A Perfect Match, Except for God and Dogs

When he wrote early in our correspondence that he thought his religion wasn’t compatible with mine but that mine was compatible with his, I couldn’t tell if he was joking or trying to make a philosophical point. I was taken aback by the absurdity of the statement, given that he had no religion, and I was a practicing Muslim.

“I believe in doing good in life,” he explained, “which I think is what all religions prescribe. In that sense, I don’t see our belief systems as conflicting.”

I was in my mid-30s and had recently emerged from a three-year marriage. While there had been a confluence of reasons for my divorce, it came down to deep cultural differences that neither of us were equipped to navigate. My ex-husband was a white, American ethnomusicologist who studied the musical traditions of West Africa, had converted to Islam and quit drinking early in our courtship. He spoke some French, was an Africaphile, and we had similar values, and yet none of that was enough to bridge our cultural gap.

So I was starting over, with my biological clock ticking, convinced that finding someone closer to my own cultural background was the key to a successful relationship.

More than a decade earlier, I had landed in New York City to attend graduate school. As the daughter of Senegalese immigrants in France, I came from a tight-knit community, and my decision to study abroad as a single woman — the bravest thing I’d ever done — broke with tradition. Although my upbringing had been relatively liberal, our African and Muslim identity were our compass, and I felt anchored in my faith.

I came across this new man’s profile on OkCupid by accident in my search for a Muslim man who did not drink alcohol. He was a white, atheist, divorced father who also happened to be a nondrinker. I moved quickly past his profile, discouraged by the scarcity of suitable prospects.

The next day, when I received a friendly note from him, I was surprised and decided to give him a second look.

OkCupid had given us a high compatibility rate, with only two areas flagged as conflicting: God and dogs. I had checked religion as “Extremely important,” and he had checked “Not important at all.” As for dogs, he loved them, and I had grown up in a home where touching a dog required you to immediately wash your hands; to some Muslims, dogs are considered impure.

I wrote back to thank him for messaging me and to say that we were not compatible. That evening, I received another message from him acknowledging our differences. “For what it’s worth,” he added, “I’m always happy to meet new people and maybe we can be friends.”

I went back to his profile again. He was vegetarian, an avid cyclist, and only spoke English. I spoke four languages. Culturally, he seemed so white and American to me.

But we kept writing. He was an extrovert, witty, with a dry sense of humor, and had no filters. I am introverted, levelheaded and value deep connections over small talk.

He was from Seattle and grew up in a somewhat unconventional household, being his parents’ only biological child, joined by three adopted siblings from India and a stream of foster children from all over. He had never had alcohol — not for any religious reason, but simply because he never saw the appeal. He didn’t drink coffee or tea, and generally avoided stimulants.

I found him fascinating. He was a lawyer, working at a large firm, doing intellectual property litigation. I worked in a global nonprofit, traveling to West and East Africa several times a year. He admired my path and career.

I didn’t know anyone like him, and he didn’t know anyone like me, yet we shared so many interests and sensitivities. Even though he was a corporate litigator, he was a humanist at heart who lived simply, didn’t value material things and aspired to leave the world a better place than he found it. He was a vegetarian for environmental reasons, didn’t watch TV and raised his then 12-year-old son with these fundamental values.

I found that overwhelmingly endearing. If it wasn’t for religion, I thought, we would be quite compatible.

Within two weeks, we spoke on the phone, which felt comfortable and strangely familiar. We agreed to meet a few days later. By then, I was struggling to reconcile my feelings with the elephant in the room: religion. How did I let myself go this far, knowing that we didn’t stand a chance? This was supposed to be a fresh start for me on more solid ground. I knew I shouldn’t indulge whatever this was turning into. It felt foolish and potentially sinful, yet I wanted to ride this a little longer.

We finally met on a cold Sunday morning at the West 72nd Street subway stop. He looked like a softer and warmer version of his online photos. We had brunch, talked and walked the city streets. I rode the train home with the calm realization that I had liked him more than I wanted to. When I got home, he had sent me a one-line message: “I like you.”

As one year of dating turned to two, I never reached a state of certainty about where the relationship was going. I felt constantly conflicted about whether I could share my life with someone who doesn’t believe in God. Yet, I was the happiest I had ever been with anyone, although I kept the relationship secret from my family in France. Culturally, dating is taboo for a woman in my community and the mention of a significant other would only be accepted in the same sentence as marriage plans. Marrying a non-Muslim, let alone an atheist, was not on the table.

We talked about marriage, but only hypothetically. The fact that he didn’t drink or eat meat made it easier to envision merging our lives. He also didn’t own a dog then. He had initially not wanted more children, but by then, his son was a teenager and becoming more self-sufficient, and he could see a scenario in which having another child wouldn’t conflict with his desire to be the best parent he could be.

I was in my late 30s by then, and one child might be all I could have. Religion being such an integral part of my identity, I would raise my child Muslim, of course. He said he could live with that and even support it.

During that time, he showed great interest in my religious and cultural practices; not like he could be swayed, but almost like a journalist with genuine curiosity. During Ramadan — the Muslim month of fasting — he fasted alongside me on days when we were together. For him, it was about sharing an experience and learning more about the part of my life that is “extremely important.”

When he proposed on New Year’s Day, almost exactly two years after our first meeting, I felt like I was on the edge of a cliff. I looked at him, on one knee with a beaming smile. If I chose to see the humanist who believes in doing good in the world, maybe I could take this leap of faith.

So I did, and we married, moved to the West Coast and had two boys, now 9 and 7. For a long time, I felt immensely proud that their father and I had taken this giant leap of faith and landed where we did, neither of us compromising our beliefs while having a genuine acceptance of each other’s.

But as fate would have it, this was not the end of our story.

Our marriage ruptured on the day we celebrated my husband’s 50th birthday. In the early morning darkness of our family room, he told me he was not happy and that it would be best if we went our separate ways. While our marriage was not perfect, I never doubted our commitment to each other. But he did, and in the end, he needed to be with someone who brought out his true self in a way our relationship did not allow.

The spiritual part of me sometimes entertains the idea that God didn’t want me to be with an atheist. The rational part of me accepts that people fall out of love and grow to want different things. Ultimately, religion was not an issue in our relationship. He supported my desire to raise our children in the Muslim faith and would direct them to me whenever they had a question about religion, saying, “Mommy is the expert on God.”

As I navigate my new reality, I find deep comfort in what remains — my pot of gold: two children born out of the most unlikely union, impossible to regret.

Marième Daff is a nonprofit executive who lives in Paris.

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