I love Islam and cream soda

The Chinese say, “May you live in interesting times.” My life right now is an intense struggle of faith and revenance. I've been “here” before. At 19, I was a full -fledged hoodlum and on my way to prison, toting a 16 year sentence for robbery and a high speed police chase. At 26, I was free on parole. I'd converted to Islam, had a wife, a baby, and a house full. My new faith gave me a new direction and improbable and amazing opportunities. I became a market research manager, specializing in political polling, a community activist, and a Muslim advocate and speaker. I also became a writer and editorialist, a Jujitsu and MMA fighter, and even a bouncer. My life was indeed interesting, to say the least.

Over a decade ago several brothers and I were conducting a fitness-and-fellowship class at our masjid (mosque) on Denver’s Eastside. Our program was a mixture of a physical, often times grueling regimen of workout routines and kenpo karate drills, along discussions, debates, and homework/essays about Islam, spirituality and self-improvement. Many of us who participated fondly remember the program to this day (and intend to resurrect it soon). One weekend morning, our brother Curtis happened upon the class and after observing for a time, pulled me to the side and asked me what I knew about jujitsu. At the time, I had little idea that Curtis was a Brazilian Jujitsu black belt instructor at a well-known school in Aurora. I told him I knew only what I saw on TV, watching UFC fights.   Then Curtis said these fateful words: “Let me show you something…”

"Nigga" is a spoken word... A poem I wish I never heard A haiku that tastes like a lollipop or butterscotch With a bubble in it that cuts the roof of your mouth when you suck too hard on it "Nigga" swirls an effervescent tingle at the back of your throat, Before it backflips quick off the palette like a gymnast Yet I wince,  Every time I see white folks hear me and my niggas saying it We use "nigga" like a slave masters last name Both lies about our past – that we adopt anyway "Nigga" hangs in our mouth like niggas hung in the south

It’s a constant question: What do men look for in a woman? Yet, it seems that every time it is asked, the answer is never very honest, or it’s clichéd or just plain off-target. And so the question goes.  And goes... So here’s an answer I hope will be appreciated. (As I write this, I am single – and looking.) Men, as humans go, are primal and what we look for in a woman is driven by primal and sensory instincts much more than we realize or care to admit. Sil... Ever watch the movie Species ? In one scene, the evil alien Sil, intent on mating and reproducing, rejects a potential subject after she senses (sniffs out) he is diabetic. We men are like Sil. Our selection of women is sensory. Our brain tells us to size up a woman and based on what we perceive, we select the one that we innately desire to have our babies in order to carry on our “line”. This explains why as much as we are interested in a woman’s brain, our eyes always stray to t...

The Universe always speaks and sometimes we are given a brief ability to listen. Tonight, I got a message… It was actually a 3-part message that culminated tonight. The first part was sent earlier today – I was in a meeting with a community-based organization and one of the ladies there shook my hand and remarked how soft my skin was. No biggie except that everyone in the office rolled with laughter as I stood there embarrassed – I mean, I’m a pretty manly dude (I think), heck, even a fighter, so I don’t imagine having soft hands, not the kind that get remarked on. Now let’s backtrack a bit to several months ago, while I was in prison. I got an online generated message from an old friend, “Rose” (not her real name), totally out of the blue.   Rose and I really don’t know each other but we have been friends for nearly 20 years. We have never met face to face or even had a direct conversation. We met originally on a couple religious message boards run by MSN, way back wh...

When you’re poor You’re most likely born to a poor parent That parent most likely lives in Baltimore and with addiction So, it’s more likely you were born premature So you’ll live in the hospital and you won’t go home Until you weigh at least 5 pounds And home is most likely the projects Where the paint is peeling off the walls When you’re poor and a baby born in Baltimore, you learn real fast How to pick things up off the floor to put into your mouth Like binkies, cheerios, pennies And paint chips...

I've come back into the world to a Muslim father's worst nightmare. When I left my kid, she was all of 15. Now, she's 19 - and to my chagrin of chagrins, she has a boyfriend.  He aint Muslim. Yeah, I'm a bit perturbed. Okay, I'm pissed. I would like to have imagined that nothing like this could have happened in any type of reality. My religion is my life and so I have had every intent in making it as important to my child. After all, she is my flesh and blood and the only other person carrying my name (legitimately) – and because I am a first generation Muslim convert, it’s her I am relying on to carry on the family religious legacy.