Today, I am a Muslim.
So far this year, I’ve simultaneously dreaded and anticipated each new religion. But this month, my month of Islam, I have to admit that I’ve really only been dreading it.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against Muslims, like many Americans seem to. I do believe that Islam is inherently a peaceful faith and that the vast majority of Muslims are good people and not radical terrorists.
But at the same time, there is an element of fear. I never worried that “pagan fundamentalists” would come after me for making fun of the notion of fairies. I never even considered the possibility that anyone would attack me—either verbally or physically—when I kind of made fun of Jesus. But the fear that I could suffer some type of retribution for giving my real opinion on Islam—any aspect of it—is palpable. And it’s making me a bit reluctant to be myself and really give my all to this whole project.
But I’ll try, even though it won’t be easy. And it’s not just the fear that’s going to make this month difficult. As luck (and some unfortunate planning) would have it, this month is Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting. That means no food or drink or sex between sunrise and sundown—no small task during the summer, when it stays light for so long. Plus, there’s no pork (which is forbidden in Islam) and no booze—at all.
But I did prepare for this month of sacrifice in advance. On my last day of Shinto, I took the liberty of consuming two big ole pork chops and drinking a solid bottle (okay, maybe it was more) of wine. I may actually still be a little bit drunk today. But cut me some slack. Last night’s booze has to last me a whole 30 days.
Islam, here we go.
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