"SO WHAT SHOULD I CALL YOU?"

When I finally decided to tell them, the familiar feelings of disappointing them, the sweaty palms and the tightness in my chest, all came back at once, tenfold.

Islamic culture was ingrained in me long ago. I was raised between colorful prayer mats on cold Friday mornings and the melodic tune of the adhan that echoed from every mosque in the city. I could say Assalamu Alaikum before I knew my ABCs, and was already praying before I could walk. My parents strived to ensure I would follow the Islamic guidelines that would allow me to prove myself worthy of God’s good graces. For them, that meant abiding by traditional ideals of what it meant to be loving and kind, honest and respectful. And, for the longest time, I followed these rules without question. 

The first time I got caught sneaking out of the house I remember my throat constricting, and the fear of the consequences I would face for breaking rules that I had been raised to follow so strictly. Palms sweating, tears welling at the corners of my eyes, I could feel my mother’s disappointment searing through my head, which was bowed guiltily at the doorway. In that moment, I vowed to myself that I would never let this heated gaze fall upon me again. But, of course, it did, effusing from my mother's eyes yet again when I first started dating, and again when I failed my first class at Brown. These were the first signs: my "good Muslim girl" image and the internalized identity that came with it were slowly melting away. 

As my identity transformed, so did my perceptions of its foundations. I found myself grappling with some core tenets of Islam while still firmly believing in its values of love and kindness. But I couldn’t love just about anyone, and that became apparent when I talked to my parents about queerness and received empty glares, or when I told my mother about my romantic feelings for people who didn’t identify as cishet males and was met by an alarming disapproval. My hope to challenge my parents’ discomfort and my inclination towards trying to be honest eventually prompted me to come out.

When I finally decided to tell them, the familiar feelings of disappointing them, the sweaty palms and the tightness in my chest, all came back at once, tenfold. What made it worse was that I couldn’t tell how my mother reacted to my reveal. The flipped timezones meant that I was stuck speaking to a dark screen, sparingly illuminated by nightlights in her bedroom. As I wiped away tears and struggled to catch my breath, I heard a concerned “why are you crying,” and a sigh that I couldn’t interpret. My father was there next to her, listening to our conversation in silence; what that meant, I didn’t know. 

Confused by the conversations they'd never had and fatigued because of the time difference, my parents were inquisitive, but not significantly; respectful, but not entirely; understanding, but not really. When I calmed down enough to speak, I knew there were questions I had to answer that perhaps I never could—not accurately enough, at least. But I love my parents, and that made me want to try. 

“Are you gay?”“No, I—”

“But you’re not heterosexual, then?”

“No, maa, I just—”

“So what should I call you?”

A loaded question: what indeed. I had never been a fan of labels, and labelling my sexuality seemed like something I could never do, something I never needed to do, really. What came next was a heated discussion of labels, sex and sexuality, morality and religion, and even Freudian theories of sexual repression (my mother believed in the binaries of hetero/homosexuality, and drew from Freud to explain that my sexuality could be altered to fit societal norms, as though cishet white males could ever be the ultimate authority on sexuality). 

After what seemed like ages, my parents ended our conversation with a tired but telling response: “Feelings are okay, as long as you don’t act on them. Remember maa, we’re Muslim, and there are rules.” I interpreted this as a concerned warning. My parents were concerned, and rightfully so. Concerned for their daughter who they raised in a conservative society, concerned for what this might mean for my well-being and safety, concerned about how I would navigate in the face of adversity from a violently heteronormative world. 

Queerness in a conservative Muslim household will rarely be met with complete understanding and unwavering support. Coming to terms with my sexuality has been a difficult journey, and I could never fathom that my religious family would possibly make it easier, or that I would be completely accepted for who I am. “Coming out” to Muslim parents was an experience of compromise: between the restraints of religion and the right to be myself; between my parents’ expectations and my own desires; between the binaries and everything outside of them. But when my mother sent me her nightly “I love you” text once we hung up, I couldn’t help but smile. Those words spoke more to me, so much more, than she had in the four hours of our discussion. She loved me, and I her; it was one of our rules, after all. And, maybe, abiding by that core ideal of love allows for some other rules to be broken.

AUTHOR: Faiza Chowdhury is is a senior at Brown studying South Asian Studies and Applied Mathematics. Her favorite pastimes include making tea, singing in the shower and writing haikus in different languages.

ARTIST: MacKenzie Butler is an Illustrator finishing her third year at RISD, and she enjoys depicting the softness, the sensuality, and the intimacies of life in her work. See more pieces by her here!