They tuck the women into a tiny room hand us polyester dresses with head covers My sister and I do our best to become holy in four sizes too large and enter this white marble mass that anchors the city My little sister says there’s no real muslims anywhere! And I wonder if we are the exception or the rule? It’s as if we never spent each Saturday on a small pilgrimage to Dar-al-Huda The House of Guidance a place where I’d wrap and cover and pin the only part of my appearance I thought was pretty beneath a hijab wear a black pleated skirt that never hung quite right trip over the threshold of that enlightened house where all the other girls had hadith dripping from their tongues Perhaps I’ll always be alien It takes no majesty to recognize this as we reach the entrance Two rows one for believers who come to pray one for tourists who want to see an authentic rendition of prayer under the echo of gilded vault My father goes to pray my sister follows I pause at the threshold believer on a sign in four languages What do I believe besides what my body tells me? I enter on the tourist side feeling the cool marble on bare feet the heat on the rest of my skin I watch my father and sister pray from behind a red rope They prostrate their bodies to sujood like camels stooped to drink from water Nobody would guess that I know them that I know these prayers like phases of the moon
"This poem explores what it means to be a child of immigrants who is raised within the Muslim faith, but never quite fits the picture of what her parents or her culture imagined she should be. Between the push and pull of assimilation to American culture and the tradition of Southwest Asian and Muslim culture, it becomes hard to pin down identity. When placed back in a holy space, I questioned my faith, my queerness, my womanhood, my understanding of myself."
"Kazim Ali's new book of poetry, The Voice of Sheila Chandra, is in some ways a historical account, part lyrical and evocative contemporary poetry, part mystical and metaphysical invocation, and part interwoven puzzle of language. And it started with a broken voice....Chandra is a popular Indian singer who lost her ability to sing or speak."
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“I remember telling my students give me a minute I have to write something down, and though I say 'the words just came' the language itself felt almost intrusive, like a clumsy adaptation of a finer, more efficient form of communication—and yet, the pressure to inscribe was compelling. It was like passively receiving something and also being able to physically make something at the same time."
