“Nobody ever thinks Circassians are Muslim because of their skin color, and you know how people are with assumptions,” I say, “but, yeah, we’re Muslim.” I stop, realizing I’ve become animated and feeling silly. “So, that’s Circassians in a nutshell.”
“We’re happy you’re here, Allie.” Samira gives me a warm smile. “How far along are you in your studies?”
I blush red from the roots of my head to my toes. Uh, by how far along, do you mean … nowhere?
“I’m new at this,” I say.
“No problem,” Samira says, nodding. “We’re each at different phases in our studies, too. Hamdulilah you’re here now. That’s enough.”
It’s that word: enough.
I am enough.
Tears well in my eyes. I swipe them off my face furiously, horrified. “Oh my God. Sorry. I don’t know why I’m crying.”
“It’s okay,” Samira says.
This is not how I imagined this going.
“Can I take a guess?” she says. “Your parents aren’t religious.”
“Yeah. I mean, no. Definitely not.” The more I cry, the sillier I feel. The sillier I feel, the more I cry.
Fatima reaches into her sparkly purse and pulls out a packet of Kleenex tissue. As I blow my nose and rub away the tears, I stare at the purse. It’s cat-shaped, with a cute felt nose emblazoned on the front. For some reason, this undoes me.
“Sometimes I don’t feel Muslim enough,” I blurt out.
What are you doing? Are you serious? Stop.
First impressions are everything, and here I am, ruining it.
“Please. You’re Muslim,” Shamsah says firmly. “You have as much right to be here as anybody else.”
“I don’t know why I’m emotional. You’re not my therapy session. It’s not all about me. I’m sorry.”
Fatima reaches over and gives my hand a single gentle squeeze.
It’s so quiet in the room I can hear the tick-tick of the clock on the fireplace mantel. I want to sink into the couch and disappear, but Samira says, “Okay, y’all. I’ve seen a phrase making the rounds on Twitter: ‘Islam is not a monolith.’” She lets it sink in.
Tick-tick-tick.
“Islam is not a monolith,” she says. “It’s time we stopped feeling guilty about not being Muslim enough. Or being too Muslim. Or not being the ‘right kind’ of Muslim. Whatever that means.”
“I can relate,” Fatima says, clearing her throat. Her voice is soft but steady. “As a Black Muslim, as a convert, I feel like an outsider, too, you know? Sometimes.”
Leila nods at her sympathetically.
“Uh, cosign,” Shamsah says. “I bet most of us do, Allie. You just don’t realize it.”
And I feel slightly less like the most embarrassing person to have ever lived.
The meeting is divided up into sections: First, we read from the Qur’an and work on memorization, then we discuss passages, and, finally, we ask questions.
I keep my head down, listen, and barely speak.
Shamsah talks about going back to India every summer to see her extended family, mentioning that they occasionally tease her she’s become too American—which is frustrating, because she doesn’t fully fit in with her American friends, either. Leila, who’s half-Egyptian and half-Palestinian, was born in America. Both of her parents have been citizens for over a decade. She’s never been to the Middle East and wants to see where her parents came from, but they think it’s not worth the money. Like my dad, they say there’s nowhere better than America, so why leave? Meanwhile, Fatima says she converted to Islam when her mother remarried. Her Baptist dad blames her Muslim stepdad for “making” Fatima wear a headscarf, even though Fatima keeps explaining it’s her own choice.
Everybody has a backstory. Nobody’s is simple.
Maybe I’m not as alone as I thought.
After class is over, we text our parents to come and get us.
Dua’s mom pops into the living room with a fresh plate of cookies and a hug for me.
“Hey. We’re gonna go to Avalon. Wanna come?” Leila asks. “My mom can drive.”
Wait, is she talking to me? My heart skips once I realize she’s inviting me to the outdoor mall with them.
“Oh! Yeah, that sounds awesome,” I say. “Except, ugh, I can’t today. I promised my dad I’d go to Home Depot with him.” His limited free time is devoted to sprucing up the house. Normally, I like our outings, but I suddenly feel resentful.
“Okay, maybe next week,” she says. “What’s your phone number?”
“We have a group WhatsApp going,” Dua explains as everybody takes my number. “I’ll add you. Next week is at Fatima’s.”
Immediately, my phone pings with a notification.
Welcome to the group!
I blush, feeling excited.
* * *
The text finally comes that night while I’m in my room doing homework.
WELLS: Do you hate me?
ME: No
WELLS: I was kind of a jerk
WELLS: I’m sorry
ME: Me too.
ME: He’s still your dad. I shouldn’t have said anything.
WELLS: It’s hard to talk about.
I don’t know how to respond. Luckily, I see ellipses as he keeps typing.
WELLS: To answer your question, yes, he knows Zadie is Mexican, and he’s fine with Joey.
I have to keep myself from responding sarcastically. He’s fine. How noble. Here’s a cookie for managing your racism.
ME: Cool
Now might be a good time to tell Wells. I almost chicken out, but something in me presses forward.
ME: Can you talk on the phone for a few minutes?
WELLS: The phone? What’s that?
ME: Haha
My phone rings.
“Hey,” he says. His voice sounds nervous. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Finishing up homework. You back from soccer?”
“Yeah. Everything okay? Why are you calling me on my texting machine?”
I laugh. “Yeah, everything’s okay.” I pause. Maybe I should tell him in person so I can read his reaction. “Hey, would you mind picking me up for school tomorrow?”
“That’s it? The reason for the phone call?”
“Yeah. Well, also, I need you to know the Foo Fighters are extremely overrated.”
“Nope. We’re broken up.”
I know he can’t see the huge smile spreading across my face, but I still put my hand over my mouth to hide it.
Instead, I adopt a world-weary tone that doesn’t betray how I feel. “See you tomorrow morning.”
We hang up, and I feel conflicting emotions: elation mixed with fear.
Tomorrow’s the day.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wells picks me up for school the next morning. He’s running ten minutes late, kicking my anxiety into overdrive.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he says when I get into the truck. “It’s been a morning.”
“Why? What’s up?”
He frowns. “Stuff with my dad.”
I nod, not knowing what to say.
He leans over, and we bump into each other for an awkward hug. I can feel his heart beating through the thin fabric of his shirt. Despite myself, my lips gravitate toward his like magnets. His lips are warm and soft, his arms tightening around my back.
Can’t we stay like this forever?
Making out … no messy parental issues to deal with … no religious guilt over being in a relationship …
That’d be great, thanks.
He pulls away, looking meaningfully into my eyes as if they hold the long-sought answer to a fervent question. We smile at each other, and then he puts the car into reverse and backs onto my street. “What’s—”
“I have to tell you something.” My father’s admonition that people will treat me differently if they know I’m Muslim rings in my ears. I’m past the point of no return. I can’t stop hiding anymore. I need Wells to know m
e.
All of me.
“Okay?” he says.
“My family’s Muslim.”
We come to a red light, and he stops, looking confused.
“I’m a Muslim.”
It takes a second for him to react. His face is blank, his eyes darting this way and that, as if he’s processing.
The light turns green.
“It’s something you’ve been hiding from people,” he says as he drives. It’s less of a question, more of a statement.
“Yeah.”
He nods.
“No,” I say, contradicting myself. “I just don’t tell everybody.”
“You don’t tell everybody, or you don’t tell anybody?”
My silence is the answer.
I can read his mind: Sounds like hiding to me.
“So what happened?” he says. “Why are you telling me now?”
I catch him up on the past couple of months, starting with the airplane incident.
“They treated my dad like a terrorist.”
“Thank God you were there.”
“You mean, thank God his white daughter was there to save him?”
Wells reaches out and gently takes my hand as he drives, entwining his fingers in mine. The gesture sends an energizing jolt through me. He’s never held my hand before.
“Is your mom Muslim, too?”
“She converted.”
“Are they religious?”
“The only thing my dad believes in is the American dream.” I laugh bitterly.
“That’s not a bad thing,” he says. “Right?”
“I don’t think he gets that the American dream is only for white people—the right kind of white people. Muslims need not apply.”
I almost say: Your father knows a little something about that.
I change the subject. “Allie’s not my real name.”
“It’s not?”
“It’s Alia.”
He smiles. “That’s beautiful.”
“I like it, too,” I say, smiling back.
“Why don’t you use it? Which do you prefer?”
“Allie’s who I am now.” I shrug. “Want me to blow your mind again? My real last name isn’t even Abraham.”
“Next you’re going to tell me you’re not a real redhead,” he jokes.
I laugh, despite myself. “My dad changed the name when he moved to America. It was Ibrahimi. And that wasn’t my great-grandfather’s last name: It was something impossible and Russian. My family keeps reinventing and reinventing and reinventing. Never comfortable in our own skin, I guess.”
“They’re Russian Muslims?”
“Not exactly. Russian is the easiest shorthand. We’re Circassian.” I see the confusion on his face. “Nobody’s ever heard of Circassians. Even a lot of Muslims don’t know who they are.”
I stuff as much family history into the ten-minute drive as possible: how the tribal Circassians, known for horses, sword fighting, and dancing, lived in their small mountainous communities at the crossroads of Asia and Europe, in a dangerous tinderbox of ethnicities and cultures, thriving by adapting and soaking up the dominant culture, language, or religion—whatever happened to be necessary for survival at the moment.
How the region was considered one of the world’s jewels, with jutting mountain peaks, green rolling hills, deep, quenching rivers, and one of the world’s oldest wine regions—so beautiful the czars of Russia wanted the area for themselves and launched a series of wars in the 1700s and 1800s that would result in a Circassian genocide in the 1860s.
How my ancestors were expelled from their homeland and forced into displacement in Turkey, Jordan, and Syria: Jordan for my grandfather’s family, Syria for my grandmother’s.
How my dad moved to America in the late nineties to go to Columbia University, not realizing the dream he’d always prized was heaving its last dying, sputtering gasps—if it ever existed at all.
To Wells’s credit, though I’m giving him a history lecture as we drive through the winding backwoods of Providence, his eyes never glaze over. Instead, as he drives toward school, he asks more rapid-fire questions, wanting to know why the Russians prized the land; how the families could live with themselves selling their daughters into Ottoman harems; if the girls tried to escape bondage; if they had their own language.
“My family speaks both,” I say. “Circassian and Arabic. My dad is fluent in Circassian—all my aunts and uncles are. I guess my family is more intense about keeping it alive than most. They consider themselves Circassian first, Jordanian second. My cousins take dance lessons at Circassian community centers in Dallas and New Jersey, they dress up in Circassian outfits at weddings, and they still make a few Circassian recipes. But what’s weird is none of my family has visited the area, and I don’t think any of them taught the language to their kids. It’ll probably be extinct in a few more generations—it’s a dying language.”
“What does it sound like?”
“Daghwas,” I say, slaughtering the word for “good.” “It’s the only word I know. I wish I could say more, but nobody taught me.”
“I’m asking too many questions.”
“It’s okay. I love that you’re interested. You can ask more. I don’t mind.”
“Are you allowed to date? As a Muslim.”
I flush. “My family is liberal, but if I’m going by the book … technically … not really.”
He looks nervous. “Do we have to stop hanging out?”
“I mean, no, but … okay, I read about something called ‘halal dating.’ You don’t do anything you wouldn’t do in front of your parents.” I squirm in the seat, feeling embarrassed on multiple levels. “I don’t know. I’m figuring it all out.”
“Last one. Do you practice?”
I look down at my hands. “I want to. I went to my first Qur’an study group.”
“You did?” Surprise colors his face.
We pull into the parking lot, and he takes his usual spot, in the back where there are fewer cars. He’s constantly nervous about his truck getting scratched.
“Yeah,” I say. “Is that weird?”
“No. I don’t know.” He pauses. “It’s kind of weird. But you’re not weird. Neither is Islam. It’s a different situation.” He clears his throat.
I press ahead, feeling like we’re discussing something deeply uncool, deeply shocking—like religion is taboo somehow. “It’s hard to explain, but … it’s like there’s something missing.”
He nods. “My mom is Episcopalian. She says going to church makes her feel better about life. Helps her through stuff. I get it. I mean, I don’t get it, but…”
“You sure you don’t think Islam is weird?” I ask quietly.
He takes the keys out of the ignition, unclicking his belt and leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t look at me. “Because of my dad?”
“Yeah.”
He turns to me, his cheeks red. “I’m sorry I didn’t say this before, Allie. I’m not my dad. I don’t believe what he believes.”
In the past, this might have been enough for me. But now, I need to hear him spell it out. The stakes are too high for a misunderstanding.
“So, you don’t support your dad’s stance on Muslims? To be clear.”
“No. None of it. We don’t share the same views. Period.”
Relief floods my body.
We get out of the car and walk into the school building, heading for the library: our recent preclass hangout.
“He wasn’t always like that,” he says as we settle in at a table by the new releases.
“What was he like?”
Wells bites his lip. “Less intense. Less angry. My mom says he was a different guy in college.”
“I’d bet my entire vintage dress collection that your dad was president of his fraternity and still talks about the good old days.”
Wells laughs deeply. “Okay. Maybe. They met in the Young Republicans club. My mom says he was a ‘pure Republican,’ whatever that
means. Smaller government, fiscal conservatism, personal responsibility, I guess.”
“He doesn’t believe in that stuff anymore?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. But now he’s all about getting America back to ‘how things used to be.’” He uses air quotes. “What did the girls in your study group say?”
“About what?”
“About my dad.”
I burst out laughing. “Wells, you are straight-up high if you think I told my friends about your dad. Or my parents, for that matter.”
“I can’t picture your dad being thrilled with it.”
It takes me a second to remember that Wells has met my dad. “Yeah. No.”
He leans back in the chair, stretching out his body. My eyes run the length of him, and I have to turn my head away so he can’t see my burning cheeks. I’m in deep with this guy.
“If your dad isn’t religious,” he says, “what does he think about you practicing?”
“That would be a negative on the informing of the parentals,” I joke in a robot voice. “My mom knows. But my dad … religion … it’s complicated.”
“Try me.”
I snort. “Where to start? My dad drinks wine—”
“But that’s cool ’cause he’s Circassian?”
“Ha! Doesn’t quite work like that. And nice pronunciation.”
He grins. “I try.”
“He doesn’t pray. He barely taught me Arabic. My teta—” I stop, to correct myself. “My grandma hardly understands me when we try to communicate. When I was little, I looked way more like my mom than my dad and his side of the family, because my hair was light. Imagine my family reunions: a bunch of brunettes, and then me, sticking out like a sore thumb.”
“What about the other side of your family?”
“What about them? My mom grew up in a mansion in Key Biscayne and went to prep school. My grandfather was a cardiologist who played golf at the club. They couldn’t be more of a cliché if they tried. My grandmother is on boards in Miami and Palm Beach. She likes Wheat Thins. Her name is Genevieve. She is the living embodiment of beige.”
“Obviously, they were thrilled when your mom married a Muslim.”
“Obviously.”
“Do you care?”
“They’re my family, too,” I say quietly. “Of course I care.”
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