Posted in Trap House Chronicles

Princess in the Trap House: Moving Out

My sentence of living in the Trap House was finally over, and I had mixed emotions. Mostly excited and thrilled to be leaving that dump of a house. The only problem was my father was finally going to see where I’ve been living for the past four months. 

The whole neighborhood looked a mess, dirty streets and boarded up homes was the view as you drove down my street. I was a little scared because I knew he would have never let me live there and he was about to fuss! But before we even get to the actual move out day, let me tell y’all how I took procrastination to a new level. 

For about two weeks before the move out date, my father would call and remind me to be all packed up by the time he comes. Of course, it went in one year and out the other, so I kept pushing packing off to another day. Before I knew it, it was two days before I was supposed to move out, but I didn’t have the time to pack. I believe it was a Thursday, and I was moving out that Saturday, which was also the same night as my bday party. While Friday one of my close friends was graduating. So, instead of staying home and packing up all my stuff, I just packed a small bag for Thursday and Friday night. I was staying at the graduate’s house those nights and we planned to go out and party to celebrate her success. 

I arrived back to my Trap House Saturday morning with about 2 hours to pack up my entire living space before my dad arrives. My dad calls and lets me know he’s almost at my place and he thinks he’s lost because all he saw were boarded and vacant homes, but I lovingly reassured him, he was on the right path. When he finally pulls up and I let him in, let’s just say he wasn’t a happy camper. Not only did he see his daughter was living in a Trap House, but I wasn’t even close to being all packed up. 

He helped me pack up the rest of my stuff, along with a lecture about safety and procrastination. The normal dad type of talks, that had me wishing I was actually packed and ready to go. When we were finally done and I could officially turn in my key and leave that dump of a house, I felt accomplished, that my spoiled butt actually survived, like I just completed my own reality show! 

I definitely made a lot of life long memories being a Princess in a Trap House. 

Posted in Trap House Chronicles

Princess in the Trap House pt. 4

You know living in the trap house had many difficulties, that I didn’t mind so much. Up until I heard a mouse in my room. I’m terrified of bugs and have a fear of mice.

I remember hearing the bickering couple in the basement complain about mice, but I’ve never seen any and assumed I wouldn’t because the boxer’s kittens spent the majority of the time in my room. The boxer eventually took his kittens away and gave them to his mother, leaving my room vulnerable for an attack. 

One day as I was laying on my bed, I heard little chewing on a wrapper and shortly after heard it run across my room. I quickly called my landlord, who said he’ll come by the next day to lay traps. But I needed an immediate solution because I was terrified at thought of sharing my room with a mouse for the night. So, I called my brother to come and help me catch the mouse or place traps down or something, but of course, he was useless and refused to come and help. 

So, I called my friend, the same guy from the “Our Story” series, to come over and mouse hunt with me. While I waited for his arrival, I stayed on my bed terrified and watched a movie to distract myself, but that was useless. That little mouse was having a field day in my room! I saw it running back and forth, climbing on my close, and trying to get in my trunk where I locked up all my snacks. My friend eventually arrived and basically laughed and made fun of me for a bit, before he decided to be useful. After he moved a couple of things around and I realized I wasn’t made for the mouse hunting lifestyle, I decided it may be best for me to wait downstairs. 

When I returned back upstairs, he tore my room apart looking for the mouse! I felt like I was in an episode of Tom and Jerry, and was being outsmarted by a rodent. The mouse must have left my room and went to another place in the house, but I didn’t want to stay in my room alone. My friend agreed to stay with me, but he really just made jokes the whole night and called me a giant baby for being scared of a mouse.

Luckily I had about a month left living in the trap house and all of these horrors will soon be over. Unfortunately, it looked like the mouse wasn’t going anywhere, and it was time for to get over this fear. So, I ended up naming the mouse Nibbles and plotted his doom every day until I moved out. Luckily, I’m officially no longer scared of mice but hope never to share a room with another mouse again.

Posted in Trap House Chronicles

Princess in the Trap House pt. 3

As I’ve stated before, each one of my housemates added to the adventure and excitement of living in the trap house. The mother and daughter duo was a pair that I could never fully understand. They lived on the second floor and shared a small room with no windows. The daughter was pregnant and her cousin often stayed with them. 

I could never fully comprehend how the three of them could fit into that small room, but again that was none of my business. They were relatively polite to me and never caused me too much drama. All except the time their toothpaste went missing and the pregnant daughter actually came all the way up to my room to interrogate me. After a rude inquisition, I rarely had any other encounter with them; maybe passing pleasantries that they rarely returned. 

But something I could look forward to almost every night starting around 9, was them banging on the door for someone to let them in. I do not know if they ever had a key, lost the key, or simply never believed in using keys. Regardless, they were always locked out and expected us to keep the door unlocked for them. Yes, I realize my next statement is completely unsafe, but hey I’m alive to write about it. So, for the majority of the time, the door would remain unlocked. 

On a few occasions, I would like the main door, and when they would return realizing they were in fact locked, it was always a show. They would bang on the door and demand for someone to open the doors. Most of the time, it’ll take a while for someone to decide to let them in. I would never, just out of laziness and the fact that I could never understand why they didn’t have their key. When they would finally get in the house, they continued to yell and scream, and act like the house was purposely trying to keep them out.

One time I guess, the whole house was fed up with them and everyone refused to let them in. They did their usual banging and screaming and I assume they eventually called our landlord. He began calling everyone in the house, I politely declined the call and returned to watching my show. Eventually, the landlord arrived to let them in and I faked sleep. The more I think about it, the more I don’t miss that house. 

Posted in The Afro Muslimah

A Decade in the Making

You know as I scroll through social media, I see a lot of people doing the #10year challenge; and I can’t help but reflect on my past decade.

During my last year of middle school, I was seeking an escape from those awkward years. I can remember counting down to my eighteenth birthday because I thought life would become so much easier for me, that’s a huge joke in hindsight. But I was constantly overwhelmed with emotions and felt like I had no real outlet to release them. 

So my secret journaling began. I started to place all of my negative emotions on paper. I would write poems or short rants of whatever was one my mind. I would sit in my room, play music and write my heart out. I would share wild stories and talk about secret loves that I knew would never happen. I guess you can call it a diary, but it never seemed that way to me. 

My journal became my truth, an unfiltered version of me, that wasn’t shy or in fear of judgment. I often look back and reread my journals and love seeing how my words and thoughts have truly matured with me. How over the years I’ve healed from some insecurities and began to have faith in myself. It’s bittersweet to read all of the pain I’ve felt over the past ten years, but it reminds me of my strength. 

I know the day I started writing in a random notebook, that young teenage girl never would believe our thoughts and words would evolve into a blog. But here I am turning my random journal entries into blog posts. 

Posted in Trap House Chronicles

Princess in the Trap House pt.2

Living in the trap house I was rarely bored. There was always some sort of excitement either in or outside of the house. One of the common themes of drama in the house was theft. Al Humduillah (Thank God), no one ever stole anything from me, maybe nobody felt like walking all the way upstairs, but most likely because God was looking out for me. 

One of the most memorable theft moments was when the Boxer’s laptop went missing. I was living in the house for about a month and a half at this point, and the most I’ve heard him say was about 10 words. Until that night, he was yelling and fussing almost all night. He first started with calmly asking all the housemates if we have seen his laptop, and of course, everyone said no. Actually, he never did come all the way upstairs and ask me. 

Then it was about 10 min of silence before all hell broke loose. I remember hearing a whole bunch of screaming and yelling, but one argument stood out the most. The pregnant housemate was telling the Boxer to get over it and quit disturbing the peace due to the fact she was also a victim of theft. She eventually revealed the item was just toothpaste and I sincerely hope she saw how the two things weren’t equivalent. 

Eventually I heard another housemate step in to defuse the situation, but honestly, the more people tried to calm him down, the madder he became. I’m assuming someone called the landlord, at some point in the midst of the screaming and banging he walks into the house. 

He takes the Boxer outside, where I had a perfect view and tries to talk to him. After a lot of going back and forth, the landlord agreed to replace his laptop. 

The boxer ended up with an upgrade, our landlord bought him the latest Mac Book and the Boxer never seemed to learn his lesson. He still continued to leave his door wide open, even when he wasn’t home.  Meanwhile, during all the drama I was upstairs sipping and enjoying my tea. 

I really don’t miss living in that house and still amazed that I ever lived there. Hearing the Boxer fuss was a nice break from the bickering couple. 

Posted in The Afro Muslimah

Muslimah in the Middle

I used to really love the show Malcolm in the Middle, mainly because I identified well with Malcolm, the main character. The middle knows it all child, always looking at situations like how did I get here. I never really felt like I belonged anywhere, and just kinda felt like an outsider. I always somehow stood out, even when I desperately just wanted to blend in and go with the flow.

I feel like my middle school years was definitely a time period that helped shape me into the woman I am today. I don’t have too many positive memories of my experience and don’t think that highly of most of my classmates. I started off middle school optimistic and excited to finally be around my people. The school was majority Black American, and during all of my years in an Islamic school, the students always felt the need to remind me that I am Black American. 

So, to my surprise, my new classmates did not consider me to be Black American, but instead I was foreign. I realize I was the only hijabi in the school and most of them knew very little to nothing about Islam. So, with lack of knowledge comes ignorant jokes at my expense. Once again I felt like the outsider and did not belong. 

Now as an adult, I no longer have the desire to want to belong, due to me realizing it is extremely overrated. A lot of the cultural and religious values I was raised to believe, I now question and forming my own values. Through my experiences, I’ve learned that we often segregate ourselves and cancel experiences based off of our differences. So, I’m trying to live my life with more of an open mind, but I am still guilty of self-segregation based off of differences.

Posted in Hijabi Adventures

Questions to a Hijabi

You know sometimes I miss being a hijabi, it was like being a part of sisterhood in a sisterhood. An unspoken bond, that only women in hijab will truly understand. The crazy thing is I even miss all of the silly questions I used to be asked. At the time they used to drive me insane or make me feel self-conscious, but now it just makes me laugh at all of the ignorance.

Some of my favorites questions were: Do you sleep with that thing on your head? Do you shower with it on? How do you get your hair done? Why do you get your hair done? Those never really bothered me and honestly, I was asked at least one of those questions once a week. Depending on my mood dictated how sarcastic my response would be.  The funny thing was I did feel like I was covering 24/7 as a black Muslimah. I would wear my hijab out during the day and then at night going to bed, I’d wear my satin scarf. Regardless of that fact, I was still annoyed being constantly being asked those questions. 

On the other hand, the questions that actually offended me were: Are you forced to cover? Did you get that scarf as an initiation into your terrorist cell? Is that a symbol to show that you’re married? Questions all along those lines. I can’t say it was necessarily the questions that bothered me, but regardless of my response some people just looked at me with pity. Like oh, this poor girl is being oppressed, and that was the furthest thing from the truth.

Looking back at it now, I realize I learned young that there’s a lot of ignorance in this world, and I can’t let that affect me.

Posted in Relationships

Everybody’s​ a Vilain

As much as I like to reflect upon my love life and always see myself as the innocent princess, that overcame heartbreak, but that’s not completely true. 

My college years have definitely been eventful and left a couple of broken-hearted casualties along the way. I remember my freshman year after I accepted the internship with the US Coast Guard, I needed to get in shape ASAP. I ended up getting this guy I always saw working out around campus to help whip me into shape. 

Honestly, I was just being myself and was super surprised when I found out he liked me. Unfortunately, my motto was too just go with the flow, but that’s a terrible mentality when it comes to dating. It wasn’t until maybe two weeks in, I realized I needed to end this “relationship”  because honestly, it was only one-sided.  While I was still living a single lifestyle, he was falling for me deeper. 

Trying not to hurt his feelings, and postpone the breakup only made things worst. So, like a coward one morning I broke up with him over text, and gave the worlds most cliche excuse “it’s not you, it’s me”. We ran to each other at a party the following weekend, and he confronted me asking what can he do to make things better. I don’t really remember the conversation, but I do remember the hurt in his eyes. That moment I knew, I’ll always be the villain in his story.

Honesty, everyone is the villain in someone’s story, we’re all humans and make mistakes. I just try to improve upon myself. If he does happen to ever read this, I am sorry, and was just immature and wasn’t used to male attention. 

Posted in The Afro Muslimah

Happy First Anniversary

Never did I think I would start a blog, and let alone fall involve with being a blogger. I initially started this journey not expecting anyone to actually read or care about what I have to stay. I thought only my friends and family would occasionally read to be supportive, but it’ll just be some online diary I rarely tend to. As a pleasant surprise, that isn’t the case.

Through each post, writing out my experiences, I’m discovering my voice and realizing my words and opinions matter. The goal of my blog is to share a different perspective of being a young, Black, and Muslim woman. Express how there’s no standard experience, and regardless of my appearance, both are part of my identity. 

Today marks the one year anniversary of The Misunderstood Afro Muslimah, and I couldn’t be prouder of my blog! I’m so honored and grateful to all of the people who’ve taken the time to read my posts. Thank you to all of my followers and readers; y’all have left some wonderful, thoughtful, and heart filled comments throughout the year. I’ve received emails from people sharing similar experiences, or just continuing the conversation past my initial article. I’ve had the privilege to speak on a panel in London, about my post, Diary of a Problematic Brown Skin Girl, and that was truly out of my element, but one of the highlights of my blogging experience. Also as a novice blogger, I’ve had the opportunity to be a guest blogger and do collabs on other bloggers website.

This has been a wonderful year and so excited about the future endeavors of me and my blog! Thank you again to everyone who has supported me throughout this journey!!

Posted in The Afro Muslimah

Born Feminist​

As a little girl, I always identified as female before anything else. Above all of my other characteristics, religion, and ethnicity, I knew being a woman is my superpower. 

I don’t recall at what age I realized I was a feminist, but I believe I was born one. 

I remember when I started attending public school and would share my strong feminist views, people would assume it was because I was Muslim, and came from an oppressive home. Honestly, that’s the furthest thing from the truth, my father has always made me feel like the most powerful and brilliant person to walk this earth. 

What made me a feminist, is viewing television, reading books, and any other media outlet, that sent me a subtle message that I am not equal to a man. What made me a feminist is learning history and realizing every society has underestimated or belittled women’s strength and intelligence. What continues to make me a feminist is being a young woman, and society constantly telling me my number one value is my physical appearance, and no matter how hard I strive for “perfection” I still will never be enough. 

Regardless of race, religion, ethnicity, culture almost every woman at some point in their lives, unfortunately, had a man belittle, disrespect, take advantage, mentally or physically abuse them. That’s why Women’s Rights and  Women’s History Month will always have a number 1 spot in my heart. I constantly see women’s accomplishments being overlooked or belittled, but in reality, especially women of color, we have double or triple the number of obstacles any man will ever have to face. 

I’m a powerful Young, Black, and Muslim Woman, and no matter how many obstacles life continues to throw at me, I’ll always keep getting back up, but just a little bit stronger each time.

HAPPY WOMAN’S HISTORY MONTH!! 💕