think there are many situations I put myself in where I’m a minority.” I could tell you how true that comment is of me, as well, on a number of levels.

I could tell you about J, another friend, who is actively involved in the leadership or membership of so many groups that he couldn’t even begin to name them all for me. He dislikes labeling himself and thus regularly shifts his identity from Mexican to Native to indigenous to Chicano, and back again. “You can’t ever think you’ve done your best. You always have to do more,” he advised me. “You can never do enough, no matter how hard you push yourself. If you’re thinking you’re doing a really good job, you’re probably not doing enough. Don’t ever be satisfied. You have to be constantly critical and constantly developing into something more, something better.”

I could tell you about how the subject for my third interview was A, the Persian student. It was neither the time nor place to bring up the questions that I had mentioned wanting to ask him. But it was a wonderfully thought-provoking conversation nonetheless, and, like J, he shared so many blunt observations and so much practical advice about campus issues that I’m still mulling over it now.

I could tell you about the recognition ceremony for my internship. Along with fellow interns, I had to speak to a roomful of faculty, staff, professors, PhDs, and University administration-level people about my experiences within the internship over the past year. I know how far I’ve come. I’ve learned how much further I still need to go. But where I am is a beautiful place, too, and I’m so very grateful for the opportunities this internship has afforded me, for the experiences I’ve had and the people I’ve met over the past several months. I’ll be working there another year, and I’d do it for longer if I could.

I have so many stories.

I don’t even know where to start.

Belief makes things real, makes things feel, feel alright

Conversations and Encounters, NineToFive outside the 925, Rockstar and Crescent, Suckool

He’s a graduating senior. He’s very articulate, and passionate about diversity issues on our university campus. His family fled Iran when he was a child, soon after the revolution (Which revolution? cracked my father, when I came home and recounted my day to him. Iran goes through a revolution every few years.) He doesn’t consider himself American even though he’s lived in the U.S. for most of his life, because, in his mind, he’s still an immigrant and very much Persian.

These are the things I observed and learned about him during the course of our group discussion. As part of my internship, I’ve met and interacted with many interesting people during the past year. Still, but for the exchange that followed, I most likely would have forgotten about the Persian boy by the end of the evening.

As we remained in our circle of chairs, waiting for the other group to finish its discussion, he crossed the room and dropped into an empty chair beside me. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” I said.

“Are you Muslim?”

“Yes.”

He moved his hand in a circle around his face, referring to my headscarf. “You wear hijab.” He then looked down pointedly at my feet. “But you’re wearing sandals.”

I couldn’t help laughing a little. “Wait, so, as a Muslim, I’m not allowed to wear flip-flops?”

He held up his hands. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I’m not offended at all,” I said. “But, based to my understanding of Islam and modesty, what I’m wearing right now is in accordance with hijab.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he repeated. “I was just curious, because I’ve seen Muslim girls on campus who won’t wear sandals.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You sure it’s not just because they don’t like sandals, maybe?”

He laughed. “No. I went up to them and asked them about it. Like I said, I’m very curious.”

“That’s interesting,” I said. “I’ve never even noticed that. I guess, for some people, it depends on where you’re from, where you live. Like I said, for me, what I’m wearing right now constitutes hijab.”

“I think you mentioned this earlier, during the discussion, but you’re Pakistani, right?”

“Right.”

He jerked his chin at my flip-flops again. “And would you be able to wear those, if you were in Pakistan?”

“Of course!” I said, both bewildered and amused. “I’m from a village, and everyone there wears sandals and flip-flops. It’s a normal part of life. In the summer, it’s really hot – you need sandals. And even in the winter, not everyone can afford to buy real shoes.”

He nodded. “Okay. But Pakistan – it’s very strict, isn’t it? Like Saudi Arabia?”

“I’ve never been to Saudi Arabia, so I don’t know what it’s like there,” I replied. “And I’m from a village in Pakistan. A village is like –”

“– its own little world,” he finished.

“Right,” I smiled. “There’s a lot of cultural influence there that is not necessarily Islam. If I wanted to step out into the main part of my village in Pakistan, I had to wear a chador. But in the Pakistani cities, as well as in many other places, I think what I’m wearing right now would be commonly accepted as adequate hijab.”

He nodded in understanding. “I went back to Iran after tenth grade, and everything was just…different,” he said. “Before, women were totally covered, fully veiled. I went back and, all of a sudden, women were wearing capri pants. They said that it was okay, they had found justifications for it. But you know what, people are always going to find ways to excuse what ever they want to. The lines and boundaries are constantly extended.”

“Yeah. Each community tends to have its own interpretations.”

He smiled wryly. “I really hope I didn’t offend you with my questions. I’m just fascinated by hijab.”

“Trust me,” I said, “If I were offended, I would really let you know.”

“I used to be Muslim,” he commented. “Up until tenth grade, when I went back to Iran.”

The casual ease with which he made the remark stunned me. I tried to hide my blank shock behind a noncommittal nod. He turned to me again. “So how long have you been Muslim?”

Taken aback, I replied, “I’ve always considered myself Muslim.”

“But how long have you been practicing?”

I thought about it. “My parents raised me so that I was constantly surrounded by and reminded about Islam. But I guess I didn’t really start practicing on my own until I went back to Pakistan when I was thirteen, and lived there for eighteen months.”

He looked at me with an inscrutable expression on his face. “I guess we have opposite stories, huh?”

“I guess so,” I agreed.

I had so many questions, but I didn’t get a chance to ask him any of them. The other group had finished their discussion by then, and it was time to wrap up and head home. I smiled politely at the Persian boy and wandered back to my colleagues.

While walking across campus toward the end of the week, I saw him performing a spoken word piece during a culture show he had co-organized. Since I love spoken word but rarely get a chance to be at an event, I stopped to listen, and found I could relate to many of his experiences and struggles in balancing his ancestral culture with life in America. He has his grandmother’s nose and his father’s eyes, he was relating to the crowd, and as a young child newly arrived in the U.S. he used to be terrified of tennis lessons because the relentless speed of tennis balls shot his way made him think of cannons. I tried to fit these pieces together with what I already knew of him.

A few days later, a friend admitted to me, “I used to drink alcohol, smoke drugs. Yet even at the height of all that, I couldn’t bring myself to eat meat that wasn’t halal.”

“Why?” I asked. “What made you stay Muslim? Why didn’t you just totally give it all up? What made you keep identifying as Muslim even though your lifestyle didn’t reflect it at all?”

He looked at me and replied in all seriousness, “Because I have an English translation of the Quran, and whenever I opened it and read it, I felt that God was speaking directly to me. I could just feel the power of the words. That’s the one thing that kept me connected to Islam, even though my life, and the world, and everything else was completely jacked up.”

I find it interesting and intriguing, juxtaposing these two young men’s very different approaches to Islam. If I were to meet the Persian boy again, I wouldn’t be able to stop asking questions. I want to know why this boy – who is such an expressive communicator, deeply involved with student-campus relations, genuinely proud of his cultural heritage, passionate about intercultural dialogue, understanding, and alliance – doesn’t align himself anymore with the religion he was raised on.

Other things I would ask him:

What made you decide not to be Muslim anymore? Was it something specific, or a series of events? How did you decide? Did you sit down one day and say, Okay, I’m not Muslim from now on? Did you wake up one morning and not feel Muslim anymore? Why did you totally break away from Islam, as opposed to – like so many others – remaining Muslim in name only yet not practicing? And, by the way, what is your definition of Islam anyway?

But most of all, I want to know why a boy who doesn’t consider himself Muslim anymore remains so obviously fascinated by hijab.

good god, she’s aliiiiive! kinda sorta maybe. H…

Suckool

good god, she’s aliiiiive! kinda sorta maybe.

Hello, all you beautiful, patient rockstars. No, I have not abandoned you all in favor of spending the rest of my confused, sleep-deprived life on a sunny island like Zanzibar. Real updates are coming soon, I promise!

Meanwhile, this fake post has been brought to you by everyone’s favorite Vampire Child™, in conjunction with the Center for Public Blogging & People Who Need to Drink Blue Raspberry Slurpies More Often.