NiMA

I may not be a religious person, but I am a spiritual soul, one who believes – as Paulo Coelho’s main character Santiago discovers on his journey in The Alchemist (a must read!) – that the universe conspires to help you fulfill your destiny.

Over the past month or so, I’ve gotten to know Father Byrum, a retired Episcopal priest, while working on a freelance article I’ve been writing for Chief Executives Organization. The subject of the article is CEO Tom Iovino’s work with the iF Foundation (www.if-foundation.org), an organization that helps create economic opportunities in developing countries by providing interest-free loans that allow individuals and community associations to start businesses. If you’ve been following my blog (or had the misfortune of being seated next to me at dinner), you probably know by now that this is my sweet spot (see “a new identity”), so much so that over the past year, I’ve spent much of my free time volunteering for Nest (www.buildanest.org), a nonprofit organization that empowers women in developing countries by providing them with interest-free microfinance loans to help them establish sustainable small businesses.

In addition to being one of the kindest and most gracious men I’ve ever met (why wouldn’t he be? he is, after all, a priest!), Father Byrum is the managing director of the foundation, and during the course of our interaction, it became clear that we both share the same outlook: what people often lack is not the will to better their lives, but rather the opportunity to do so. He told me about the type of work he’s been doing on the ground for the iF Foundation, specifically in Haiti and Ghana; I told him about the type of work I’ve been doing remotely for Nest, specifically in Morocco. He also shared with me that one of the challenges the foundation is facing right now is trying to figure out how to get their name out there.

Michael Iovino and Father Byrum helping children in Zambia

Earlier this week, as I was wrapping up the article, I mentioned to Father Byrum and iF’s new director of development, Eileen Spencer, that freelance writing is just something I do on the side (to pay the bills, really), and that my actual area of expertise (and passion) lies in providing full service marketing services (from strategy to writing to design to execution) to small businesses and nonprofit organizations, in case they needed help on that front (I believe this is what you call an “up-sell”!). Not only was the response I received from him positive, excited, and appreciative, but it was almost a little fated: “There is a wonderful phrase from the Bible that I hold onto often. It is simply: ‘In the fullness of time’. Things happen for a reason when it is precisely the right time for them to happen. So perhaps the three of us were meant to have our paths cross.”

I couldn’t agree more. Not only as it relates to my fortuitous meeting with Father Byrum, but also as it relates to everything that the universe has done to bring me to where I am today: in a really good place.

EPILOGUE

Last night, as I was going through my mail, I came across a note from Rebecca Kousky, the executive director of Nest, who wrote that Father Byrum had donated to Nest in my honor, saying: “In thanksgiving for Summer’s life and personal journey. And testimony to all that is good and holy.” Wow. Again, if you’ve been following my blog (or had the misfortune of being seated next to me at dinner), you probably also know by now that I’m not a modest person (hey, when you’re good, you’re good!). And yet, for once in my life, I am humbled.

Thank you, Father Byrum, for making such a generous and thoughtful donation, for making me feel humble for once, and for reminding me, on the seven month anniversary of NiMA, what it is that I really want to do in life: all that is good and holy.

I’m a quitter. There, I said it. In our society, we’re taught to not give up, to finish what we’ve started, to resist the urge to walk away. Anything to the contrary is considered failure. And yet, despite the fact that I’ve quit some important things in life, I don’t feel like a failure. If anything, I kinda feel like a badass, mostly because I believe quitting is sometimes more difficult than staying in the game.

I’m a dropout, a law school dropout to be exact. Fortunately, I finished college, where I majored in journalism, and eventually business school, where I concentrated in marketing. But between the two, there was that one year of law school, a year that’s hard to explain on my resume but one that I’m going to try to explain here in my blog.

When I entered college, journalism seemed like a fitting choice for a major, since one of the first things I learned in high school, thanks to my role on the staff of a little newspaper called The Bear Facts, was that I could write. But by the end of my junior year in college, writing no longer felt like a challenge, and I was ready to move on. I had two options: change my major or go to graduate school. I picked the latter and decided to apply to law school. The last sentence summarizes exactly how much thought and consideration went into the decision (I basically approached it as though I was picking a new major). So I spent the summer between my junior and senior year taking the LSAT and applying to law schools.

When I returned to college the following fall, I decided to take some advertising and marketing courses to finish out the credits I needed for my degree. Two interesting things happened that year: 1) I fell in love with marketing and advertising; and 2) I started to hear back from law schools. When I was accepted into the University of Texas School of Law — a top tier school that charged in-state tuition — I felt I had to follow through and see what this law thing was all about. It was too good an offer to pass up, so off to law school I went. But before I did, I spent the summer after graduation interning as a graphic designer in the Houston Chronicle’s marketing department (in addition to writing, my experience at The Bear Facts had taught me design, a skill I use to this day!).

In August 1997, I moved to Austin, Texas, to attend law school. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. My new roommate, Cheryl Rubenstein, and I quickly hit it off. And within my first week there, I had reunited with Jason Luong, a friend from high school. It was going to be a great three years.

With Jason Luong at UT Law ((Dec 1997)

Of course, there was the whole “first year of law school” thing, an experience that started with “Hawkins v. McGee” and ended with me losing a disproportionate amount of hair (don’t worry, it grew back, but not before I stressed out about the fact that I was going to go bald before 25!). A grueling year, but I needed a challenge, and I guess there it was. The problem, however, was that it just didn’t feel right. I tried hard that year to find what I could love about law and always came up short. I was going through the motions… spending countless hours studying, interviewing, interning. Even though students were dropping like flies around me (law school is notorious for first-year dropouts, mostly because it’s full of 22-year-olds who, like me, don’t always think things through), I didn’t allow myself to think about leaving.

But, as I’ve found on numerous occasions in life, my subconscious self was ahead of my conscious mind. There was the time I was standing at the department store register, purchasing suits for my upcoming interviews and internship, when the thought crossed my mind: “Wow, I’m spending a lot on these suits. What if I never wind up using them?” Just as quickly as the thought came, it was gone, leaving me wondering where it came from.

Then, there was the time I found myself sitting as a summer intern in the offices of a federal district court judge, looking at the clock and thinking, “It’s only 3… when will the day end?” It was a stark contrast to the the feeling I had experienced while interning for the Houston Chronicle the previous summer, when I often found myself looking at the clock and thinking “It’s already 3… where did the day go?”

Finally, there was the time I walked out of an interview at a Boston law firm, feeling exhausted and drained. It was an unusual feeling, as I’m generally at ease during interviews, so it gave me pause. As I walked to the coffee shop in the building’s lobby, I realized why I was feeling this way: I had spent the last hour lying, making up answers to questions about why I wanted to practice law, why I wanted to work for that law firm, why I cared. Deep down, I DIDN’T WANT TO PRACTICE LAW, I DIDN’T WANT TO WORK FOR THAT LAW FIRM, I DIDN’T CARE!

I was being untrue, not just to the attorney who had interviewed me, but to myself. So for the first time, I allowed myself to think, “What if I didn’t do this anymore?” And just like that, a huge weight was lifted from my chest, leaving me feeling so light that I didn’t just walk… I flew to that coffee shop! It was one of the most powerful feelings I’ve ever experienced, so acute that I remember it to this day.

Much to the surprise and dismay of family and friends, I took a leave of absence from law school just as I was about to start my second year, never to return again. It wasn’t easy… everyone around me was convinced I should stay in school (after all, quitting was akin to failing), forcing me to stand up and believe in myself, to be strong and resolute about my decision.

I’m not sure how I found the strength, but I’m so glad I did, because it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Without passion and purpose, I would have been an average lawyer at best, and I never want to be average. That being said, I don’t regret that one year in law school, because it taught me a very important lesson early in life: I’m a square peg; trying to fit in a round hole will only dull my edges.

Fortunately, it wasn’t as an expensive a lesson as it could have been, thanks to in-state tuition…

Regardless of its origins, it was a fear that stayed with me for a long time, even into my early 30s. Over the past few years, however, something changed; I discovered I had something more important to lose. So my fear of the unknown – loss of life – was replaced by a fear of the known – loss of identity – something I had recently acquired.  

I’m not referring to identity theft here, which is also a concern (worrying is clearly a favorite pastime). I’m talking about loss of self, loss of independence, loss of individuality. I’m talking about the lyrics from Alice in Chains’ Nutshell – “If I can’t be my own, I’d feel better dead” – one of my favorite songs of all time.  

I come from a culture in which women have many limitations and are often defined not so much by their personalities as by their relationships… to men. Having been raised within the norms of this community (but never quite fitting in), I spent the first 30 years of my life defined by my relationships – first as a daughter, then as a wife. If all had gone as planned, I would now be a mother.  

But things didn’t go as planned. Five years ago, I separated from my husband, and for the first time in my life, I found myself without any attachments. I was no longer Summer Amin, someone’s daughter or someone’s wife, but Summer Amin, anyone I very well damn want to be! I had a new identity.   

While my physical circumstances changed, my mental outlook took a little longer to catch up. I had to remind myself, almost on a daily basis, that whatever decision I was making – big or small – was mine to make, and I didn’t have to get permission or consent to do so. To drive the point home (to myself, really), I decided to do what at the time seemed impossible – run a marathon. When I started training, I could barely run a mile. By the time I finished, I could conquer the world. Having accomplished what I set out to do, I realized that nothing was impossible. For the first time in my life, there were no limitations, except for the ones I put on myself.   

I’ve come a long way since then. Over the past five years, I’ve not only run a marathon but also bought a home and started a business. Over the next five years, I hope to accomplish so much more. Despite these achievements – or maybe because of them – I never take for granted how fortunate I am. I would never have had the opportunity to do these things for myself had I not been raised in the US, where education of girls and empowerment of women are rights, not privileges nor – worse yet – taboos.   

Nest Board Members and the Women of the Toudart Iwsta Cooperative in Morocco

Unfortunately, there are millions of girls and women in the world who are not as fortunate, a fact that Nicholas Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn vividly bring home in Half the Sky: Turning Oppression into Opportunity for Women Worldwide (a must-read!). So last year, I joined the DC board of Nest (www.buildanest.org), a nonprofit organization that empowers women in developing countries by providing interest-free microfinance loans to help them set up their businesses. My involvement in the organization is my way of giving back to the women of the world what I was given: opportunity.  

In April, I travelled with Nest to Morocco, where I met with the women of our three Moroccan cooperatives. I was both inspired and humbled by the experience. While in Midelt, I met an amazing woman named Rachida, who belongs to the Toudart Iwsta Cooperative. Earlier this year, Rachida’s house caught fire, leaving her not only without her clothes and furniture but also without her loom and supplies. Because of this, she’s unable to contribute to the co-op, and what’s more, she’s in the middle of a divorce and doesn’t have the money to rebuild.   

Having met Rachida, we decided to launch a Kickstarter campaign to help her get back on her feet, so that she too can one day run a marathon, buy her own home, start her own company.   

Okay, okay, so perhaps she’s not interested in all of the above, but what she needs right now is an opportunity – a chance to rise above her current situation – and I hope you’ll join me in providing her with one by contributing as little as $1: www.kickstarter.com/projects/buildanest/build-a-nest-rebuilding-for-rachida.

I can always tell when telemarketers call. Not because I have some sort of sophisticated technology like caller ID or a sixth sense like ESP, but because they always make the same mistake. They ask for Shahida Amin.

For those who don’t know, Shahida is my legal name… one that I was given at birth and used for the first 22 years of my life. Pronounced SHAH hee dah, it means “True Witness” and is a fairly common Arabic name for girls in the Middle East, South Asia, and Africa.*

In the US, however, it’s a foreign name, one that’s often pronounced shah HEE dah, shah HY dah, or as a gym coach referred to me for a whole semester, shah HA dee. While growing up, the mispronunciation didn’t bother me as much as the fact that my name often took on a life of its own.

On the first day of class, it was generally the first one called out (because of my last name), and the teacher always struggled with it, asking me to help her pronounce it correctly a few times, until I finally accepted whatever pronunciation was the closest so she could move on to the other people in class and put me out of my misery.

When I met people for the first time, we went through a similar process, except they had even more questions. Where is the name from? What does it mean? How do you pronounce it again? Did I say it right? What was your name again? I always looked forward to the point in the conversation where we could move past my name and talk about something else.

I realize now that people were just interested and intrigued; they were trying to honor me by making every effort to pronounce my name properly (well, everyone except for my gym coach), but for someone who was new to the country, still learning the language, and doing everything she could to fit in, it was not a pleasant experience. By the time I graduated from college, I was ready for a fresh start. I was headed to law school (another blog entry), where I didn’t think I would know anyone, so I decided to leave Shahida behind.

Summer and Samar

Having made the decision, I started shopping around for new names. First and foremost, I wanted a name that was fairly common (in the US), easy to pronounce, and memorable. Also, I wanted to keep my initials so I wouldn’t have to change my signature (I had enough on my plate with law school!). Finally, I didn’t want to lose my heritage, so I only considered Arabic names. In the end, I chose Samar, but decided to spell it Summer to save myself the conversation piece (later in life, I would meet a Samar Khleif, who is now one of my best friends).

From then on, I was Summer Amin. On my end, it took some getting use to, as I had to learn to introduce myself as Summer and then remember to respond when people called out my new name. For my family, it was a non-issue, as they had never called me Shahida to begin with (they always referred to me as Guriya, which means “Doll” in Urdu, or Apa, which means “Older Sister”). As for friends, I didn’t ask the old ones to use the new name until years later, and the new ones… well, they only knew me as Summer. Overall, it turned out to be a fairly easy switch.

I recently had the opportunity to pick a name again… this time for my business. My criteria: a name that was memorable, honored my heritage, and meant something to me. The two names I initially considered were Kismet, which means “Destiny” or “Fate,” and Maktub, which means “It is written” (from The Alchemist, one of my favorite books). Another option was to follow Oprah’s lead, whose company, Harpo, is her name spelled backwards.

It just so happens that NiMA, my last name spelled backwards, means “just, someone who treats others right and fair” in Persian. Once I learned the meaning, the decision was made; there was no better name than NiMA for my new company. Personally, it’s how I try to live my life. Professionally, it’s the promise I make to my clients.

* My last name, Amin, is also a fairly common Arabic name for boys in the same parts of the world. Pronounced ah MEEN, it has a similar meaning to Shahida: “Truthful” or “Trustworthy.” Thanks to Idi Amin, the former dictator of Uganda (no relation), it was well known throughout the world by the time I was born. It never caused me any inconvenience, so I never felt the need to change it, even when I was married (another blog entry). Besides, if you ever meet my siblings, you’ll understand that there’s a very Amin way of being, so there’s no denying or changing it.