Unconventional

Fatima (pronounced Fa-tee-mah) is a name I had to grow to appreciate. My mother named me after a little girl she met while in the Labor and Delivery unit. My mom shared the room with her sister after having me. The young starlight was too tiny to visit the new addition to her family, and was often spotted outside the door peeking through the glass, her big, bountiful eyes peering through bared hope and excitement. This tickled my mother enough to inquire on who she was. She carried an exuberance my mother wished for me to have one day. Her rich and dark melanin, matched mine, so smooth and pure like a black pearl. I guess it was only befitting to name me after her.

I love sharing the story behind how my mom came up with my name. But if I were to be honest, I loathed it most of my youth. It was too difficult for people to pronounce, and too easy for people to screw up, especially in public settings when they loudly called, “Fa’Timah? Is Fa’Timah here?” After so long, I learned to just answer and stop correcting. It was more embarrassing to correct than to just bow out to the screwed up pronunciation. Plus, if I acted like it was right, the snickering from onlookers was usually abbreviated.

Hanging out in the community, my family engaged a lot with people of the Muslim faith, and would sometimes visit the mosque for prayer. That is how we came to gain a close friend in Brother Joseph. He was the first to provide purpose to all the picking I had endured, being named something so distinctive. He explained to me that the Arabic meaning of the name, Fatima, is Daughter of The Prophet. Frequently referred to as Fãtimah al-Zahra, she was the daughter of the founder of Islam, and adored by many followers. She was someone who was viewed as highly intelligent. She held the demeanor and character of which both men and women strived to meet (Abdurahman, 2019). Years later, a Catholic friend of mine educated me on another blessing surrounding my name; the miracle of three children encountering the Virgin Mary in Fatima, Portugal. They claimed to have been visited by the Virgin Mary six times, where she shared a series of prophesies and visions with them. It was such a miracle in the eyes of the Catholic faith that a blessing was issued, now commonly known as Our Lady of Fàtima (Radford, May 2013).

Learning some lineage behind my name certainly helped my confidence when facing the different pronunciations, and revealed the big shoes to fill in order to walk in its greatness. No matter how it is pronounced, a benediction is attached to it, and that makes me proud, especially because it was a blessing that came directly off the shoulders of another black child. The beautifulness she carried was shared in the simplest of ways, yet the most significant, with her namesake. My heart smiles every time I think of it.

I grew up a Buddhist under the Nichiren Daishonin philosophy. This was a generational practice handed down by my maternal grandmother. She was introduced to the religion when my mother was young, and it carried a legacy of its own. It was both exciting and isolating, being the only family in my neighborhood who practiced Buddhism. Historically, black families have been regarded as Christians or Muslims. Telling my friends I was neither, opened the door to a conversation I did not feel qualified to have, and was a daunting thing to anticipate. So, most of the time I avoided the discussion and allowed them to assume whatever they wanted, which was a much easier approach than trying to explain the differences and similarities between their God and mine. Please understand, I was not ashamed of my religion, but I wanted to be accepted. What teenager doesn’t?

When the Tina Turner movie came out, (“What’s Love Got To Do With It”) there was such an excitement in the Buddhist community. In the film, she is seen being introduced to Nichiren Daishonin Buddhism and chanting prayers at the altar. Seeing someone as strong, beautiful and famous as Tina, praying to the Gohonzon like I would do every day, was inspiring! Learning she was a Buddhist definitely helped me not feel like such a foreigner in my community. I also felt relieved to finally have an easy way to explain my faith. Opening the door to our faith often resulted in people thinking my family was practicing witchcraft. This was the farthest thing from the truth, but we quickly learned that people ultimately believe what they want to believe.

I recall a season where my mother decided to start attending a church near our home. We always heard the pastor on the radio; maybe that’s why her church was chosen over others. When we initially began attending, I felt like a fish out of water. The mesmeric sounds of the choir filled the room as we sat in awe. The format of prayer was very different than what we were accustomed to. Where we were used to sitting most of our prayer time, the congregants stood, shouted, jumped, and even ran. It was a lively experience! Not much time passed before we became involved in the church as members. My younger brother was a natural talent, and began playing the drums for Sunday service. We never understood why we began going to church, but we did not care. The experience was fully embraced by all of us. It felt good hearing the music and singing the songs. My youthful ears did not understand most of the messages the Pastor brought forth, but it never bothered me to sit through the service.

There was so much intrigue over this man named Jesus. Experiencing praises being raised on behalf of His name made something on the inside of me unruffle. I could tell that my mother was having a similar experience. I never liked to see her cry, but these tears seemed to come from a tranquil place. She would freely extend her hands to the ceiling as if reaching up to someone. It was a beautiful mystery to witness. Each time we left that building, we were happier, as if weight had been removed from our person. But as quick as the experience began, it came to an abrupt end.

One Saturday, as we pulled up to the church for choir rehearsal, the pastor and a couple deacons met us outside. They would not let us enter the building, and we were ushered back to our car. The Pastor expressed her displeasure with our religious background and told my mother it was demonic worship. I could see the hurt and embarrassment on my mother’s face as we listened to the reason we were no longer welcome. We were asked to leave the premises and not return.

The words being spoken about us made me angry. I did not understand what our past religious preference had to do with our current choice. It felt like God was being taken away from us, and I did not understand what we did to deserve the punishment. Every Sunday morning, we would hear this person on the radio speaking about God’s love and inviting people to visit. We did just that, but because we were not like them, we were being turned away. The entire moment left me sad and speechless.

My mother’s countenance was normally covered in strength, but that day, I don’t know... I think the confrontation caught her off guard, and the dismissal hit deeper than she has ever admitted. My brothers and I were demanded back into the car, and we never attended another service at that church, or any other. Led by my mother, we eventually renewed our ancestral commitment to the Nichiren Daishonin religion. The rejection we received from the corner church deeply impacted my family’s outlook on God. We felt looked down on and developed a “Them against us” mentality. That one incident was the conduit for immense distaste towards the Christian faith, and stained our perception for years.

Growing up a Buddhist opened my life to things I never knew would matter so much, as an adult. The biggest one is diversity and inclusion. At an early age, I learned to fellowship with all races. I came alongside Hispanics, Asians, and Caucasians weekly, to pray, converse, brainstorm, and give love. I never had the experience of not fitting in or being turned away because of my skin color or background. My youth leader and mentor was Asian, and helped teach me how to transition from a tomboy to a young woman. Public speaking, empathy, and leadership traits were learned through this religious structure, and I use them faithfully today.

At the age of nineteen my soul yearned for more. Remembering the way my heart smiled listening to songs at the corner church, helped guide my decision to learn who Christ was and how His teachings could apply to my life. Once I shared the decision to walk with God, there were times I was accused of being in what was viewed as a ‘cult’. I was condemned by loved ones for choosing a different spiritual path and often felt shame from their disapproval. I found it ironic that the very people previously accused of being in a cult, were accusing others of being in a cult. Perspective is an interesting thing, and untamable if allowed to get too wild. Nonetheless, how many people can say they are a Christian who grew up Buddhist, with an Islamic name? I feel triple blessed to be one of those who can.

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