I'm a dorky white guy. Growing up, I loved Star Wars. I spent a lot of time playing video games on a Commodore 64, and for some reason I really liked Phil Collins (I guess I still do). I also liked to skateboard. I'm of European descent, mostly Italian. Most of my family on my father's side is Catholic. My father is a retired Commander in the US Navy. And I have a confession: my middle name is Nuri Amin. It gets worse. In my twenties, I had "Nuri" tattooed on my bicep.
"Nuri" appears as an "evil" feudal lord in Zabiba and the King, a novel-length allegory rumored to have been written by Saddam Hussein. I share my name with Hazrat Mehmet Nuri Baba, the Sufi Saint and Nuri Bilge Ceylan, the Turkish photographer and film director. There is also the Prime Minister of Iraq Nuri (or Nouri) Kamal Mohammed Hassan al-Maliki.
My true namesake, however, is the founder of the Baha’i Faith, Mirza Hoseyn 'Ali Nuri, known as Bahá'u'lláh or "Glory of God." Nuri signifies flame, a "shining brightness"—the fire of Allah. (Amin is derived from the Arabic word for truthful) When I was born, my parents were Baha’is, a religion that brings a message of world peace and the oneness of humanity. My parent discovered their faith separately, each having joined in their twenties, but through its community they had met, and through me they honored their idealism.
Before I was born, my grandfather hoped I would be receive his name, just as my father had, in keeping with the common Italian naming tradition. My parents, however, announced a preference for "Ali," and scandalized him. His children answered to John, David, Richard... My grandmother Grace was quietly uncomprehending. Name him after Muhammad Ali?
Perhaps seeing an opportunity to instruct them and to find a comfortable point of reference, they pointed out that the boxer, although not the inspiration for their choice, was once known as Cassius Clay, and it was his conversion to Islam that in initiated the name change. That news worsened the situation. Good Catholic names were not on the table.
Finally, instead of Ali, my parents settled on Nuri. They thought for some reason they could placate my grandfather in this way. He, on the other hand, chose to become silent on the issue. My sense of self hinged on such a fleeting alignment of circumstances.
As I grew up, my parents held no inclination to inform or indoctrinate me in the religious sense, so I coveted G.I. Joe, Star Wars, and Transformers. I popped wheelies on my BMX bike, and feasted on Now N’ Laters. I struck out at T-ball and played for a soccer team called the Green Onions which had a nearly perfect losing record (we celebrated our one victory when the opposing team failed to show up). I wore a hole in our carpet facing the television to watch the Comedy Channel. Six Flags was Mecca. Or Toys R Us. I worshiped Dave Barry, Mel Brooks, Douglas Adams. My spiritual discipline came from Yoda.
As early as kindergarten, though, I took issue with my name. By thirteen, I hated my name. Nuri neither felt true nor was it easy to explain. I could not explain its ethnic or religious origins to myself let alone another 8th grader. How did it fit with the boy who launched full scale GI Joe freedom operations to battle the international terrorist organization COBRA? What of my mother, father and sister all born in Pennsylvania not Persia? The Middle East was unknown to me, the Baha’i Faith a mystery. Eventually, not content to give myself a nickname like Barry for Barack (what would Nuri have been short for anyway?) I legally changed my first name to Daniel, although I left Nuri Amin sandwiched between my first and last name.
Classmates who had known me as Nuri now heard Daniel in the roll call. Classmates who later became friends remembered Nuri as well. Almost no one asked me directly to explain, although by junior year, whispers circulated about Secret Agent Dan, the spy with the hidden identity. I refused to acknowledge that there ever was a Nuri.
That temporarily resolved my issue, but then there was a time before 9/11 when I was stopped in customs leaving Amsterdam. All airline passengers waited in three lines being checked and briefly questioned by agents before being sent to the metal detectors. The Dutch agent read in my passport.
"This is a strange mix of names." He narrowed his eyes. "Where are your parents from?"
"My parents were Baha’i’s."
"Ah." He relaxed his gaze. "The Baha’is are very peaceful."
But this was before George W. Bush invaded Iraq. This was before the abuses of the PATRIOT ACT. Before the "War on Terror," the war on the other, (or simply the Muslim). Long before the bigoted emails began circulating about the frighteningly-named politician Barack Hussein Obama.
When I got my tattoo it was in an effort to reclaim and reaffirm part of my identity. As it was healing, I would slap it to satisfy the itch without ripping the scabs. I would clap my arm as if giving myself a hearty bit of encouragement. Nonetheless, more scarring than I thought has occurred. And occasionally the letters raise and get puffy. Whether this is the result of a bad tattoo or the usual, I don’t know. But when I trace the letters with a finger, it reminds me of my complicated inheritance: my parents early rejection of tradition and their experiment in faith, which rested on the belief in religious diversity, tolerance, and freedom.