"This will be great," my cousin assures me as I grip the door handle gathering the courage to leave the safe haven of her car. We just parked outside of what looks like a comely suburban house with a yellow-orange flag flying above. The flag displays an emblem of two swords with curved blades. This same symbol, a Khanda, is engraved on the impressive iron gates that block the driveway and is etched on a mini tapestry dangling from the rearview mirror of my cousin's car.
We've arrived in Shawnee, Kan., at a gurdwara, or Sikh place of worship, for the Sunday morning service. I'm starting to feel uneasy about my decision to come along. Sikhism is a monotheistic religion founded by Guru Nanak in the 15th century and based on the poetic scriptures of the holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib. One of my favorite parts of Sikhism, from what I've learned, is that it preaches equality of all people, including women, and discourages the caste system. My cousin is a Sikh, and she invited me to come along, because the services are open for anyone to attend.
To clarify, we're not actually related. She's my brother-in-law's cousin. But as we've grown closer, I've begun to think of her as my cousin, too.
Finally I take a deep breath and manically adjust the scarf that covers my head before carefully getting out of the car. The boys on the basketball court outside, with their long hair covered and pulled up into top knots, pause to gawk at the gori, or white girl. My cousin gives me a reassuring smile and ushers me toward the building.
We join the queue of men wearing pagris, or turbans, and women clothed formally in salwar kameez, which are dresses that resemble a long tunic and loose pants. I nervously check that the chunni, or scarf, that I'm wearing to respectfully cover my hair, is still on my head.
Before we enter the main hall of the gurdwara, we take off our shoes and place them next to a vast array of other shoes of all shapes and sizes. I once more feel for my chunni, swallow my nerves and take a step inside.
We inch down the aisle that separates the colorful turbaned heads of the men on the right side from the colorful scarved heads of the women on the left. By the time we reach the offering plate at the end, I realize that I've felt this nervousness before. It's the same self-consciousness I used to feel when I attended Episcopalian masses growing up.
I was raised Episcopalian, which is a branch of the Anglican Communion, better known as the church that King Henry XIII started when he split from Catholicism because the pope at the time wouldn't grant him a divorce. Growing up as the daughter of a priest, I was permanently in the sanctuary's spotlight on Sundays. My father's religious role made all of us props in the play of the perfect church-going family. Maybe that explains why I forgot to bring any money for the offering, because when your father is the priest, it's kind of pointless to give him your money.
Offerings at a gurdwara, however, also fund the communal meal that is served after the service. Apologetically I place in a meager offering of $1 in coins on the pile of dollars heaped in front of the raised platform that houses the holy book. I mimic my cousin, lowering myself onto my knees and touching my forehead to the floor, all the while clutching my chunni like a life preserver.
We take a seat on the floor next to the other women, and my cousin reminds me to cross my legs so that my feet aren't disrespectfully pointing at the book. As I sit there, the thoughts that used to haunt me during my childhood Sundays begin to race through my head again. "Is my underwear showing?" "Did I kneel long enough?" "Is everyone staring?" "Do I fit in?"
Throughout the service, my cousin, in her consummate role as my personal guru, leans over to explain what I'm hearing and seeing. The silver bracelet on her right wrist, which she is required to wear as a Sikh, dances as she points to the book placed on a raised platform with a canopy hung above. "That's the holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib," she whispers. I nod discreetly and ask in a whisper why they're waving a fan above the book while they read. She responds that the fan, or chaur, is a symbol of respect.
Each slow wave of the fan flutters my gold chunni and relaxes me more and more. Because the Sikh scripture specifically prohibits idolatry, the room is void of distractions like incense or decorations common in Episcopalian services. The edge of my chunni narrows my vision to the swaying back of the woman sitting directly in front of me. I begin to forget the nervous thoughts I had before and start to enjoy the experience.
I can hear the muffled singing of the shabad, or sacred hymns, from those around me. I feel the little girl behind me fumbling around impatiently. I start to feel at peace, like a part of the community. The embarrassed flush fades from my cheeks and the butterflies settle in my stomach.
I actually feel reluctant to move when we have to stand up at the end of the service, but I'm curious to try the warm sweetmeat, called parshad, which is handed out afterward and made from wheat, flour, sugar and butter. The parshad looks and feels like cookie dough and has a bland flavor. I take a few pinches from my mine and hand the rest to my cousin.
Finally, we head downstairs to the langar, where a meal is prepared and served each week by a different family from the congregation. Sitting on the floor in the basement, surrounded by other families eating together, I'm reminded of the potluck dinners we use to have after church. But here the food is spicier and all vegetarian, so everyone can eat it. I feel calmer than I did before the service, and although I know that I still stick out like a sore thumb, I've enjoyed sharing this feeling of community with my cousin. I'm glad I decided to come.