“Woah, really? Not even a sip?”
“Not even a sip.”
This dialogue is a cornerstone of my existence, whether I’d like it to be or not. I have never had an alcoholic beverage in my life, and for some reason, it seems to be a big deal.
I was raised in a devout Muslim household. We were so religious that my sister was the Sunday school teacher at our mosque. As a student of hers, I learned that alcohol was strictly forbidden for Muslims. A Qur’an verse asserts that alcohol contains both good and evil, but “the evil is greater than the good.”
The absence of alcohol in our home felt like the impetus of my hybrid experience as a Muslim American. This wasn’t a bad thing, but it most definitely created a barrier between our home and everyone else’s. While everyone else’s father watched the Yankees with a beer, mine watched the Yankees with a cup of chai. The majority of my parents’ company were fellow Pakistani immigrants, so wedding receptions never had a bar, parties never had a sangria bowl, and holidays never involved wine. For years, I never saw the opportunity to even try alcohol.
During the summer before my sophomore year of high school, I went to my first house party. I didn’t have a drink, but this was my first time seeing drunk people in real life. Dancing, flirting, laughing drunk people. I fell in love with their carefree attitudes, as they stumbled around, unworried by anything. I thought that while I would never partake in this revelry, I would always be a joyful spectator of it. But after a few years, it was no longer joyous. The notion of eternal sobriety seemed ridiculous. Right before my senior year, I smoked weed and it was awesome.
Everyone (including myself) thought that I had abstained from alcohol for religious reasons, but being a Muslim didn’t stop me from getting stoned at 17. Islam forbids any food or drink that alters consciousness, but I never feel bad about hitting a joint. Marijuana became my personal exception when I recognized the mental health benefits it’s said to provide when used responsibly. Also, no one’s been able to point me to a Qur’an verse that explicitly forbids me from getting high before bed.
“The absence of alcohol in our home felt like the impetus of my hybrid experience as a Muslim American.”
I’ve been tempted to try a drink at times, just to know what I’m missing out on. I’m fascinated by wine and its connoisseurs, I find the sound of a cork popping to be extremely satisfying, and I’m immensely curious about that “fuzzy feeling” everyone talks about with a smile. But after two decades of “not even a sip,” I’ve made my abstaining from alcohol a part of my identity. Up until very recently, I didn’t realize that this was my strange way of compensating for being so “American.”
Still, I felt detached from both sides of my identity. It’s common for New Yorkers in their early twenties to get hammered, and that’s something I’m not interested in. It’s common for Muslims to live absolutely sober lives, and that’s something I’m not interested in.
It’s the things I don’t do that keep me feeling like a Muslim. I don’t eat pork, I don’t gamble, and I don’t drink. In terms of my Islam, it’s much easier to not do something than to actively do something. So if I rarely opt in to pray, I choose to never drink. Does this mean that if I pray all five prayers one day, I’ll reward myself with a glass of Johnnie Walker? I don’t know.
In order to feel connected to the Islam I was raised with, I’ve deprived myself of essential aspects of Americana: bacon, Vegas, and beer. It’s true that one can be very Muslim and very American, but I’ve created a strange compromise with God just so I can sleep at night. I guess that means I believe in God.
Since I can’t recite all these thoughts to one individual, and to save time, the routine dialogue goes something like this:
“Woah, really? Not even a sip?”
“Not even a sip.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t know what to tell you, that’s just me.”
