Letter to My Muslim Son

Don't look for it. It will find you. And if it doesn't, your aunties on your mother's side will find it for you in the form of a young Muslim girl, probably the daughter of a doctor or a lawyer, likely the last sister in her family to be unwed. She will be cute, but not the cutest, they will say, but she's a good, pious girl. We will all be invited for chai one day at her mansion in a gated community on a hill, but really they just want to see you, your demeanor, your ability to lead prayer in a stranger's home, everyone putting on their most Islamic face, their most Islamic dress. You will not fail this test, but your mother and I don't want you to take it.

We want you to be yourself. Walk your own slow, slouched, clumsy walk down the hallways of life and look into every classroom you can. Take notes. Learn what you can about how things work, but even with a Ph.D., son, you will never understand love until you feel it. You will see her someday walking across campus or laughing with her friends -- maybe after Juma prayers, maybe in a coffee shop -- and her smile will make you look twice. Maybe three times. If you catch your eyes drifting south of her smile, then you're on the wrong track. But if you're stuck staring at her smile so long that you start smiling too, you may have found something.