and for most Muslims, that means going to the mosque for Friday Prayer.

Now, I talk a lot about the clash between my sexual and religious identity on here. Why? Because it’s a recurring theme that I feel may never go away for as long as I live.

When I was growing up, I was okay with being pushed into religion. I mean, I was just a kid, I did as my parents did because I wanted to make them happy. I, as well as the rest of my siblings, were forced to go to Sunday School for 10 years, where we each “learned” how to read and write in Arabic, and where we were taught about our religion.

Even early on then, I had already felt the slight bitter taste of being a social outcast. I was the only Vietnamese/Indian mix there, and the other kids were all from middle eastern backgrounds. Pakistanis, Indians, Afghans, Persians, you name it. They were all there; thus, they already knew a LOT more than I did. As my education progressed in Sunday School, I was slowly realizing that I wasn’t learning shit. Besides my religion’s culture and history, I could care less about learning how to read Arabic or memorizing and reciting verses from the Quran.

All of this escalated in 5th/6th grade when I had learned that I like girls. Now of course, by then, I knew that it was one of the biggest sins a Muslim can commit, y’know, homosexuality and all. I initially freaked out and panicked, but as time went on I just learned to accept it. I remember when we were voting on Prop 8, the announcer at my Sunday School urged all of the parents to vote yes to “protect our children.” Kids and fully grown teachers alike made fun of gay people. I recall a classmate a few years older than I saying “I hope gay marriage doesn’t get passed in California. I mean that’s gross, I don’t want to see two guys holding hands or anything.” So you could see how the split between my identity and my religion started; not with a minute crack, but a large chasm filled with confusion.

Let’s fast forward to now. People ask what religion I am, and I always take an awkward breath and reply with, “Well, I was raised in a Muslim family, but to be honest I am a horrible example of a Muslim.” I don’t pray, I’m gay, what else could I possibly add to that horrifying list? If you ask why I don’t pray, I will tell you this: one of my Sunday School teachers (a lady I never really liked critiquing me on aspects that are merely optional in Islam) told us one day that we should only pray if we really believe and love God; otherwise, don’t pray. From that moment on, it all made sense. Why should I pray to something that I am not 110% sure in, something that not all of my faith is restored in? But still, my mom kept pressuring me and even threatening me to do all of this… stuff. It made me sad that she had to resort to this, because religion should never be forced down one’s throat; but hey, she didn’t want to see her youngest end up like the rest of her kids, seeing as my brothers and sister never took the path that she did when it came to religion.

And so for the past few years I have been floating effortlessly in a pool of religious haze, uncertain of my future. So many questions plague my head, the most frequent being “Why should I pray to a God who hates me anyways.” Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate Islam at all. I don’t hate Muslims. I don’t hate God. I’m just very confused and often times it makes me sad that I don’t have that little spiritual light shining from my soul like the people who are immersed in their own religions do.

And well, I never really knew where this was going.

But uh, if you are one of those few people who are 110% certain of your faith, regardless of who your deity is, you are extremely lucky. Trust me on that.