Muslimy-ness

By J.A.

He was the kind of person she generally avoided, mostly because he was male…and a person. She didn’t meet with many people lately, and always shunned the opposite sex like they were diseased and contagious. Unfortunately this inconveniently masculine specimen was especially intimidating. If she had seen him walk towards her in the dark streets of Chicago, she’d have crossed to the other side while uncapping her pepper spray and switching on her taser.

“You don’t have a taser.”

“Or pepper spray.”

Rowayda sighed. While most people had one voice of reason in their minds, she had two. She didn’t quite think of them as voices of reason, however; she mostly found them to be annoying. One was gruff and masculine, with an inexplicable Irish accent, and the other had a Disney princess voice: all sugar and fairy dust. She called them X and Y.

“Seven consecutive years voted Most Creative Student and that’s what ya come up with, lassie?” said X mockingly.

Rowayda stood in line at the shawarma cafe, pretending to watch the roasted chickens rotating in their spits, but in actuality sneaking glances toward the back room, beyond the round tables where customers sat enjoying their chicken and lamb sandwiches to where lounge chairs and couches were arranged in a comfortable seating area. The back room was usually occupied by youths smoking hookah, but as it was early morning, only one person sat there with his head bent to a book.

She shot another furtive glance toward him but this time he looked up and caught her eye. Oh God, she groaned inwardly, is it too late to hide?

She turned away but she could still feel his eyes on her. The brief eye contact made her stomach turn in anxiety.

Stop being so nervous, she scolded herself. She had been sent to interview him for a job opening and even arranged the meeting, but she had never met this person before or knew what he looked like. As a matter of fact, he didn’t know what she looked like either, so if she were to leave now no one would ever know she was here…

She looked over her shoulder and caught his eye again. He smiled and gave her half a wave.

X: “Go on, he ain’t gonna attack ye in a public place in the daytime! Though if he does, ya wouldn’t lasta minute. Perhaps two, if he’s slow on the kill.”

Y: “Oh just ignore X, he’s a silly meanie. Though you might want to consider investing in a good taser gun next time, just in case…”

With legs like overcooked spaghetti noodles, she made her way to the back room and stood tentatively near the sofa across from where he sat. She wished he hadn’t watched her walk the whole way to him; she was feeling painfully self-conscious.

“Salaam alaykum.”

“Walaykum as salaam,” he replied in a slightly creaky voice, setting his book down and rising from his seat.

Y: “Oh my twinkling stars, he’s Goliath.”

He seemed to fill up the room with his considerable girth. He wasn’t very wide, but his broad shoulders and pectorals made him look like a professional football player. Compared to her small frame, he was indeed giant-like. She trembled in fear and awe.

“I’m Nathaniel Silvervine, I spoke to you yesterday about the request for an IHK event administrator. You’re Rwanda, right?”

“Rowayda,” she corrected in a trembling voice, sitting down. He did the same, leaning on the armrest confidently.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Forgive me, but you’re very Muslimy.”

X: “That’s no’ even a word.”

Y: ” Who cares? He’s dreamyyyy!”

He was. If Rowayda wasn’t so nervous she’d probably be drooling at the sight of him. He looked to be of mixed race but she couldn’t guess what combination could create such a golden hue to his skin, like he was made of brass. Black ink in the form of slender vines snaked up his arms and torso, though the latter was hidden underneath a white t-shirt through which she could sometimes make out the rest of his tattoos when the fabric stretched over his bunched muscles. Among the curls of leaves and tangled vines were minute images almost imperceptible to the unobservant eye.

Rowayda was trying to make out what seemed to be a tiny black pomegranate with a wedge removed before she realized that she had been staring at his collarbone for an inappropriately long time. She blinked hard and looked away.

“That’s not even a word,” she managed to say, staring at her clasped hands.

Nathaniel grinned. “Well you’re unmistakably the kind of girl who’d be found at the Islamic House of Knowledge, passing out flyers and loyally attending lectures.”

“Actually I’m the creative director,” Rowayda said coldly, bristling at his tone. “And nice batman symbol tattoo, very original.”

Nathaniel’s wide grin made his ears perk up like a mischievous nymph.

X: “Idiot, now he knows you’ve been gawking at him!”

I’m not gawking at him, Rowayda thought defensively. I’m just sizing up my opponent.

Y: “You’re supposed to be on the same team, my dimwitted darling. Good thing too, because he looks like he could cut a bear to pieces with a nail filer.”

Nathaniel leant back in his chair and smoothed the stray hairs that were slipping from the messy bun at the top of his head.

“What I meant was, you have an undeniably pure aura to you. Like a child’s but with the intelligence of someone thrice your age.”

X: “Is he flattering you? He’s flattering you, isn’t he?

Y: “He said thrice!”

“Flattery won’t charge these batteries, civilian,” Rowayda said in a voice of mock menace, which unintentionally came out as seductive.

Nathaniel tilted his head back and let out a loud laugh. “I can’t believe you just made a Wreck it Ralph quote sound dirty! And here I thought you were a washed-out prude with a weak personality and a nun’s sense of humor – no offense.”

X: “Curse you, beautifully golden man-bunned demigod with eyes like honey caught on fire!

Y: “It’s a ruse, he’s trying to get you to loosen up and show your bad side. Don’t fall for it, dear, it’s bad enough that we have to listen to your grossly vulgar thoughts – and we’re figments of your imagination! X snickered naughtily.

“Wait until he finds out you’re a schizophrenic perv!”

“Oftentimes when one feels the need to add ‘no offense’ after a remark, it is because offense is deliberately implied.” Rowayda said in her coldest nun voice. “Now Mr. Silvervine, if you don’t mind, may you to introduce yourself and tell me why you think you’re qualified for the job?”

“I’m sorry if you were offended, Rwanda, I was only teas-”

“Tell me about your administrative experiences,” she cut him off, then, to amend the rude interruption, added “please.”

X: “Stop staring at the lad’s tattoos, he’s watching yer gaze!”

I can’t, Rowayda snapped at the gruff voice in her head. Nathaniel was sitting in such a way that made lowering her gaze highly inappropriate. So unaccustomed was she to being this close to a man her age, she sat deliberating about where to look rather than listening to his brief introduction and why he was interested in the job.

The way she saw it, she had one of three choices: she could raise her gaze to the ceiling, though that would make her look slightly concussed, lower her gaze to her shoes, which, she realized suddenly, were mismatched, or stare him dead in the eye and give him the most withering of glares. She chose to do the latter, heartbeat thumping in her throat. I’m not into bad boys, Rowayda reminded herself. I’m into small geeky book nerds with social ineptitude.

She took a deep breath and straightened her back. She loathed how his presence dominated the room, how small she felt in comparison. “And so I thought I’d do something about that. Honestly, I wanted to take a more active role in the Muslim community ever since I converted, but I never really knew how. Most mosques aren’t comfortable with having a guy like me work for them.”

“How long ago did you convert?”

“Nine years.” He laughed. My mother thought it was just a phase. She’s Cherokee-Portuguese, and was very rebellious in her teens.”

Ah, so he’s part Native American, she thought, resisting the urge to ask what race his father was. You don’t just ask someone what they are or where they’re from, even though people did that to her a lot. ‘Where are you from?‘ they’d demand to know, when they saw her in her hijab.

Her voice was softer when she spoke next. “What was it like, deciding to be – ” she paused. She wanted to say ‘one of us’ but that didn’t sound right to her. She felt so alienated from American society, that grouping herself and Nathaniel together seemed to be taking liberties she did not possess.

“Muslim?” He rubbed his lip. “That was the easy part, actually. The consequences thereafter were a bit more difficult.” He gave her a smile that softened his angled features. “I can tell you all about this fascinating tale of misadventures and near-death experiences if you let me buy you brunch, Rwa- Rowayda.”

Rowayda imagined herself struggling to eat a shawarma sandwich as daintily as she could while mayonnaise dribbled from her chin. There was no way she was going to let Mr. Hercules watch her dismantle her dignity with every bite. She agreed to coffee instead, which made her seem more poised despite having spilled some on her skirt the moment the waitress handed her the cup.

She could feel Nathaniel’s eyes on her as she thanked the pretty blonde girl. She wondered why he wasn’t staring at her instead; clearly she was a better sight to behold. The girl introduced herself as Amanda and assured them that she’d be back in a few minutes for their cheesecakes.

“Is that all for you, babes?” Amanda asked sweetly, flashing her perfect Hollywood smile. Rowayda nodded. The coffee stain on her knee seemed to grow in her peripheral vision.

“You have a lovely profile,” Nathaniel said softly when Amanda left.

“On Facebook?”

“Haha! You really don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?”

X: “He’s flirting with you! Oh God, what do we do?”

“How absolutely beautiful you are,” he said seriously.

X: “Abort! Abort!”

Y: “She’s not pregnant!”

X: “Abort mission! System failure!”

Shut up, you two! Rowayda was desperately trying to look nonchalant but the panic must’ve shown in her eyes because Nathaniel smiled and changed the subject back to his conversion story.

As he spoke she inwardly berated herself for being so susceptible to his charms. Wasn’t she the one who always disagreed vehemently with the common belief that guys and girls can’t be friends? Didn’t she, just last week, organize a conference about how there should be more gender-mixed programs at the Islamic center to help promote healthy societal behavior? Yet here she was, thinking very un-Muslimy thoughts about a guy she just met.

Y: “To be fair, you don’t think that way about all guys, just this one.” She felt dirty nonetheless.

X: “There should be a conference about how it’s perfectly darned fine to have those thoughts!”

Please be quiet, she thought. Nathaniel’s story was getting interesting. As he spoke, she watched the pretentious mask melt away to reveal a truly moral, gracious person with a kindness that had endured the worst of humanity. She began to see, hidden beneath the “bad boy” exterior, a character as scrupulously pure on the inside as she was on the outside. He hid his goodness like she hid her rebelliousness, but where he became more attractive as his personality was made more clear, she was afraid she’d be the opposite.

“You’d better not be falling in love, lass,” X warned her nervously.

I won’t be, she thought determinedly. I’m a washed-out prude with a weak personality and no sense of humor. Her stomach lurched at the thought and both voices in her head groaned at how untrue that statement was.

 

J.A. is  a female Muslim living in Detroit, Michigan.