I love Islam and cream soda

July is always a mash up month for me, where the elation of summer and the melancholy of mourning meet. The first day of the month marked 8 years since my daughter Octavia Shwayyah Rashid passed away. Despite the pain that inevitably accompanies the loss of a loved one, Shwayyah's life and death leave heavier imprints of joy on my heart. The oldest of my first brood of stepkids, our relationship was meshed with struggle as I wrestled my way through parenthood. By the time she became a parent herself, we had reconciled a difficult past. Our relationship changed, and Shwayyah became my confidant, an inspiration. Shwayyah taught me. She taught me that all of the kids I raised turned out pretty dope, despite my screwups, because my presence, intentions, and struggles to be a parent counted more than I could ever realize. She teasingly called me "Pops" because I was "getting old." My daughter's death is sans tragedy. The only "bad" thing was how ...

You age more, and fight less. At least, that's the general rule. I haven't had a real knock down, drag out street brawl since 2012, when I turned the tables on 2 dudes harassing my daughter over her head scarf (after I checked them, they made the mistake of jumping on me). Barring a fracas here and there, working in the club especially, and not counting the innumerable whuppings my dojo teammates have given me, last Saturday broke the streak. Enter Percy Boatner, 3rd of his name, known by most as "Shoog." Meeting him, I quickly got the impression that he was trying to live up to the bully persona, the namesake of former Death Row CEO, Mr. Knight. Truth be told, if it weren't for him being physically

Dear Jannah, There there a few reasons that I write this, the foremost being the obligation to tell my own story, an obligation incited by your unsound attempt to narrate your own excerpt. The author Nathan McCall is one of my heroes. Our lives parallel at points (he grew up in my parents' neighborhood, went to prison, embraced Islam, became a writer) and I began conversing with him in 2012, which sealed the deal for me. Of course there are detractors, who tell me to be quiet, to "let itgo," but I remain resolute. There's another favorite author of mine who suffered for not being quiet. Instead she spoke up...and got shot in the face for 3 words. Those 3 words that brought her a world of pain, set her, and many others free. She said, "I am Malala," and changed the world. I am not Malala, but she is like me - I gotta a big mouth, and of course you know I'm going to reply to anyone who claps at me in the craven way you did. It's easy, isn'...

Back on September 10th, I posted an admittedly provocative picture on my Twitter, of me cutting a gag off of my mouth - one that had "Dom" written on it - with the caption "#48Days". To most, it was an obvious reference to my then-countdown to the day that I would be off of parole and able to talk freely about my ordeal with my ex-wife, Dominique. But to my man, Theo Wilson, it was an opportunity to cape for Dominique and attempt to call me out on Facebook and both get back in her good graces and look like Black-Women's-Best-Friend. All the while, he claimed to be "brotherly" to me. He must've meant "brotherly" in the sense that Cain was "brotherly" to Abel. Some background: In August, the Kasbah nightclub hosted its poetry night on a Thursday and a sister recited a poem about being molested and then pointed out an audience member (and fellow open mic performer) as apparently being the one her poem was about. This s...

On November 26, minding my own business, I got an interesting Facebook friend request.  At first glance, it looked like the typical spam request that would eventually direct me to a porn site.  Except for the locale of the person.  Generally, the spam requests come from a locale either from my profile like where I grew up, but this one was from Colorado.  It took about 4 seconds of a closer look to realize that it was my ex-wifey Dominique, after old shenanigans. And I do mean “old”.  She had only just recently catfished to me taking on the guise of a weather person working at 9News.  The same 9News that had just exposed her as a fraud and a house thief.  Dominique intended for me to click on a link that she sent that would record and send her my IP address.  Not that she could do anything with that info, especially given the fact that I don’t have a static IP address; the perks of having more than one or two hacker friends. First, I sn...

When an inmate gets out of prison, it is a rebirth - and there are questions they confront in order to start a new life.  One of the most important ones is, "Where am I going to live?"  As a society, we have no idea of the reality that the majority of inmates get out of prison and that they will become our neighbors. I know this - because I was that inmate, and I am now "that neighbor".

It was July, 2010. That summer, my daughter was preparing to move to Baltimore with her mother, who had recently married a brother living there. Being the dutiful father and Muslim, I helped my ex pack and straighten the apartment for their departure. As I was gathering up Umarah’s things, I came across as small, girly-pink notebook labeled, “JOURNAL”. I’ve said it before – as a father, when it comes to kids, I am nosy. Unapologetically. I don’t subscribe to Leave-It-To-Beaver notions of parenting. Being a step/father to girls made me super vigilant, super protective. And super nosy. Sue me – and good luck. All that, of course, is to say, I opened and thumbed thru Umarah’s journal. What I read ripped my soul out and tied it in a knot.