
Photograph by Stephanie Eley
This essay is part of a series—we asked 17 Atlantans to tell us how the Civil Rights Act of 1964 has impacted their lives in honor of its 60th anniversary. Read all of the essays here.
I grew up in very rural Southeast Georgia, and by the time I was four, I knew it mattered that I was a girl and that I was Black. I also knew to some extent my class status, because I grew up working-class, compared to a lot of other folks I knew who were very poor. I remember there was this van that would come to our neighborhood playground and give us lunch in the summer. It was White people who were bringing the food, and all of us kids were Black. And I remember being hot and hungry—because it was summer—but not wanting to take it because of the dynamic between us, because it was a condescending attitude of, We’re giving you these things that your families can’t provide for you. It wasn’t an act of solidarity; it was more an act of toxic charity. I remember a couple of times actually resisting—I would go and sit in the shade and not participate when they brought the sandwiches, and say, I’m not going to eat today. I’ll go hungry because I didn’t like how they treated us.
I grew up among Black Christians, in a very mystical version of Pentecostalism. But my father was invited to preach to lots of other churches, so I got to experience different versions of Christianity. And around eight years old, I was introduced to Judaism through a boy in my brother’s Boy Scout troop, and then I met a boy who was Catholic. I was like, That’s cool, there’s a religion that likes a lady, and her name is Mary! What got me into trouble a lot in religion was that I always had this intense curiosity.
And as I matured in young adulthood, I recognized that my spirituality and my sexuality were closely entwined, if not the same thing. At some point, I just leaned into the mystery: I realized that I was moving in this journey that led me to Islam, and it was similar to realizing I was queer. It was the same Holy Ghost. And I think if I had not been raised Pentecostal, I would not have recognized the beautiful holiness of what was happening—that it was a gift from God that I needed to embrace and not run away from.
In my sermons and writing now, I talk about faith being a laboratory of experiments. It’s not a quest for certainty, it’s not about getting it right: It’s about building righteousness in our relationship with ourselves, with others, with God and the universe. Part of my work now is to share my journey, to be a spiritual companion to other people, not a spiritual director. I’m a farmer, but I don’t make anything grow; I try to create conditions that are conducive to growth. I plant corn and beans and squash in the ground, and, against the rules of gravity, the roots grow down and stems grow up! It amazes me. But I don’t make things grow; I try to create conditions that are conducive for miracles to happen.
I’ve been thinking a lot about being a Muslim in the U.S. right now, especially as we’re watching the war in Israel and Palestine unfold, this genocide. I’m thinking a lot about being a Black Muslim in the U.S. Since 9/11, Muslims have been forced into playing this game of good Muslim versus bad Muslim. How do we play this assimilation game? And as the Movement for Black Lives has arisen, we’re asking how to mitigate anti-Black sentiment, anti-Muslim sentiment, increased misogynistic sentiment. Attacks on women who wear hijab have increased—and I say that as an African American, dark-skinned Muslim woman who wears hijab.
Some of this hatred, I think, is in response to this philosophical idea of lack, this idea that there are not enough rights, there’s not enough justice. There’s not enough love, not enough healthcare, not enough food. And if some other people get it, we’re not going to get it. But there is enough. There is plenty. I think many Muslims are trying to remind the majority that we don’t have to do this: We believe that there is enough.
Islam started as an economic justice movement. The message was, You don’t have to pay to pray. God can hear your prayers no matter your economic conditions. But it wasn’t a new religion: It was a reminder of the religion of Jesus, of Abraham, or Ibrahim. It was a reminder of the religion of Adam. I like to call it the religion of the Jackson Five: God said from the very beginning, I want to be where you are. And I want you to be where I am. So whatever we’ve got to do to be close to each other, let’s do that.
I hope that we will practice abundance. I hope that we will lean into our moral imaginations and listen to the younger people around us and listen to what they imagine the world could be. I think these kids see the world in crisis, and some of the stuff that we have put up with in earlier generations, it just doesn’t compute for them—they’re asking us, You treated people differently because they had different color skin or they loved somebody? It just doesn’t make any sense to them, and they will not tolerate it at all. And that just gives me so much hope. So, making sure that we can support them and give them the resources, the money, and the mic—give them the medicine—to really explore their ideas.
I hope for us to apologize. It’s okay to get it wrong, it’s okay to miss the mark. But I hope for us to shift, to have really big imaginations about what it means to live together in mutual liberation.
Trina Jackson serves as an Imam/ah at the Atlanta Unity Mosque and works at the Highlander Research and Education Center. She and her spouse, Kim, run an Afrofuturistic farm with their children in Stone Mountain.
This article appears in our June 2024 issue.