When he wrote early in our correspondence that he thought his religion wasn’t compatible with mine but that mine was compatible with his, I couldn’t tell if he was joking or trying to make a philosophical point. I was taken aback by the absurdity of the statement, given that he had no religion, and I was a practicing Muslim.
“I believe in doing good in life,” he explained, “which I think is what all religions prescribe. In that sense, I don’t see our belief systems as conflicting.”
I was in my mid-30s and had recently emerged from a three-year marriage. While there had been a confluence of reasons for my divorce, it came down to deep cultural differences that neither of us were equipped to navigate. My ex-husband was a white, American ethnomusicologist who studied the musical traditions of West Africa, had converted to Islam and quit drinking early in our courtship. He spoke some French, was an Africaphile, and we had similar values, and yet none of that was enough to bridge our cultural gap.
So I was starting over, with my biological clock ticking, convinced that finding someone closer to my own cultural background was the key to a successful relationship.
More than a decade earlier, I had landed in New York City to attend graduate school. As the daughter of Senegalese immigrants in France, I came from a tight-knit community, and my decision to study abroad as a single woman — the bravest thing I’d ever done — broke with tradition. Although my upbringing had been relatively liberal, our African and Muslim identity were our compass, and I felt anchored in my faith.
I came across this new man’s profile on OkCupid by accident in my search for a Muslim man who did not drink alcohol. He was a white, atheist, divorced father who also happened to be a nondrinker. I moved quickly past his profile, discouraged by the scarcity of suitable prospects.
