I love Islam and cream soda

One year ago today, my life was measured in eight gunshots. Five of those bullets found their mark: one tearing through my eye socket and exiting my neck, the others shattering my arms, shoulder, and elbow. The impact detached my retina; the damage to my carotid artery triggered a stroke that stripped the feeling from my entire left side. A year later, the physical toll remains. I live with searing nerve pain and partial vision. I struggle to tie my shoes or type with the speed I once had. On the nights I do sleep, I often wake to the echo of those shots and the metallic taste of gunpowder on my tongue. I remember that night with haunting clarity. I felt a dark energy approaching and I moved first, throwing an elbow that made him scream—his teeth marks are still etched into my skin. The next sound I heard was the bullet entering my face. The case remains open as attempted murder. The police have their theories—ranging from a gang initiation to a disgruntled ex-b...

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.