A light in that darkened cinema...

“Paint a stone red and it becomes a god… But never solve your problems yourself. Pray five times a day, ring a bell in a temple and leave everything to God—we want to do nothing ourselves.”

-Abhishek Bachchan in “Delhi 6”



Fig1. If you watch one nontraditional Bollywood movie, watch this one

Ashutosh Gowariker’s sweeping historical epic Jodhaa Akbar dramatizes the true story of the Mughal Empire in the 16th century—a period when Islam was spreading well into South Asia under the rule of the Emperor Akbar (“great” in Arabic). The Emperor marries a beautiful and fiery Indian princess in order to quell the belligerance of the Rajput people and cement his role as the ruler of Northern India. One of the central tensions of the film is fueled by the fact that Akbar, a Muslim, and Jodhaa, a Hindu, fall in love despite their traditional differences. Their mutual respect for one another’s faiths and values leads to Akbar’s reputation for generosity and religious tolerance during his rule.

The 2008 film Thoda Pyaar, Thoda Magic is an almost Disney-style family film about an angel who gets sent by God to earth to watch over a family of orphaned children. The main characters, four children of varying ages, are visiting Los Angeles with their new foster father. When a tragedy befalls them, they turn to the most available “temple” in town: a Christian church. When they enter to pray for help, one child wonders if it’s okay to pray there, since they are Hindus. Another child offhandedly remarks that whether it’s Jesus, Vishnu, Ganesha—it’s all the same, insinuating that their prayers will be heard by God no matter where they are.

One of the orphans—adopted by the previous parents—wears a traditional headwrap, identifying him as a Sikh. At one point in the film, he laments the fact that he is a Sikh, because the other children at school bully him. His foster father cheers him up, explaining how important it is to be a Sikh, pointing out their reputation for having great courage.


Fig2. Possibly the most beautiful epic you'll ever see

The popular Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi is set in Amritsar, where the Sikhs built the famous Golden Temple. That many people of varying religions are allowed to worship there is testament to the ideals of Sikhism, which is often described as a hybrid of Hindusim and Islam. Within the film, the main characters—a newlywed couple—go to the temple at plot points when they need to seek understanding and guidance.

In the 1971 film Anand, an Indian Christian nurse prays to Jesus for a patient’s health. When the Hindu patient hears of this, he jokingly frets over whether or not Jesus and Krishna will fight over who gets to help him.

Unlike Hollywood, the folks in Mumbai don’t gag on overt religious themes and trappings within their films. Hindu, Islamic, and Sikh traditions and ideas crop up all the time, which was great for my education. I can site dozens of examples, but most of the prominent religious activities are apparent from the obligatory clichés that are lovingly included in the movies:

1) Weddings: almost always a backdrop or at least a major plot point in the stories of arranged versus love marriages, tradition versus modernization, caste disputes, and feminism.
2) The traditional mother: whether she henpecks, consoles, or encourages her children into whatever choice they make in life, she’s always seen doing household pujas (prayers) or visiting the local temple to implore the Lord’s guidance in family matters--you know, Jewish stuff ;)
3) Holidays and festivals: they may not need an excuse for dancing and partying, but a Diwali, Holi or a Lohri is always exploited for its potential as a big musical number and joyous celebration with lights, bonfires, food, costumes, and colorful powder tossed in the air.

Fig.3 Come for the cuteness, stay for the traditions

You may say, wait a minute, there are plenty of Hollywood films that show Christian or Jewish ceremonies and holidays that Americans love. We have the great Biblical epics like Ben Hur, The Ten Commandments and The Rope! Look at the sheer volume of Christmas movies out there!

The big difference here is that Christmas movies are rarely about Jesus and the epics are seldom about religious debate. Christmas themes are Christian in origin: peace, rebirth, giving, miracles, etc., but are non-denominational (e.g. The Chronicles of Narnia). In the short-lived TV series Aliens In America (that’s for another blog post entirely!), Raja, the teenage Pakistani exchange student visiting a small town in Wisconsin, wonders aloud why Jesus is so fat in all the Christmas decorations, then realizes, “Oh, that is Santa Claus!”

The epics we know and love are few and far between, and even something like the more recent Kingdom of Heaven (2005), which was severely underrated when initially released, was actually maligned for its deliberative treatment of religion and morality even though it boldly tackled some major religious and political issues that are as relevant today as they were during the crusades. Movies like The DaVinci Code and Passion Of The Christ deal with religion and faith directly, but this happens so rarely in the American film landscape that they attract a disproportionate amount of attention.


Fig.4 The Director's Cut knows best

The “Christian” weddings we see in secular Hollywood movies are set in churches, sure, but they don’t deal with God’s plans for the couple. It’s always about cold feet, whether the bride or groom cheated on each other or if someone is going to break up the wedding.

Explicit religious reflection is not the norm for Hollywood. In Bollywood, it’s standard operating procedure. I am constantly struck by the frequency of religious discussion within Indian films. They are saturated with themes of religious identity, interfaith marriage, karma, destiny, traditions and responsibilities to perform religious rites.

In Bollywood’s version of My Best Friend’s Wedding, all the same American conflicts are included, but there are constant references to how matches are made in heaven, what the Lord has planned for the couple, turning to Hindu astrology to determine an auspicious marriage date, and the main characters are shown praying in front of a shrine dedicated to Krishna in hopes of gaining insight and guidance with all their familial issues.

Sometimes marriage issues aren’t as easily overcome as male rivalries for a woman’s heart. In Yash Chopra’s classic Veer-Zaara, which is based on a true story of a Muslim Pakistani woman falling in love with a Hindu Indian man, deals with the Romeo and Juliet-like theme of forbidden love in modern India, where the politics and emotions created by the Partition of British Colonial India in 1947 still affect people today. Traditional ties between Muslims and Hindus were severely strained by the horrific events of Partition, and the bridging of that religious divide through love and marriage is a common plot point in several Bollywood films.


Fig.5 Who'd have thought Hindu-Muslim relations were so romantic?

The festival scenes always include a song, and the songs incorporate ancient religious imagery or mantras lifted from scripture every time. Characters are constantly shown attending temple services and engaging in prayer. Often the geographical settings, such as Varanasi (Benares), Hrishikesh, and Amritsar, are places of worship and pilgrimage.

One explanation for the prevalence of religious stories and themes in Indian movies is the pluralist nature of Hinduism itself. It is distinguished by its inclusivism, as it has no absolutely unified dogmatic creed. Hinduism was originally an umbrella term for the various religious traditions of India, which included many gods and demi gods or devas. Often villages and towns each adopted their own patron devas, depending on the stories and legends of the geographical area.

In Gowariker’s 2004 film Swades (“Motherland”) the main character visits the town of Charanpur (derived from the word for “feet”), which is so named because it is believed that the Hindu god Ram and his goddess wife Sita left footprints in the hardened mud nearby. Another town up the road may just as easily be named for another deva with an equally sacred and eponymous relic.


Fig.6 An inspiration to return to your roots, and have faith

Recall that in Temple of Doom, Indy and his companions arrive at a small impoverished village whose fate is undeniably linked to the relic of the stolen Shankara stone. The stone is a lingam, a common physical representation of the virility of Shiva. Lingams are indeed believed to be charged with power and strength, but the glowing diamonds inside are a dramatic Hollywood appurtenance.

Sure there are multitudes of devas to keep track of, but Hinduism isn’t technically polytheistic. Every one of the gods and goddesses we’ve heard about have evolved from a single creator god, Brahma, and all are avatars, or differing images, of Brahma. An avatar is like a facet in a diamond—it’s part of the same stone, but seen on a slightly different surface or angle.

It can also be thought of in this way: Think of your mother. You see her as your mother. Your dad sees her as his wife. Her mother sees her as daughter. Her friends see her as a friend. Her brother sees her as sister. Yet she is still the same person. She has many avatars, depending on who sees her, but they are all looking at the same person.

Hindu gods and goddess also have an evolutionary aspect to their existence. Due to the effects of the laws of karma, the avatars of say, Vishnu, appear on Earth at varying periods, each time manifesting as a more wise and powerful and loving being. Vishnu was once a fish (Matsya), a turtle (Kurma), a lion (Narasimha), then the popular human gods of Rama, Krishna, and Buddha. It’s said that when the Earth is polluted and society is corrupt, Vishnu will eventually visit humankind as Kalki and help those souls who lived with good karma in their lives.

With a concept like that, it’s easy to understand why the children in Thoda Pyaar, Thoda Magic believe that even Jesus, who has a comparable role in the Bible’s book of Revelation, can be considered another of Vishnu’s great avatars.


Fig.7 The Ramlila performed in Swades

Bollywood audiences never question or resent this propensity to showcase religious activities because Hinduism and all its interpretations, which have been around for 4,000 years, is sewn right into the fabric of Indian life. It’s always there, and every schoolchild knows the stories of Rama defeating Ravana to rescue Sita, the tale of Ganesha obtaining his elephant head, and how the river Ganges came down to Earth from heaven. Hindu culture is a national tradition, and it influences citizens’ everyday lives whether they’re Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Jain, Buddhist or Christian.

This doesn’t necessarily lead to peace and harmony, though. People within certain villages or even city blocks worship one deva more than another, or one neighborhood is majority Muslim while the adjacent one is majority Hindu. Identity wars crop up similar to those of street gangs.

Delhi 6 (2009) exemplifies one such conflict. When American-born Roshan travels with his grandmother back to her original home in Delhi, he encounters both Delhi’s deep humanity and superstitious nature first hand. The neighborhood they reside in is being terrorized by the kala bandar (black monkey), some unknown troublemaker that steals goats and sabotages public property. The tension comes to a head, and the Hindus accuse the kala bandar of being a Muslim, and the Muslims accuse it of being a Hindu. They even accuse Roshan of being the monkey because he is an outsider from America. Interfaith friendships are broken and the peace of the community is fractured until the tragic dénouement, and both sides are shamed into learning a hard lesson about living up to the “bigheartedness” of Delhi.

It’s a rich, beautifully constructed film full of complex characters and deep emotional moments that cover the gamut of modern Indian struggles: feminism, generational divisions, arranged marriage, American cultural influences (Indian Idol, anyone?), religious superstition, emerging technology, and national/religious identity. The cameo appearance of Amitabh “Big B” Bachchan as Roshan’s dead grandfather crystallizes the generational theme, since Roshan is played by Amitabh’s real-life son, Abhishek. Anyone familiar with their very celebrated personalities would be especially touched by the significance of the scene they have together. Recall that in Slumdog Millionaire, the young Jamal is so desperate to meet his favorite movie star that he jumps into a river of shit and climbs out just to get his autograph. Who on Earth is worth such a fuss? Amitabh Bachchan. Hands down. The man is his own deva.


Fig.8 Delhi hai mere yaar (Delhi is my friend)

For my birthday one year, my sister, who knows my penchant for studying the world’s gods (movie stars or otherwise), gave me a copy of Sanjay Patel’s “Little Book of Hindu Deities.” All the great gods are in there, and beautifully illustrated in bright crayon colors in an appealing big-eyed-cartoon Hello Kitty style. Each has a one-page summary of their significance and story, but these are intensely simplified from the massive epics of Hindu scripture.

One Hindu epic is the Ramayana, which depicts the journey of Lord Ram’s life story and teaches on how to fulfill life’s duties with virtue and integrity. A major turning point in the story—the abduction of Ram’s wife Sita by the evil Ravana—is portrayed as a play in both Swades and Delhi 6. These plays, or lilas (“divine pastimes”) are often put on during Indian festivals and dramatize the classic stories of Hindu gods and goddesses to teach a lesson on scripture or morality.

Bollywood filmmaking plainly reflects the ancient and deeply ingrained qualities of India’s dramatic storytelling tradition, lending it the ability to reveal the complex beauty of Hindu beliefs and culture. The movies informed my curiosity and spurred me to read Hinduism books and scripture. As a result, it’s all a little less exotic now. Busting into Indian dances is normal and to be expected, and the actors and actresses are as familiar to me as anyone else I love in Hollywood movies. Any jokes or jabs or insults I hear regarding India or its people feels very personal to me now, and it gets more personal every time I eat a new curry recipe or see a new film. It's family now.


Fig.9 SRK was so YOUNG!

When I saw Karan Arjun (1995), starring a very young Shahrukh Khan just before his days as the ginormous and influential star he is now, I was fascinated by the outlandish plot. Karan and Arjun are brothers in a small village who are killed unjustly and their mother prays to the goddess Kali to reincarnate them so they can grow up and come back to avenge their deaths as well as the death or their father by a man jealous of their family’s wealth. They are subsequently reborn and seventeen years later, the brothers visit the village. They are totally unaware of their associations with it, but through some cosmic influence, they soon realize their duty to their mother and their father and set out to kill the man responsible for their original deaths.

That man, who also worships Kali but with decidedly un-kosher evil intentions (Kali looks scary, but she’s actually a loving mother goddess), is portrayed by Amrish Puri, the same actor who plays the Kali-worshipping baddie Mola Ram in Temple of Doom. Until his death in 2005, Amrish was a veteran Bollywood character actor, starring in literally hundreds of films since 1970.

The Möbius strip of pop culture works in mysterious ways.

An emotional intro to Bollywood

“In Bollywood, it's always a happy ending.”
-Aishwarya Rai Bachchan


Fig.1 Aish & her dreamboat, er, husband, Abhishek

Naturally, when it came time that I wanted to learn more about Buddhism’s parent religion, I turned to the movies. Luckily, the great Hindustan (“Land of Hindus,” or more archaically, “Land of the Indus River”) has a glut of source material, along with an entire industry dedicated to disseminating its motion picture culture outside its borders for the comfort of all the NRIs (Non-Resident Indians) and curious film buffs out there.

It wasn’t until my third year at college when I finally saw my first Bollywood movie. It was Mission Kasmir, starring the buff and handsome Indian superstar Hrithik Roshan and super beautiful actress Preity Zinta. Just how distracting is Hrithik’s super handsomeness? He’s so hot that it took me years to realize he has an extra thumb on his right hand. And it’s a pretty serious thumb, too, not some measly little bugger. It’s possibly the most famous digit in history. He’s THAT hot.


Fig.2 War is hell, but Hrithik is hella HOT

Mission Kasmir is the story of a young boy whose parents were killed by police, and he gets adopted by one of the sympathetic officers involved. When the boy grows and up discovers the dark secret, it’s time for revenge, but not without involving a pretty girl and a tragic political backdrop of the ongoing military discord in the contested Kasmir region of South Asia.

To my unenlightened eyes, it was a non-stop, sometimes confusing amalgamation of Jean-Claude Van Damme-like action-adventure, 50s-era MGM Hollywood romance, and high drama interspersed with random but beautiful singing and dancing numbers. The acting was intense and anything but subtle while the locations were exotic and totally new to my American moviegoing sensibilities.

The night my world film class met to watch that movie, I checked my voicemail at the intermission and got a message from my mother. I called and she told me that she had something important to say, but didn’t want to tell me while I was at class. I immediately left and rode my bike across the dark campus to my dorm room and called her back to find out that my grandfather had died. Mercifully, a minute later, my dear friend Elissa knocked on the door and gave me hugs while I spoke to my father. At some party a few nights before, Elissa’s friend Nicky gave me a beer and I saved it in my mini fridge. I used it to calm down and my Dad and I toasted to my grandpa over the phone.

Despite the unfortunately sad association with my first experience of Bollywood, the call of the exotic eventually drew me back full-force.


Fig.3 The most exciting cricket has ever been

One summer, Elissa took me to free bellydancing classes on campus and got me some CDs with the practice music, and I fell in love with it. This new interest paved the way for me to investigate all things Eastern.

Soon after coming home from graduation, I found myself back in a town very much lacking in the video store department. Gainesville had plenty of Blockbusters, Hollywood Videos, and movie theatres that played independent films. There was even one at the student union a five-minute walk from my dorm that screened second-run flicks at discount prices. Add all the free screenings of obscure foreign stuff I went to as part of my film classes and you can see how heavenly things were for me.

When I had to leave all that, the online rental service revolution was just going mainstream. As soon as I realized how logistically and economically ridiculous it was to drive to the store and rent DVDs at 4 dollars a pop, I signed up for Blockbuster Online. A vast DVD collection was at my disposal. I’d watch at least three a week, and at only fifteen bucks a month, it was obviously stupid NOT to sign up. After a while the Blockbuster system made too many mistakes and took way too long, so I switched to Netflix and lived happily ever after.


Fig.4 Shah Rukh Khan and Sushmita Sen in Main Hoon Na, a Farah Khan classic

Consumer advertisement aside, Netflix has proven to be a Bollywood fan’s best friend. The large and varied collection of Hindi language movies was available at my whim, so I immediately learned to worship Indian stars as the Indians did.

The first thing you learn from Hindi-language films is that the Indians really love American movies. They not only produce their own re-mixed versions of their favorite big Hollywood flicks, they constantly reference dialogue, scenes, and characters that we Americans know and love. It’s easy for people to mistake this tendency as unoriginal, the results being cheap “rip-offs,” but Indian filmmakers are just like the French Nouvelle Vague directors of the 1950s. Their art is significantly reactionary to American cinema.


Fig.5 Some of their favorites are The Matrix. And Star Wars. Can you tell?

Everything is a loving homage to what they see in the Hollywood craft, and they most definitely inject their spicy, colorful flavor to the mix, resulting in a hyper-real experience. Bollywood films more often than not deliver a more heightened sensual and emotional experience than Hollywood does. What we call “too much melodrama” in their performances is really just a more stage-inspired “pre-Method” (almost DelSartean) style of acting in which all emotions are exaggerated for greater emotional impact. And boy, does it work.

The highly successful and popular Dhoom franchise is basically Bad Boys plus sexy music videos. Mere Yaar Ki Shaadi Hai is literally My Best Friend’s Wedding, plus sexy music videos. Moulin Rouge, with its high drama, zany comedy, romance and costumes interspersed with pop music and beautiful settings is actually the closest thing to Bollywood any average American has seen. Sorry, but Bend It Like Beckham doesn’t cut it. Slumdog Millionaire is not your standard “masala” movie. The “Jai Ho” item song in Slumdog is the only thing remotely Bollywood in the entire thing. If Bride & Prejudice weren’t in English… then we’d be cookin’.


Fig.6 I'm crossing my fingers for Dhoom 3

Although more recently, some Bollywood filmmakers (Mani Ratnam in particular, who seems to have a crush on the delicious Abhishek Bachchan) have been experimenting with more realism and grit in their films (Yuva, Rang De Basanti, Sarkar, Guru, Kaminey etc.), the escapist cinema still dominates the industry (Main Hoon Na, Dhoom 2, and the ultimate escapist spectacular Om Shanti Om).

The second thing you learn from Bollywood movies is that religion is everywhere. And it isn’t sublimated into non-denominational themes and motifs, but presented on a golden platter, as simple to pick up as ladoos and samosas. Hearing the many terms for God being dropped all over the place in every genre of film—not just the spiritual ones—was a new experience.


Fig.7 Grit and music actually pair well together

to be continued...

Get your puja on

Apu: I have come to make amends, sir. At first, I blamed you for squealing, but then I realized, it was I who wronged you. So I have come to work off my debt. I am at your service.
Homer: You're...selling what now?
Apu: I am selling only the concept of karmic realignment.
Homer: You can't sell that! Karma can only be portioned out by the cosmos. (slams the door)
Apu: He's got me there.

--The Simpsons

Fig.1 My favorite Hindu

Like many Americans my age, the first Hindu I met was Apu Nahasapeemapetilon. As a kid with no previous concept of racial stereotypes or the offensive nature associated with them, I embraced Apu with pure love, if only for his humorous accent and the friendly way he always said “Thank you, come again!” no matter how terrible a customer was.

In a roundabout way, Apu represents the most patriotic of institutions: the American Dream. He graduated first in his class of seven million from CalTech (Calcutta Technical Institute) and came to America to get his doctorate in computer science. He started working at the Kwik-E-Mart to pay off his student loans, but remains in Springfield to this day. He married Manjula, fathered eight kids and keeps a garden on the store’s rooftop accessed through the secret door disguised as a freezer case containing non-alcoholic beer.

Possessed of a tireless work ethic, a sharp intellect and a deep devotion to Ganesha, Shiva and Vishnu, Apu is, despite over-generalized appearances, a very positive Hindu figure in American culture. His perpetually open convenience store has helped the Simpson family through many hard times, and if the appearance of real-life Kwik-E-Marts across the country in the summer of 2007 is any indication, Apu’s humble business is a quintessential symbol of American life. For me, walking into a Kwik-E-Mart in Burbank and drinking a Squishee for the first time was nothing less than transcendental.

Alongside Apu, Indiana Jones had a big hand in my youthful perception of Hindus. I was only sixteen months old when Indiana Jones and the Temple Of Doom was released, but the pop cultural engine created by Spielberg/Lucas and company was running at full steam by the time I could put two words together. I grew up with my parents’ large VHS collection and knew all the references to Harrison Ford characters that the Muppet Babies blatantly showcased in nearly every episode.


Fig.2 Not standard operating procedure for Hindus

When I was still too young to be at home by myself after school, I spent a lot of time at my grandmother’s house. My sister and I made forts out of sheets and spent all our free time carrying out our shameless obsessions by watching the same movies and TV shows on a loop. Of course, one of the looped VHS tapes on my granny’s TV was Temple Of Doom. By the time DVDs appeared, that tape in particular was run through the VCR so many times that the CRT had a permanent image of Harrison Ford’s face magnetized on the glass. I would put on the movie, set up pillows on the carpet in a big rectangle, wear my favorite old ratty silk nightgown, lay down in it like a frozen snow angel and when Willie Scott was being latched into Mola Ram’s sacrifice cage, I’d pretend I was being lowered into the volcano and plead for Indiana to save me.

For years, I believed in Shankara stones and faraway Indian jungles filled with giant vampire bats and the beauty of Pankot Palace. Most of all, I marveled at the bright and sparkly costumes worn by Willie and the palace dancers. The Hindus had it going on, as far as I was concerned. Like many westerners, I was allured by the mysterious glamour of Indian culture, swept away by its music, dance, and polychromatic artistry. It was centered so far away on the planet as to feel fantastic and surreal, and kids are such suckers for everything so different from what they’re used to.

Fig.3 You can rescue me anyday

As adults, we get annoyed that kids display such a degree of endless passion for new things, but deep down, we envy them their unquestioning devotion. Before life became colored by injustices and complexities, devotion was easier and more fun. We shake our heads at adults who can recapture that brand of loyalty, and I can’t help but believe that children remember something we forgot.

After I freed myself of the bedsheet-and-table-fort-building years, my next Hindu influence appeared on a real-life plane of existence. My circle of middle school friends included Sneha, a tall, slender, and very brainy girl who didn’t eat beef. She was clever and funny and shared my love for The X-Files and of course, a huge crush on Fox Mulder. We went to the same high school and kept in touch for the first few years of college.

One day, while riding our bikes to a local book store to buy some class texts, she mentioned that that narrow street north of University smelled like Bombay. Garbage, restaurant fryer exhaust, and urine. I will forever remember that going to Goerings is not unlike a trip to an Indian metropolis.

One year, she invited my friend Alan and me to an Indian cultural function at UF’s O’Connell Center. We met up at her apartment and marveled as she dressed up in a sari and told us what to expect. We arrived amongst a slew of similarly attired Indian immigrants and their American-born families. In retrospect, I suspect it was a Diwali festival, and they celebrated with a colorful variety of food and shopping stalls selling jewelry, clothes, trinkets and what I would later discover to be my favorite Indian export: Bollywood DVDs. As we perused a DVD booth, Sneha happily pointed out actors she recognized and how sexy they were, constantly reminding me of how essential to life it was that I watch some Hindi movies. I was lost in a sea of unfamiliar and beautiful faces and was eager to take her advice.


Fig.4 Y'all can rescue me too, please

There was lots of dancing on the basketball court, so Sneha eventually went down there to join a large group of other smiling faces for a traditional dance using sticks and catchy drum music. I bought some child-sized bangles (the only ones that stayed on my wrist!) and took in the festivities with great interest. It was a nifty peek into a world I would later dive into with much enthusiasm.

Sneha and I lost touch as the months went by and classes got more involved. As is customary for my generation, I caught up with her again on Facebook. She lives out of state now, so our interaction remains a digital one, but her influence on my current interests has turned out to be monumental. I don’t know that I’d have been so open-minded about studying Hinduism and Indian culture had it not been for her presence in my youth.


To be continued...

The Amish got it goin' on

“You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lip.”
-Amish proverb


Fig.1 All work and some play makes an Amish boy

The Amish don’t have podcasts. Can you believe that shit? I would love to hear the serene tones of Pennsylvania Dutch accents expound upon quilting techniques and tips on how to avoid tourists trying to take their photographs.

If you’ve seen Witness, you’ve seen half of what decent pop culture has to offer regarding the Amish. Devil’s Playground is the other half, and it’s illuminating cinema to say the least. It’s a documentary about the tradition of rumspringa, the time in an Amish teenager’s life when they are allowed to explore and experience the “English” world outside their insulated farming communities. The purpose of this is related to the old Anabaptist/Mennonite belief that a baby cannot be properly baptized. A person has to make a willful, adult decision to have communion with God, so the kids are allowed to see what their options are before being encouraged to return and focus on entering the community.

Devil’s Playground first outlines the basics of Amish Mennonite life, then follows around a handful of Amish kids on their rumspringa. During this time, wide-eyed kids go out to parties, dance and drink too much, drive around in cars, and sometimes take drugs. Very few decide that the outside life is for them, reflecting the high retention rate (between 80-90%) among the Amish denominations. Pretty awesome for a group who don’t include medicare or any government benefits whatsoever. The super-fast barn-raising thing, though… FEMA would’ve benefited from utilizing that sort of community work ethic.

Fig.2 Harrison Ford is too sexy for his pockets

The Amish don’t join the military, but they don’t apply for Social Security benefits either. No phones, electricity, or fancy clothes. They’re as “off the grid” as anyone can get. On the surface, the rules against things as banal as buttons seem odd, but what I found most appealing about the Amish is their sound reasoning behind everything they do or don’t do. Shirt pockets aren’t allowed because there’s the possibility you can put a flower or other pretty trinket in there, which can lead to pride. The ego-loathing Buddhist in me can’t argue with that logic.

Another thing is that they’re willing to make very small accommodations when new technology comes along. Gas-powered tilling machines, for example, are allowed in some Amish communities, but they’ll strip the wheels of the rubber tires because the rubber makes working the fields too easy and a sudden increase in ease could lead to laziness and lack of appreciation for hard work. They don’t have phones in their houses because it decreases sense of community by reducing face-to-face communication. Phones are also looked upon as an intrusion of the outside world, which interrupts daily life. I couldn’t agree with that one more. Being Amish is almost worth it not to have telemarketers call ten minutes into every DVD you start watching.

Those Amish DVD players, by the way, fueled by the alcohol they don’t drink.

Fig.3 Light switches: overrated

Technology jokes aside, the Amish have got it goin’ on. They are old school devoted Christians. They live the holy life to a T. You remember how they handled that schoolhouse shooting in Lancaster County in ‘06? They not only thought no ill of the guy who killed five of their young daughters and injured five more, they went to his home and comforted his widow and family. I bow to the Amish. They get it. They know how to live a life of purpose: to make the most awesome peanut butter pie on the planet. Okay, that’s not their entire life’s pursuit, but if you’ve ever been to Yoder’s restaurant in Sarasota, you might be convinced it is.

Fig.4 They do believe in watching cable

Whenever I see my father operate one of his numerous coffee machines, the bit of Amish in me rears its simple head. He has this one multi-purpose monster that makes lattes, espresso, and regular coffee, all through the inclusion of an extravagant quantity of little plastic “pods” filled with perfectly pre-measured coffee grounds and powdered milk. It’s fast and easy and looks so Star Trek-like with its futuristic minimum brain-power procedure. Juxtaposed against my old-school pour-boiling-water-into-a-cup-and-add-tea-leaves-and-wait-for-five-minutes breakfast ritual, his method of caffeine intake appears insanely wasteful. Tastes great, I’ll be the first to admit, but anti-Amish.

If we happen to be in the kitchen at the same time at the morning hour, I repeat my Amish-inspired mantra, “If it’s too easy, it’s not worth doing.”


Fig.5 True rebellion

This didn’t apply to my orchid-avoidance in my gardening activities, though. I wrote them off as too high-maintenance and I prefer the relatively well-adjusted African violets in my bathroom. That is, at least, until my sister gifted me three beautiful orchids that I have managed to care for so well that I coaxed a flower spike out of one of them in only five months. And guess what? It was totally worth it. I am addicted to the motherly kind of pride I get whenever a spike appears on one of my orchids, and witnessing the blooming bud weeks later is more sweet than the iced tea from Texan Wal-Marts.

Now I’m full of pride. Crap. I will make up for it by ridding myself of buttons.

We all take the rubber off our tractor wheels in our own ways—I make fancy tea the long way and my Dad prefers to sketch his interior design drawings by hand instead of with some expensive computer software—but we mostly leave the tires on in everyday situations. We’re Americans, after all. Not that the Amish aren’t Americans, but they may be too good at Christianity.

Vegan Week

"In the strict scientific sense we all feed on death - even vegetarians."
-Mr. Spock, Star Trek, "Wolf in the Fold"

Fig.1 Have you hugged a chicken today?

One sunny Floridian January Saturday, I drove up to Gainesville to hang out with my friend Casey and meet his boyfriend Joseph for the first time. We checked on the community events for the day and unanimously decided to attend the Hoggetown Medieval Festival. Of course, we had to find a place to eat beforehand, since Joseph is vegan and ren faires are not well known to serve up anything more vegan than giant roasted turkey legs. Luckily, it’s as easy to find a vegan-friendly eatery in a college town as it is to find a coffeehouse in a college town. At the fest, while perusing the numerous vendor tents drinking our mead (vegan!) and scoffing at the bevy of overwrought Scottish accents floating into our ears, theology got injected into the conversation. I have no idea how.

“I consider veganism my religion,” he said.

“Really?”

“Lots of people write in their religion as veganism on the census.”

Veganism is a religion? I’m so there.

Fig.2 They also call loved ones "Agave nectar" instead of "Honey"

Thus, Vegan Week was born. Now, I can do Vegetarian Week standing on my head. Since I started doing Buddhism, I’ve been observing Vesak--the holiday that celebrates the birth, enlightenment, and nirvana of Gautama Buddha--by avoiding meat for the week leading up it. Plus, I renounce meat on full and new moons. And I don’t tend to eat meat all that much anyways.

I’m not addicted to meat, is what I’m saying.

But veganism is a lot of work. I spent a few weeks beforehand researching how vegans sidestep and tip-toe around consuming animal products. Mulling over concepts like incorporating organic alfalfa sprouts, fermented soy tofu, and textured vegetable protein to meals, I paused the way people do when they know they’ve just stepped in dogshit and don’t want to move for fear of hearing that aromatic moist sucking sound you get when you lift your sneaker. But when I picked up my foot and started walking again, collecting recipes that sounded exotic and tasty, I found there was no unpleasant odor clinging to my sole.

Sure, I couldn’t eat anything from the box of Godiva chocolates I had just gotten for Valentine’s Day or sprinkle grated Parmesan cheese on my beloved Italian dishes or dump a little whole milk in my chai tea every morning, but I was going to survive. If it’s good enough for Emily Deschanel (girlcrush!), then it’s good enough for me.

I’m addicted to dairy products, I guess is what I’m saying.

Fig.3 I count broccoli myself

My sister volunteered to take the vegan plunge along with me, so, armed with a list and some recipes, we went to Publix and the Green Bean organic market to gather supplies. We surprised ourselves at how quickly the flip-the-box-to-parse-the-ingredients-list obligation instilled itself into everyday life. I would zero in on the tiny type and wag my finger at any evidence that animals sacrificed their lives or comforts in the making of that product. Whey? Exploits milk cows. Egg whites? Exploits chickens. Honey? Exploits bees. Non-dairy creamer powder? Contains milk derivatives. “Non-dairy” my ass.

We got soy yogurt and soy milk, which we’ve had before and generally enjoy. We made sure to avoid butter and only use olive oil or corn oil for cooking (again, not a big issue). We’re already big fans of nearly every variety of beans (fava, by the way, look and taste like cockroaches, FYI), so we made hummus to use as a sandwich spread for lunches. We also picked up some things we had to learn to prepare, like tofu, bean sprouts, seitan and tempeh.

We had Portobello mushroom Parmesan on spaghetti with crunchy fried tempeh instead of meat crumbles. I made veggie burritos, tofu-cashew curry, and even discovered that vegan brownies taste even more chocolatey than regular ones. Tofutti ice cream, though, is a sad excuse for dessert, sorry to say. And Joseph warned me against “vegan cheese” which not even he would touch. In the end, we survived just fine. It was a challenge, but we came out of it better for doing it, and we learned some new favorite recipes (vegan waffles ROCK) that we’d happily eat outside of Vegan Week.

When our little experiment concluded, I decided that I could never deny my inherent foodie sensibility and significantly limit my intake of the myriad dishes this world has to offer my widely varied palate, but I am apt to expand my meatless options and explore the tastes of vegan cooking. It's always fun to try new recipes, and it's just plain good karma.

Fig.4 Contrary to popular myth, vegan food does not taste like this

One of Joseph’s favorite Simpsons episodes, appropriately enough, is “Lisa the Vegetarian,” in which Lisa realizes that the only difference between the lamb at the petting zoo and the lamb chop for dinner is that one spent two hours in the broiler. Her refusal to dissect an earthworm and inquiries into school lunch policies triggers Principal Skinner into screening an educational video from the Meat Council for the class. Troy McClure gives a little boy a tour of the beef industry, showing off the high-density feedlots and the killing floor of a slaughterhouse, leaving the little boy trembling and emotionally disturbed. When the video is over, the class is treated to a pile of tripe to snack on.

In all my life, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more masterful evisceration of the beef industry, much less satirized in a wildly popular television show. Read Fast Food Nation or watch Food Inc., and you’ll admit that The Simpsons didn’t exaggerate at all.

At one point in the Meat Council video Lisa is force-fed, Troy McClure displays a chart of the food chain. The image is a drawing of a few dozen wild animals, all with arrows pointing straight at the human drawn in the center, proving that eating meat is totally normal and just part of the natural order of things. And if we're totally honest with ourselves, you have to agree with Mr. Spock on this. Things have to die so we can survive.

This is not propaganda. Humans are omnivores and have evolved to eat both flora and fauna. Our cranial capacity developed as a result of hunting animals, which takes a lot more brain power than picking berries. If our ancestors didn’t eat meat, we wouldn’t be half as smart as we are today. Smart enough, in fact, to make choices about what we cram in our mouths. Vegan Week taught me my own gustatory boundaries and how to explore them, and while I may not be cut out for a completely animal-free diet, I am certainly more aware of how to be educated and judicious about what I consume.

Awareness is what distinguishes an enlightened mind. Christians are working to be aware of Jesus’ love. Muslims practice to be aware of the will of God. Jews believe it’s a duty to be aware of God’s presence. Hindus are occupied with being aware of the divine within each person. Vegans try their best to be aware of our connection to all living things and choose to treat them with the same respect we give to our human race.

That's as good a religion as any.


Fig.5 I agree

Everyday Hinduism, or How to order bindis from India

"In memories of her beloved, life is restless with longing.
He's in the bindi on my forehead.
He's in the sleepiness of my lashes."
-from the song "Dola Re Dola," Devdas


Fig.1 Oooooh shiny

'Twas a hot summer day in 2006 when my best friend Connie and I went to Islands of Adventure in Orlando. As is typical whenever we go to theme parks together, we were feeling adventurous and decided to work up the courage to hit the rollercoasters. Having grown up in central Florida, we had our share of hours on various thrill rides at Busch Gardens, Sea World, Disney, EPCOT, Animal Kingdom, and Universal Studios, but had never really taken advantage of the superior rides at IOA. Once we survived (and loved!) the Dueling Dragons, we were gung-ho for The Hulk and actually returned to the Dragons for a second time.

Somewhere in there, though, we stopped in at one of the Lost Civilization Island’s fantasy bazaar (now refurbished into Harry Potter World, or whatever), where all the shops are made up to look like they were lifted straight from Aladdin. Of course, I found the tent hawking the overpriced bellydancing supplies and fawned over the jingly belts and earrings and costumes I would never buy outside of a Renaissance Faire (much better deals). But I did pick up a small packet of multicolored bindis and promptly shared them with Connie. I wore a pink one and she wore blue, to coordinate with our t-shirt colors. We felt extra pretty walking around all day with our foreheads so adorned, but little did I know this one impulse purchase would lead to a new personal fashion habit that continues to this day.

Fig.2 Bollywood Babe Wannabe sighting in Key West

A few weeks later, I brought the same set of bindis with me on a week-long family trip to Key West. Key West, being Key West, is the provenance of all things kitsch and casual in my beloved state of Florida. Art shops, pirate jewelry sellers, pizza parlours, creperies, Margaritaville, Sloppy Joe’s, the Hog’s Breath Saloon—all bathed in the colors of the setting sun and neon signs. Almost everything we ate was seafood or was impregnated with key lime the same way everything on Dune is impregnated with Spice. It’s warm and inviting, but small and colorful and comforting, and you get the feeling that after dark, anything goes on Duval Street. There are kitschy restaurant bars every 50 feet, trinket shops in between, and streetside kiosks offering henna tattoos. It was just the kind of place I could wear my bindis, buy a sari (which I did), and walk around wearing both without feeling out of place.

When I got home, the bindis stuck, but I soon realized that they have an expiration date. The glue doesn’t hold out for long, and they get cruddy after a few weeks of constant use.

Fig.3 That's a SERIOUS Bindi

"Bindi" means “dot” in Sanskrit. Originally, they signified age, marriage, and/or religious affiliation, depending on who was wearing one (yes, even men wear the mark of sindoor on holy occasions). Traditional ones were simply crimson or yellow vermillion powder applied to the forehead during temple ceremonies or everyday home shrine puja offerings. The placement is meant to represent the ajna chakra, known as the center of insight and wisdom. The color red also represents the femenine power of the goddesses Sati and Parvati, and women who wear this tilak ("mark") will receive their blessings.

After years of watching Hindi movies (I promise a post on that soon!), I had seen every shape and size of bindi worn by hot Bollywood actresses, and it was just a matter of time before I decided that I wanted a piece of that action. Sometimes they wore them, sometimes they didn’t, and sometimes they wore big gaudy ones for special occasions.


Fig.4 Aishvarya Rai pimpin' her bindi in the movie Devdas

South Asian women in modern times treat the bindi as any other piece of jewelry or fashion accessory, no matter what their social status or association. As a result, they now come in an eye-popping array of styles, as I soon discovered when I went online to search for an internet site that sold them. Bindis come in every color to match your outfit and every size and shape to suit your occasion. They come plain or encrusted with crystals, pearls, and metallic accents.

The first site I ordered from sent me a small slightly battered package a few weeks later. It was a box wrapped in white cloth, sewed up with thread, my address was written in blue marker on the top, and it was slapped with a customs declaration certificate from Vastrapur Ahmedabad, India. It certainly looked like it had come from halfway around the world. Pretty wild, right?


Fig.5 We're not in Delhi anymore, Toto

I have since tried other sites as well, and one, Visionsofindia.com, hails from California, so my packages come much more quickly. Now, I’ll purchase between eight and ten new little packets of bindis every three months or so, so I get to try new styles all the time. I wear them everyday, every time I go out. It’s as obligatory as earrings or a necklace and I feel naked if I forget to put one on. The websites sell skin-safe bindi glue, but I’ve found that eyelash glue works very well, too. I have quite a collection, and I use the old ones to fancify picture frames or bedazzle some other craft I may be creating.
I’ve been lucky that my employer has no objection to my little quirk. Sometimes I think that they think it’s a strictly religious thing, and what with all the Islamic hijab-related school uniform debates in the news, they don’t want to be sued for discrimination. They don’t care about my tiny gold nose stud either, which is even more innocuous than the bindis, but complements my overall recherché Indian fashion so well that neither register as especially unusual.

Early on, my good friends got used to it immediately, calling it “such a Caity thing.” Given that they’ve witnessed my long history of hair and jewelry-related personal fashion kicks through the years, bindi-wearing was an organic development.


Fig.6 Another trademark "Caity Thing"

The most frequent inquiry from co-workers or random people standing in line at the cash register is about whether or not it’s a piercing, and I have to explain that it’s really just a snazzy sticker. I also get asked whether it “means something,” and I say that for me, it’s just something pretty, and what girl doesn’t like a little something extra sparkly to wear? I also clarify the ancient versus modern interpretation of its significance, and I feel happy that I’ve injected a bit of world culture into someone’s day.

When I’m out in places full of people who don’t work with me everyday and are incidentally immune to the oddity of bindis, I get glances and outright stares, especially from little kids who point tug at their mother’s shirt and poke at their own foreheads to communicate their absolute amazement at my facial adornment. I’ve even gotten a few bright elementary school children who correctly identify it as an “Indian” thing. They love it, and I wouldn’t be surprised to see them start running around with Dora The Explorer stick-on earrings worn on their ajna chakras.

At the end of the day, I remind myself that the Buddha wore bindis, and protecting the wisdom chakra with a bindi never hurts. The last thing I do after getting ready for the day is choose a bindi to wear, and in that way, what began as a fashion statement has evolved into religious ritual for me. The bindi does mean something to me. It’s a constant expression of my faith in beauty, wisdom, and individuality. With that definition behind the bindi, I don’t foresee my ever growing tired of it.

Fig.7 A girl has so many choices...

When the saints come marching back

“Saints are the Sinners who keep on trying.”

--Robert Louis Stevenson


Fig.1 St. Louis Cathedral, Jackson Square, New Orleans

The summer of 2004, I was in Gainesville taking my last required summer course so I could graduate one semester early in December. It was a fun class on one of my favorite subjects—Ancient Egyptian history—but there’s only so much hieroglyphics a girl can take, especially if it’s the only class you have with nothing else to do but sit around in your tiny closet of a dorm room the rest of the time. It was a particularly lonely summer.

Luckily, my buddy in nerdiness Elissa came to the rescue. At the time, she lived with her father not far from the campus and she’d break the boredom every so often, but one hot sticky July weekend, she outdid herself and spirited me off to New Orleans.

Her mother lived in Crestview in the Florida panhandle, so we stopped and slept there the first night, then woke up before dawn to make the three-hour car ride to Louisiana. Driving that stretch in her little blue Geo Metro, switching the air conditioning off just to give the little car enough juice to get over each hill, in the Vulcan heat of July in the American South… it was our obligatory college road trip, and we loved every moment.

We spent the daylight hours doing the tourist rounds in the French Quarter, with naught but iced café au laits the color of the Mississippi River and Styrofoam cups of cold beer to cool us down during our tour. It was a long walk filled with trinket stores, voodoo shops, Mardi Gras mask boutiques, the steamboat Natchez, gumbo-serving restaurants, and the St. Louis Cathedral—undoubtedly the most beautiful church I had ever stepped into in my life. Elissa, who had made the Crestview-to-New Orleans visit before with her mom, taught me the wonders of this new world that wasn’t so very far away.

Fig.2 Everyone loves a Boondock Saint

Over a year later, I was in Orlando for a nerd convention—this one the “ElfCon” of 2005, specifically catering to Lord of the Rings fans. Connie, Katrina and I stayed the night before the big day in the hotel, hanging out by the jacuzzi and sipping drinks from the poolside bar. It was to be our last big get together before Katrina moved out to Los Angeles to pursue her career in the TV biz, and we were having the time of our lives.

The morning of the day we were to get our photos taken with Elijah Wood—a massively spiritual event for us—we watched the news in the hotel room. The day before, a hurricane blew through the Keys, and we were worried it would turn north and cancel the convention. Instead, it headed into the Gulf of Mexico, and overnight, it exploded into a massive storm. Luckily, Florida was no longer in its path.

I remember knocking on the bathroom door as my friend was taking a shower and saying, “Hey, Katrina, you’re a Cat Five!”

“What?!” she said, her voice still noticeably shaky despite being muffled by the sound of running water.

“You’re a Cat Five!” I repeated.

She came out of the room and said, “I thought you said my cat died!”

Katrina was a Category Five. And as we walked from the room to the main convention hall of the hotel, the sky was overcast and drizzly, the clouds shaped like faded but distinct bands of a hurricane. It was so big that the weak outer bands covered Orlando even though it was headed straight for Louisiana.

Fig.3 Never again... we hope

June 2008, my sister and her husband invited me to help them move to Killeen, Texas, home of Fort Hood, where he would be stationed. We were to drive out over a few days, stopping in New Orleans for a break halfway through. I was to be their French Quarter tour guide.

Not only were we to grab our beignets and stroll Bourbon Street, we were on a mission—a mission to find saints.

A few weeks before this great road trip was to take place, I was listening to the Saintcast by podcaster Paul Camarata on my computer. He had an interview with Father James Martin about his book and being on TV. I just had to hear him discuss his impression of Stephen Colbert, and I got a little thrill from the interview. Having finished that very fascinating episode, I started in on another one, just to get a better sense of the podcast, whose goal it is to discuss the stories of a few saints in each episode and even go on trips to some of the pilgrimage sites associated with the saints. Some episodes consist of the audio “soundseeing” tour of the places Paul went.

In one episode, Paul interviewed the founder of SaintsforSinners.com—Rob Clemenz’s homespun operation to tell stories of the saints and sell hand-painted saints medals. It was a fairly successful little business based in New Orleans. When Katrina hit, all the medals were washed away, and he was resigned to give up on doing the website and practice law instead. But then he heard some stories from hurricane survivors who pulled up their bootstraps and didn’t give up on their homes and jobs and Rob changed his mind.

Fig.4 Our Lady of Perpetual Help

Today, a Saints for Sinners medal can be found around Bruce Springsteen’s neck, as well as The Tudors’ star Jonathan Rhys-Meyers. Even Paula Deen, the Butter Queen, has a medal. They seemed the perfect souvenir from New Orleans, and I told my sister we had to find them.

Addresses of medal-selling boutiques in hand, we set out for New Orleans. Of course, we were headed for the part of town least affected by Katrina, but I couldn’t help but see the big difference as we drove through the city, even compared to my memories from four years before.

Like a red welt left behind after getting slapped in the face, the damage from Katrina still lingered. It seemed that half the buildings and homes and roads I saw were still damaged and dilapidated, while the other half were brand new from being very recently rebuilt. Our arrival at the Superdome and Canal Street was like coming out of a half-baked virtual reality into an isolated sector of a fully-realized Second Life island. The French Quarter felt untouched. Standing on the boardwalk nearby Jackson Square, one would never know anything resembling the finger of God had ravaged the city to a degree that many people couldn’t imagine it ever being rebuilt and repopulated.

Fig.5 We are New Orleans

In the years following Katrina, I had seen much new coverage and documentaries on the storm’s effect on New Orleans, and contrasting those horrific images with the beautiful ones in my memory of the place was heartbreaking. Adding to that ache, the subject came up in a conversation at my work one day and someone casually tossed off a comment that the place was “sinful” anyway, that if any place deserved it, it was New Orleans.

Astonished at such callousness coming from an observant Christian woman, I tried to disabuse her of the ignorance behind that statement, enlightening her to the profound history and beauty of the city, of the God-fearing people who lived there, of the breathtaking St. Louis Cathedral where many worshiped. I had only seen one part of the city, but I saw enough to know that the world would be a lesser place to lose any part of New Orleans, a city built on its complexity of human experience.

Turns out it’s not hard to find saints in New Orleans. Sure, we had a few hitches in locating our medals in some boutique stores and we did eventually get some, but the real saints of New Orleans are the people who came back. Walking around the Quarter and seeing how many small businesses made the tough decision to start all over for the sake of their lives, for the sake of their hearts and souls, for the sake of their faith that they would resurrect their home so America could still count this jewel of a place in its vast collection… it became clear the real saints had never truly left.

There was no more appropriate souvenir to take home from NOLA than a Rob Clemenz medal. Mine may have a colorful depiction of St. Francis of Assisi on it, but it’s essentially a St. Clemenz medal, Patron Saint of Survivors.

Fig.6 We are the Saints

Islamophile

Yassir: You know, it's brave of you to be doing a show like this, given our political climate.
David: Right! Also, uh, we have ethnic quotas and our Jewish dude quit.
--“Little Mosque On The Prairie”

Fig.1 Allah bless & keep Morgan Freeman!

My first memory of Islam is Morgan Freeman.

I was eight or nine years old, sitting on the floor of the darkened living room as my family watched Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves on VHS. As I marveled at the epic story and the characters, I remember asking myself if I were a Christian, just like Robin Hood. When I assumed I was, I was very proud to share something with this charismatic do-gooder. I have since fallen in love with both Errol Flynn’s and Douglas Fairbanks’ portrayals of the legendary swashbuckler and Prince of Thieves makes me yearn for Renn Faire season every year.

For a very long time, the only real concept I had of a Muslim was Morgan Freeman’s character, Azeem: “the Painted Man” who accompanies Robin of Locksley back to England and has trouble finding quibla in the infamously overcast new climate. He is wise, mysterious, and sticks out like a Moorish thumb. His understanding of the world is as obviously different from the rest of the characters as his skin color, but people soon realize he’s not a “savage” and accept him because of his kindness and mental skill.

Fig.2 Morgan is God, after all

The deepest impression I got was from the scene in which a little girl timidly walks up to Azeem and asks him “Did God paint you?” He says yes, and she wonders why. Azeem smiles and replies, “Allah loves great diversity.”

Fast forward half a lifetime later, and my eyes grace Surah 49 “Al Hujurat,” verse 13 in the Qur’an:

O mankind! We created
You from a single
Of man and a female
And made you into
Nations and tribes, that
Ye may know each other

I immediately thought of Azeem when I read that. He really knows his stuff.

My second memory of Islam is 9/11. Unfortunately, for many people, 9/11 is their only memory of Islam. The smiling, freckled face of Morgan Freeman would never come to their minds.

I remember many college students getting agitated and jumping into a car late at night to steal an American flag off someone’s house to hang it high from the outside stairway railings of our dorm and yelling about “ragheads” and “camel jockeys.” The irony of stealing personal property to showboat their patriotism is totally lost on freshmen boys.

There were half a dozen of us dorm-dwellers cloistering ourselves in my room that Tuesday morning, eyes glued to the same tiny 13-inch TV I use to watch The X-Files and The Daily Show, all of us watching in confusion and sadness as neighbors called their relatives in New York City to make sure everyone was okay. Classes were canceled, of course, but the otherwise beautiful sunny day outside didn’t prevent us from envisioning the surreal image of another hijacked plane crashing into the Turlington Plaza or Ben Hill Griffin Stadium, with tens of thousands of students being burned alive.

I could only imagine how terrified the Muslim students must have been. They probably prayed that the hijackers weren’t Muslims. Many law-abiding American Muslims began to fear for their safety whenever they walked out the door.

They felt the same as every other American.

For many years, I had no idea that I had no idea. My Islamic education came slowly but lovingly.

Fig.3 Holmes & Watson of the desert

My last semester at UF, I developed a huge crush on Omar Sharif. It was Thanksgiving and I was home for the vacation. I spent that Sunday night in heaven: a long evening in the warm and Christmas tree-lit living room, watching our seasonal favorite Doctor Zhivago with the parents, glass of warm Baileys in hand. I nearly nodded off several times near hour three, and having heard Lara's Theme clinging to every tiny soundless niche of the film's soundtrack, it stuck in my head for the entirety of my dreams.

When I went back to school, TCM was re-running Doctor Zhivago, so I left that on in the background while I did homework and noticed that Lawrence of Arabia aired right after it. I thought, why not? I’ve always meant to see that one, might as well check out David Lean’s epic Panavision masterpiece on my trusty 13-inch TV-VCR combo. I cringe to think I committed such film screening blasphemy, but it was a good thing I watched anyway, because it launched my love of all things remotely Arabian.

I tracked down a copy of "Seven Pillars Of Wisdom" on Amazon and diligently read it while immersed in a motley mix of Persian/Egyptian bellydance tunes on my iPod. Nothing could beat the romance of T.E. Lawrence’s adventures in desert politics. His curiosity regarding Arabian religion and culture was enviably strong and I found myself just as intrigued by the customs of the “Moslems” as he was. I also learned an inordinate number of facts regarding dromedary gastral fuctions.

After the honeymoon period for that chapter of my intellectual stimulation, the camel love held on the longest. I still watch Omar Sharif movies every Thanksgiving, but it took another curly-haired chocolate-eyed infatuation to really fuel my interest in Islam.

To be continued...

Fig.4 I... LOVE... camels