Welcome

I was born Black and Muslim and married a Black and Muslim man. We had a Black and Muslim daughter. At three months, I went back to work and she was taken care of by someone who would become one of my favorite people. She became like family and earned the nickname, Auntie. She was cared for by Auntie until she was 3 years old. Then she was watched by another Auntie until she started Muslim Preschool at 4. Both are called Auntie, both are Arabs and both are Muslims.

She watched them while they watched her. The phrase, “Close the light” is a part of her mother’s tongue. She has to be reminded to stop eating with her hands. As a younger child, she thought that you became white when you aged because Auntie and Uncle were older Arabs. Her Quranic pronunciation is beautiful but she also wondered why her hair grows up and not down.

Now, she’s in her fourth year of a Muslim school. This environment is as familiar to her as our home. She’s comfortable being one of the only two Black kids in her class and school. Growing up, I attended Muslim schools and knew they can be harsh environments for Black kids, especially indigenous ones.  I tried to prepare her for the conversations about where her family immigrated from and the misconceptions that she couldn’t have been born a Muslim. I even talked to her about not letting other people touch or “pet” her hair. I naively sent her off thinking that I have given her enough armor. But in the 2^nd grade, one of her classmates saw some random Black people outside and called them Haraamies “Thieves”. I felt defeated.

She’s black and she’s Muslim.

During the summer she attends a variety of camps. One of my favorites is Black-owned and attended. I gravitated towards this camp because I wanted her to feel comfortable around her skin folks. I wanted her to know Blackness and to see that we are not a monolith. To understand at a young age, there isn’t a one size fits all for blackness. I wanted her to participate in the Electric and Cha-Cha Slide exercise class. I wanted her to see with her eyes that blackness is indeed beautiful. I wanted her to know her people from within. But they start every meal in Jesus’ name. They ask her about Easter baskets and Christmas gifts. So my kid stays in the kitchen while they say their prayers and silently says hers before she eats. Since she was coached, she knows how to answer the questions about their holidays and ours. The kids accept this and do not notice another difference between them and her until I show up unable to blend into the sea of greeting parents. They asked her why I wear that thing or ‘rag’ on my head and what does it mean. They notice the difference and in their curious innocence, they ask question after question. She tells me how she replies and I’m proud. I ask if their questions bother her, she replies that they do not. I hope they never do.

She’s black and she’s Muslim.

In frustration, I created this space because I needed a comfortable place to exist. A place to just be. I can remove neither my Blackness nor Muslim-ness. They both are an intricate part of my DNA and flow equally through my bloodstream. The idea for this space was rooted in my mind when I knew I was going to have a Black and Muslim child. It was planted deeper when I dropped her off at her Aunties’ houses and at the Muslim schools. It rolled around in my head in this supposedly post-racial Obama and 9/11 world, where being Black and Muslim has made us more noticeable.

It was reinforced when her big 2^nd grade Social Studies project consisted of creating a poster detailing where her family immigrated from. For the record, I’m Black or Negro, my people did not immigrant from anywhere. We were stolen from our homeland many years ago. There’s no place for us to trace back to. It was solidified when hate speech against Muslims and Black people became part of the movement in “Making America Great Again”.

I knew that if she’s going to be raised in these settings then she’s going to need armor of self-love, confidence, history, respect, fierceness and no shame. This space is for me, her and every other person who needs it. This is for the parents who know that my scarf does not stop me from being murdered by police nor does it stop them from calling me abeed (slave). This is for the adult who has walked this path before and wants to share guidance. This can be for others who want to learn. But this is for us to just be.

This is Black Seedling. The name was taken from Black Seed, which is a power seed of the Nigella Sitra plant. This seed is sometimes called “Habbatual Barakah” meaning the seed of blessings. A seedling is a young plant. This space is called Black Seedling, simply because our black children are blessings that need to be fertilized with affirmation, self-appreciation, and self-respect in a safe environment to grow.

It is a space, community or village and not a personal blog for only me to share my parenting journey. I would like it to feel like a group of like-minded folks sitting in a room helping and learning from each other. It is a community because I believe in the village approach to raising children. It is a community because I’m not arrogant enough to pretend I have all of the answers. It’s a community because we need to learn from others who are living this duality. This community will be a place where we can exist without explanation. It will be a place where we can share resources, questions, concerns, and tips.

Black Seedlings is where sometimes the voice is me, an identifiable indigenous Black American Muslim woman who has to navigate multiple spaces in different masks. Black Seedlings is also where others share their voice.

I’m black and I’m Muslim. And I’m proud of it.

Welcome to Black Seedlings: Raising Proud Black Muslim Children