This post is a part of a series of posts curating adventurous arts and culture experiences in Southeast Michigan. Sign up for email updates (choose “Arts & Culture Adventures” list).

It is high time for some extremely immersive art! The world is complicated. It’s cold outside. The holidays are over, and that means no more presents. Thoughtfully choose your distractions from reality, and support the expression of diverse voices by attending one (or all) of these events!

Romeo and Juliet

Slipstream Theatre | Now – Sunday

The Bard isn’t all about ruffled collars and the use of the words “stock-fish” as an insult. The stories and
characters remain truthful. Slipstream Theatre in Ferndale places the Capulets and Montagues in the middle of a contentious election. A billionaire business man is running against a former First Lady and Secretary of State. When their daughters fall in love, the drama of politics and romance heighten to a tragic end (or comedic, depending on how you categorize R+J). This show is closes Sunday, so move festinately!

In the Heights

Stagecrafters | Now – February 12

In the Heights with music & lyrics by Lin Manuel-Miranda is…Oh. Do I have to keep going? Long before the days of Hamilton, this Broadway musical was the latest sensation and won the Tony for Best Musical in 2008. This bi-lingual masterpiece follows a tight-knit community in Washington Heights when someone wins the lottery. Watch what happens near home with local artists. The Latin hip-hop music is unforgettable and is being performed in Royal Oak by Stagecrafters.

Firepower

Detroit Repertory Theatre | Now – March 12

Founded in 1957, the Detroit Repertory Theatre is the cornerstone for theater in Detroit, Michigan. If you have yet to see one of their productions, you are missing out a major part of Michigan’s culture. Firepower by Kermit Frazier follows a City Councilman’s complex family that harbors one big secret. The Detroit Free Press says, “Ultimately it delivers an empowering message[…] Figure out your skill, your firepower, and use it to make yourself, your family and your community better.” Watch the story unfold with this historic Detroit theater now through March.

THAW

Photo by Danya Ensing.

RV Mendoza | February 4

Everyone could use a little fun and spend the night at the “disco pop performance and DANCE PARTY” with RV Mendoza at The Old Miami in Detroit. I messaged RV on his (highly entertaining) Facebook page. He told me, “Winter is really hard on me. I imagine it gets tough for other people too. I wanted to create a night where we can escape the bitterness and thrive rather than survive! LGBTQ+ are very welcome.” This show is one night only on February 4th!

Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity |

Power Center | February 18

An interview-based play blurs the lines between the stage and reality. Some of my most formative theater memories are reading The Laramie Project for the first time and seeing You Better Sit Down at the Williamston Theatre Festival. I am incredibly excited to see Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity. This performance captures amazing stories of coming-of-age Muslim Americans post 9/11. I often find the medium in which it will be delivered to be highly effective for gaining understanding of a complex narrative. Don’t miss out on this one! UMS brings this production to Ann Arbor on (and only on) February 18.

I’m a “theater kid” at heart forever, so it is the primary focus (but I threw in a dance party to keep it fresh). Go out there! Enjoy the experience of art! What events are making you excited in Southeast Michigan? Let UMS know by leaving a comment, or send me a link on Twitter!

Photos courtesy of artists and performance spaces.

Marissa Conniff is a UMS Blogging Fellow. Learn more about the blogging fellows program.

On February 18, Ping Chong+Company brings the interview-based theater work Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity to Ann Arbor.

This interview-based theater production, part of Chong’s 25-year series entitled Undesirable Elements, explores the diverse experiences of young Muslim New Yorkers who came of age in post-9/11 New York City at a time of increasing Islamophobia. Participants come from a range of cultural and ethnic backgrounds and include young men and women who reflect a range of Muslim identities: those who converted to Islam, those who were raised Muslim but have since left the faith, those who identify as “secular” or “culturally” Muslim, and those who are observant on a daily basis. Beyond Sacred illuminates the daily lives of Muslim Americans in an effort to work toward greater communication and understanding between Muslim and non-Muslim communities.

In this series of posts and interviews curated by Annick Odom, we explore Muslim identity on U-M campus.

In this essay, Abraham Ahmed Mustafa Achachi Matsui reflects on his identity.

My name is Abraham Ahmed Mustafa Achachi Matsui. It’s quite a mouthful. The Ahmed part of my middle name is the part my mom wanted to name me. My mom is from Lebanon and was born a Muslim. It’s traditional to give the name of her father to her son. My father is Japanese, so Achachi is my dad’s first name. And then my parents decided to give me a universal name used across the world — Abraham.

I was raised Muslim, and attended Sunday school, but my dad pushed me to attend Buddhist festivals and services. In a lot of ways I think my personality and reality are more aligned with being Japanese. I participated in Judo club in undergrad, and I’m a wrestler. I have what I consider a Japanese mindset; I take care of myself, remember to be proud but courteous, do the best in everything I can, and work to be logical.

Still, I’m kind of darker-skinned and look like almost any kind of race. Wherever I go in the country, I kind of get pre-set in people’s mind as whatever underclass that is. It’s a harsh word, but it is the reality of things. People see a race and are so conscious in thinking, “That’s the other.” In California, they think I’m Mexican. They approach me and say “¿Qué pasa?” In Detroit and Michigan, I’m often seen as African American. In other areas of the country, I know I’ve been identified as Samoan. I like to joke that I’m the most American you can get. I have grown up feeling Japanese, but people think I’m Mexican. I put down I’m half Caucasian on forms because that’s what Middle Easterners do. I should be the poster child for what an American actually is!

I did an MFA at UC Davis California, and while I was there I joined the Muslim Student Association. I’ve always been politically driven, so I ran for Davis City Council. This was the first time I was publicly attacked based on being a Muslim, because if you look at me, I don’t look like a “stereotypical” Muslim. People said that MSA was a terrorist group, and an article was published saying I had terrorist ties.

You hear people saying how that affects you. I didn’t want to do anything Muslim-related for a year or two afterwards. I didn’t go to a mosque. It was in the wake of all these terrorist activities. I kind of lost it, you know. It wasn’t until I got to law school when I met a couple of my friends who were pretty religious. I hung out because they were really cool people, not because they were Muslim. They revitalized the faith in me. I came into law school with no thought of being in the Muslim Law Student Association. In the end I actually became president!

This pushed me to start to think of the Muslim student experience as a whole. One of the largest challenges we were faced with at U-M was the “American Sniper” debate. Despite many complaints from Muslim students and student organizations on campus, it was still shown. When I first heard it was being shown, honestly, I thought, “You know what, it’s college. We saw way worse things in undergrad. There needs to be things that make people uncomfortable. A college campus should have free, open dialogue.” But then I talked to my members, and found that it made several of my members feel physically unsafe and unsafe in their opinions to glorify this sniper and have a public institution give him credence. After hearing their opinion, I agreed. It made us feel like we were alone, like we were alienated, like we were “the other,” and like we were outsiders.

The biggest thing I’ve learned is to tell my story so people see what it’s like. That’s the biggest step to understanding that Muslims aren’t weird, crazy people and to gaining acceptance. We’re your neighbors and friends. We’re logical people. Right now I’ve hit a nice medium about how I feel to be Muslim. I sometimes feel bitter but I also love my faith.

If you’re interested in joining the Muslim Student Association or attending some of their events, you can contact them on the MSA Maize Page or check out the MSA Facebook page.

See Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity in Ann Arbor on February 18, 2017.

On February 18, Ping Chong+Company brings the interview-based theater work Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity to Ann Arbor.

This interview-based theater production, part of Chong’s 25-year series entitled Undesirable Elements, explores the diverse experiences of young Muslim New Yorkers who came of age in post-9/11 New York City at a time of increasing Islamophobia. Participants come from a range of cultural and ethnic backgrounds and include young men and women who reflect a range of Muslim identities: those who converted to Islam, those who were raised Muslim but have since left the faith, those who identify as “secular” or “culturally” Muslim, and those who are observant on a daily basis. Beyond Sacred illuminates the daily lives of Muslim Americans in an effort to work toward greater communication and understanding between Muslim and non-Muslim communities.

In this series of posts and interviews curated by Annick Odom, we explore Muslim identity on U-M campus.

In this essay, Ann Soliman reflects on her identity.

My name is Ann Soliman. I was born in the United States to my Egyptian parents. I was the second of two kids, born after my parents had decided to stay in the U.S. for a while, so they decided to give me an American name—a stark contrast to my older brother, Ahmad. Our parents raised us in Houston, Texas, then Ann Arbor, Michigan, and aside from summer trips to visit my family in Egypt, I was never strongly a part of a “Muslim community” until I started college.

I dealt with the typical aspects of culture shock that many first-year students experience—sharing the bathroom with a couple dozen girls, compromising with a roommate over use of a 12’x19’ room, and feeling incredibly small as one of five hundred students in my chemistry class. Meanwhile, I relied on the support of friends from the Muslim Students Association (MSA). Through late-night mafia games in cramped apartments that could always swell to accommodate another person and regular religious talks from knowledgeable, compassionate scholars, I felt myself grow in ways that I hadn’t expected. The friends I made through the MSA continued to support me throughout my time in undergrad, even as I got involved in classes and activities that demanded most of my time. As a medical student, I am grateful that my support network has only swelled to include members of the Muslim Medical Students Association (MMSA).

It seems paradoxical to me that my Muslim identity has brought so much love and support into my life, when the very presence of Muslims in the U.S. is now a controversial topic. Despite the significant role that the MSA played in my growth during undergrad, I hesitated to include it in my applications for medical school, concerned that someone with a negative perception of Muslims would take away my opportunity before I had a chance to get my foot in the door.

My parents always taught me that the way to show people what Muslims are really like is to treat every person with kindness—indeed, my grade school teachers would talk about my smile at parent-teacher conferences, and many years later, this is still a point of pride for me. Some days, I wonder if this “one person at a time” approach is enough. But I remember the one person, my medical school classmate, who gave me a hug and started planning a “Love Lunch” for Muslim students one week this year when the anti-Muslim rhetoric was particularly fresh and stinging. I remember the one person, a peer in my college English class, who said that after reading some of my writing, she looked up different meanings of the hijab online for half an hour. And I remember the one person, my elementary school best friend, who sent me a message to say that knowing me as kids allowed her to have more understanding and respect for Muslims as an adult. And I know that, in many ways, one person can be enough.

See Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity in Ann Arbor on February 18, 2017.

On February 18, Ping Chong+Company brings the interview-based theater work Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity to Ann Arbor.

This interview-based theater production, part of Chong’s 25-year series entitled Undesirable Elements, explores the diverse experiences of young Muslim New Yorkers who came of age in post-9/11 New York City at a time of increasing Islamophobia. Participants come from a range of cultural and ethnic backgrounds and include young men and women who reflect a range of Muslim identities: those who converted to Islam, those who were raised Muslim but have since left the faith, those who identify as “secular” or “culturally” Muslim, and those who are observant on a daily basis. Beyond Sacred illuminates the daily lives of Muslim Americans in an effort to work toward greater communication and understanding between Muslim and non-Muslim communities.

In this series of posts and interviews curated by Annick Odom, we explore Muslim identity on U-M campus.

In this essay, Ayah Issa reflects on her identity.

You were once owned by another, but you learned that their ownership was unfair and broke free.

In 1776, you became your own ruler and slowly you grew from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Since then, you’ve owned, killed, birthed, and raised a nation. Since then, you’ve birthed and raised me. In 1997, a part of you opened to me and gave me a home. Deep in your mitten, at the southeast side of your palm, I grew with your love.

But your love is conditional.

Home was a red brick house with an old wooden porch that faced a fountain. With its chipped paint and dirty rain water, the fountain was not a place we were allowed to play, but that never stopped our dizzying runs along the tilted, circular inside of the fountain. My grandfather, Hajj, built this house for his sons and daughters to live with their families all together. In the back, your raised ground serves as a picnic spot in the summer and a sledding course in the winter. Eventually, you gave us more of yourself and Baba and his brothers built us a playground with four swings, two monkeybars, one slide, one tire swing, and a playhouse.

Blissful with your love, home remained my place with you. I broke my arm against your gravel jumping off a porch table. I learned to play basketball with the hoop welded to your cement sidewalk. I got stung by a bee that lived under your porch stairs and made friends with a stray cat that strolled your streets looking for food in trash cans or stealing it away from unaware children. Every year, I celebrated my birthday with you on June 17th and celebrated your birthday with everyone on July 4th.

Your navy sky is painted with colors. Artificial stars shine over natural stars, red and blue streaks compete for space, and smoke blurs the dim sight of the crescent moon. Yard chairs scrape your skin and spilled drinks leak between your cracks. It’s your birthday, oh how you’ve grown, 228 years and counting. I’m sitting with my older sister watching colors in the sky and listening to each boom boom boom as you’re filled with more smoke and colors.

Neighbors join us and cars park along your streets to admire your colorful present. They know your history and hope for your future. You know that your birthday brings people together not because of the casualties of independence, but because the pretty colors and cheery parade. People come together when happy because they do not have to worry about you or others.

Today I would like to visit your park along the river… Mama is overseas visiting her Mama, and Baba is at work checking people’s eyes. That leaves me and my siblings at my uncle’s house. My cousins sit outside and talk amongst themselves like usual. I’m one of the youngest there and so no one includes me. I want to go to the park, but no one agrees. “We don’t go out today,” my cousin’s wife says.

“Why not?” At nine years old, I’m annoyed with her for ruining my day.

“It’s not a safe day to go out.” she looks at me as if that was all she needed to say for me to stop asking.

“Why?” I ask as any elementary kid would… why.

“Today is no good.” And that’s all she says.

Participants on stage during Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity. Photo by Adam Nadel.

Today my cousin’s wife fears you. She fears you because of the hijab she’s chosen to wear for her faith. She fears you, and I do not know why. Today is any day for me, but not for you.

Five years before that day on September 11, 2001, terrorists hijacked four of your planes. They pierced through your skin four times… 767, 767, 757, 757. Two planes crashing into the twin towers, the third into the pentagon, and the fourth taken back by passengers and staff and into a field of grass. No passengers or staff survived the four plane crashes. I did not know this. September 11th was not a date that stuck out to me. At four years old, I did not remember that day in preschool, and I still do not know when someone finally told me why September 11th was a special day of mourning and love for you. I learned something new that day. I learned my status did not meet the conditions of your love. I learned you love me, but not always.

As I grow with you, I begin to memorize your features. Even with just a glimpse to a part of you, I see your entirety. Every winter, your winter wonderland blocks cars, turns the white snow grey and sloshy, and make the cold almost unbearable, but still snowmen are built, sleds go down hills, and angels are imprinted into you. And every summer, your sunny days grow humid, your sun turns skin red, and the heat is just as unbearable as the cold, but still sandcastles are built, floats go down waterslides, and bare feet run across you.

As I grew, I felt as you had felt. Unfortunately, you feel the pain more than you feel the pleasure. When you are happy, you do not seek the source of your happiness; instead, you remain unaware in your joy. When you are hurt, you seek the source of your pain… Someone must be blamed for hurting you so severely. Someone.

                                                    September 11, 2001

                             Iraqi War

Paris

Brussels                                                             Boston

                              Afghanistan

                            ISIS

                              Gaza

Al Qaeda

                                                                     San Bernardino

… Conditional?

I grew up not knowing my decision in fifth grade to wear the hijab would push you away. I grew up not knowing Falasteen was not your friend. I grew up not knowing that terrorist was synonymous to Muslim. I guess you teach me a little each day, and yet I still thought about how you’ve raised me to be exceptional. How you love me because I am yours. I will be grown one day and with that I hope to show you love is not conditional.

So as I sit here on your front porch, facing the fountain with the chipped away paint, and I think, I know you. The fountain blurs and the focus is on the water cascading down onto the chipped surface. Each water drop learns the fountain’s surface as it slides down the curved interior and into a pool of millions of water drops. Overwhelmed with drops, the fountain feels many and not one. To know many, the fountain loses the site of one drop. To know one, the drop gains the site of one fountain. This is us… I know one and you know many. Eventually, the water drops will flow through the system and out through the peak of the fountain, only to cascade again onto its surface. Each time, the fountain will get only glimpse of the water drops, while the water drops experience the same complete knowing of the one fountain with the chipped away paint.

This is an abridged version of Ayah’s original piece. Read the full story.

See Beyond Sacred: Voices of Muslim Identity in Ann Arbor on February 18, 2017.