I am a Muslim. My potential father-in-law, Bob, is an evangelical Christian. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with his daughter, Jillian, but Bob had serious doubts about that. “What if he exercises his Muslim manhood against you?” he asked Jillian. When Jillian told me about her father’s comment, I thought to myself, “I barely even have manhood. How am I supposed to have a Muslim manhood?” In 2013, Jillian and I had been dating for just over a year. She helped me get through medical school at the University of Wisconsin, where we were assigned to the same hospital for our psychiatry rotation during our third year. When we finished there, Jillian organized a Rubik’s Cube-themed party: I ended up wearing yellow clothes and extremely unflattering yellow tights as part of the costume change with my friends. I hadn’t made a move on her during the party, so I stayed a little longer when everyone else left and offered to help clean up. Before I knew it, Jillian’s roommates were asleep, and I was sitting alone with her on the couch, talking about what she should say at her grandfather’s funeral the next day. I think I gave her good advice; at the end of the night, we kissed. Over the next few months, we went on a series of dates all over the state of Wisconsin as we completed our different clinical rotations. When I finished my days in general surgery in Madison, I would meet Jillian outside the medical school library, and we would talk about our patients. The days were long, waking up at 3 a.m., but I always looked forward to seeing her. It was in those moments that I thought I could do this for the rest of my life. At the beginning of our fourth year in medical school, the time came to make a decision. In order to stay together, we had to apply for couples’ match to ensure we would be in the same city for our residency. I wasn’t going to continue our relationship if we were in different states. To me, that seemed nearly impossible, especially considering how busy medical training is. When Jillian brought up the idea of applying as a couple, I hesitated. I am not a devout Muslim, and I don’t have the discipline to pray five times a day. I’m not even sure I could remember to take medication only twice a day if my life depended on it. But I believe in God, and I fast during Ramadan. Jillian is agnostic but was raised by an evangelical father who referred to Islam as “a religion of the sword.” My father is a conservative Muslim. I could clearly see the clash of trains from the moment she brought up the idea of applying to residency programs together. Before even thinking about involving our families, I needed to solely focus on my relationship with Jillian and whether we were compatible in the long run. In theory, we were very different. She was from a small town in Wisconsin, and I was born in Bangladesh. I grew up in the United States with other Muslims and believed I was destined to marry a Muslim. I had heard stories of failed marriages because a Muslim married someone outside of their faith. My three older brothers had married within the faith. And they worried that Jillian and I were too different. Instead of giving me the trust that I sought, they advised caution. I consulted with my South Asian friends, university friends, and childhood friends, who also warned me of the risks of marrying outside of my faith and culture. Sometimes, when Jillian fell asleep in my bed, I would cry while looking at her, thinking about a world without her. But when I saw our relationship beyond the constraints of religion, I felt at ease. We laughed a lot and understood each other’s jokes. Jillian and I were in the same economic status, something I appreciated because I had read articles stating that divorce in the United States often occurs due to financial problems. Since neither of us had much money growing up, we were both burdened with student loans for our education and were committed to living within our means. I didn’t want to throw away what Jillian and I had just because our religious beliefs differed. I also didn’t want to be religiously rigid. Jillian and I took many walks around Madison, discussing how we would raise our children and how she would support my Muslim faith without converting herself. I wanted her to convert because it would make my life easier and make my parents happy – the same parents who uprooted their family of six to start anew in the United States so my brothers and I could have a better life. My father, who had a master’s degree in business administration in Bangladesh and was a successful businessman, took on janitorial jobs upon arriving in the United States. But I knew I couldn’t ask Jillian to convert to Islam for me. I decided to stop thinking that I had to marry someone of the same faith. She and I shared similar values – that was what would make our relationship work. I committed to applying as a couple with Jillian. However, convincing our parents that our relationship would work was going to require a lot of work. Jillian met my parents for the first time when we went to their home in Oshkosh, and I was relieved that they didn’t reject her for not believing in the shahada, or faith. That excited me, but when we left, Jillian seemed distressed. During dinner, my mother had said, “Two doctors? How will you have children?” And when we finished, my father told Jillian, “You can marry my son when you become Muslim.” On the way back to Madison, Jillian said to me, “I can’t become Muslim just to marry you.” “That’s okay, you don’t have to,” I replied. “But how?” It was the first time my parents had seen her, but I knew that if they got to know her, they couldn’t reasonably object to us getting married. They would see in her what I saw: a kind, loving, and talented person. I no longer expected Jillian to convert to Islam; I just wanted her to understand it. That way, she would understand me and my family. I needed her to understand that I had grown up eating only meat prepared according to Islamic tradition – no Big Macs. To have halal meat, my parents slaughtered chickens in our garage. In the end, after spending time with my parents and cooking with my mother in her kitchen, Jillian won their approval. Jillian’s father was a different story. When she told him about her intention to marry me, he said, “You’re making a big mistake.” Bob didn’t participate in any of the initial meetings with our families. My parents and Jillian’s mother, Mary (she and Bob were divorced), got along well because Mary genuinely cared about other people and enjoyed talking with my parents. Bob wanted to meet with me when Jillian and I made our intentions to marry clear. We agreed to meet at a small Mexican restaurant in Green Bay. We ordered burritos, and he talked to me about his concerns. Bob was afraid that his daughter would marry someone who would force her to do things she didn’t want to do. I imagined he was afraid I would make her wear a burqa or adhere to Islamic law, something that was common in the news at the time. I realized that his concerns were his way of looking out for his daughter. I tried to address Bob’s concerns, putting my ego aside, but it’s difficult and uncomfortable to refute someone’s negative perceptions of you. I assured Bob that in the household I grew up in, my mother was the glue that held our family together. Jillian would be the same. Despite my assurances, Bob wasn’t convinced, and I realized that I wouldn’t be able to change his mind. And that was okay. After Jillian and I applied as a couple and were matched together for medical residency in the Twin Cities, we faced the next challenge…
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