My Father's Book

Today I found my Father's Book. I picked it up in the process of cleaning, an old book that has held little if any significance in my library. I moved it from shelf-to-shelf, room-to-room never opening or even paying much attention to the cover. I thought it was just an old book I'd found at an old sale or picked up from someone's throw away.

Today I picked it up and read the cover, "Arabic Grammar" by G.W. Thatcher. I thought 'oh nice', I have an old arabic grammar book. This point alone raised it's value as I a Muslim, who strongly believes that Islam has to go through an indigenation process in America in order for us to ingenuously cipher and internalize God's message. This evolution and development is critical so that native people control the interpretation, application and destiny of faith and not assimilate the 'deliverers' of the message. The learning of the translation and interpretation of arabic has been high on my list as I learned to read and recite the Quran in arabic as a youth.

As I perused the book, I caught interest in it's layout and familiar grammatical lessons and thought I will have to add it to my 'reading' shelf and commit to a daily read. Before I shelved it, I turned to the beginning to check the publish date, since it looked like a classic. I turn the front cover and I see the name, "Amin Hafiz Nasiruddin". For a split second I thought my mother had written my name in the book, then, in an epiphany, I realized, this was my father's book.

My father, whose name I carry but have never known. I have one picture with him that has always been in my life except with his face bended back to only reveal my Ummi and I. My father accepted Islam in the 60s, my mother described him as a very intelligent man but from a familiar struggle of Black male survival. A background that would catch up with him removing him out of my life. In my conscious, I don't remember anything about him as he was taken from me when I was 3 or 4. My mother, told me he loved me so, like I was the hope that, at least to that point in his life, he was yet to know. I affectionately relate to that emotion as I have 3 children and there existence gives me that same hope.

The only other story I know of him is pieced by a couple of his contemporaries who are now deceased. They all agree that he was a 'supreme' brotha who was loyal and honest, committed to his family and faith, ever-working to improve the condition of his community. They tell me of how he would arrive at Juma (Friday prayer service) and I would religiously be awaiting by the door to greet him at the 'Wabash Mosque'. After his imprisonment, I would continue to wait at the door but never to see him enter that door or any ever again.

I don't know what my life would have been with him. I don't have any regrets in my present life as the Most High chose a different journey. But my one regret maybe not knowing or even able to recognize his voice or image. His absence in my life ignited a focus in me to be in my children's lives. To make decisions as a young adult, young husband and young father to put the odds in my favor to be relevant in their lives and available. His absence gave me presence in my journey. I was blessed with another father who taught me to be a man and to him I give gratitude and honor.

My father may no longer be in this world. To date, I've haven't reached out to discover the part of me from which I derive. I honestly don't know if he is still in his earthly condition but today he came alive again in my heart as I read his name in the book I found. Today, I found my father's book. I offer a prayer for him where ever he may be. I give thanks for him and beg forgiveness for my absence and forgiveness for his. Today, I'll try to reach deep into my subconscious to find him and maybe tomorrow, I'll reach into the world to find my father. But right now, I'm gonna hold on to my father's book.