The topic that I have chosen for my memoir is my experience growing up in a household of two religions; Islam and Christianity.  When I was a child, my mother and I lived in my Nana’s (great grandmother) house. We shared this house with my aunt, my grandmother and her siblings, as well as their children.  Most of the household was Christian, however, my grandmother’s sister had met and married a Muslim man.  She converted to Islam soon after and raised her children to be Muslim as well, while still remaining under the same roof as the rest of the family.

Even as a child I could see the differences between myself and my Muslim cousins.  Of course, a lot of my thoughts were minuscule in nature.  They were the sort of thoughts a little girl might have upon seeing another child with a prettier, or more elaborate doll.  I only saw the aesthetic value of the religion.  Being quite young, that was one of the few things I had to concern myself with.  As I got older, and began learning more about religion in general, as well as the rifts that religious tension can create, I started deeply contemplating what my family’s religious differences really meant.  It made me question everything about religion; what was the right thing to believe in, and, if that’s right, then is everything and everyone else wrong?

Now that I’ve really thought about it, growing up in that household is probably the sole cause of my openness towards the unknown.  The first answer I ever gave to someone who asked about me and my cousin’s difference in religion was, “There is only one God.  He just chose to come to everyone in a different way. Maybe in a way that  they would be more accepting of it.”  I believe I was in elementary school at that time.  From there, I have just been on a whirlwind of a ride trying to figure out what I really believe.