Ramadan Reflections: Growing Up Black and Muslim in America

This is the time of year when I exhale and reflect on my faith.

I grew up in a devout Muslim household. Both of my parents converted to Islam before I was born. It was the 90s. They were Black and proud, and Allah (swt) found His way into their hearts.

My parents believed that if you’re going to do something, you do it with your entire soul. Being Black and Muslim is not for the weak, and they wanted to ensure my siblings and I were secure in both our faith and our Black identity.

I haven’t always appreciated the gift of being born Muslim.

As a child, I resented the strictness. While my older brother gleefully overrode the rules, I followed them. Weekdays were regular academics. Weekends were Quran and Arabic. And there was always more studying in between.

Even now, I still roll my eyes when people shower my parents with endless “Alhamdulillahs” and “MashAllahs” for how they raised me. But they did their best. And they were intentional.

As an adult, I chose Islam for myself.

That choice changed everything.

Islam is more than a religion; it is a way of life. And now I can look back at my childhood without resentment — and even laugh at some of the memories.

Like the dolls.

My parents bought endless baby dolls and Barbies, though I never really cared for them. They were trying to shape the daughter they imagined, instead of fully embracing the one they had.

But here’s the funny part: I don’t remember my parents ever calling them Barbie and Ken. Barbie was Khadijah. Ken was Khalid.

It wasn’t until I reentered public school and my Muslim bubble popped that I realized there was no Khalid doll. His name was Ken.

Through sneaking TV and opening the boxes myself, I knew Barbie wasn’t Khadijah. But it never occurred to me that she wouldn’t be with a Muslim man. Of course she would be with Khalid.

For a long time, I genuinely believed non-Muslims were the minority in America. The rude awakenings came in waves. But the Ken vs. Khalid realization will forever be hilarious to me.

It’s a small example of how my parents did the absolute most — intentionally.

As a result, my default thinking is that the standard is Black and Muslim. And when I say Black, I mean the entire diaspora.

Fun fact: my Khalid doll was Malian — a descendant of Mansa Musa — simply searching for his Khadijah.

I’ve always had a creative imagination.

This Ramadan feels like a return to my roots. Relearning. Reciting. Appreciating the Quran because I want to — not because I have to.

I am proud of the religion I was raised in.

I’m also a pink girl. Barbie-doll pink has always been my favorite shade. For me, it honors Khadijah bint Khuwaylid — a self-made trade mogul in 6th-century Mecca who built and controlled vast commercial networks in a male-dominated society. She commanded wealth, respect, and influence long before Islam reshaped history. She was also the first wife of Prophet Muhammad (saw) and one of the earliest believers in Islam, known for her unwavering support.

When I think about my future, I realize the blueprint was given to me long ago.

The best way for me to plan and execute what’s ahead is to revisit the lessons behind me.

Ramadan is our collective exhale. A moment to focus. Regroup. Realign.

We were never without direction.

We have the blueprint.

Ramadan Kareem 🤍