On the other hand, that humor has made him something of a lovable dorky legend at work. So when Mariam first told me how bad it was for her father, I had a hard time believing her.
She rolled her eyes at first. Then she got mad. “Salma, his name is Dr. Muhammad Muhammad. It might as well be Dr. Evil-Evil. You’re so naïve!”
Never mind that he was the best chiropractor in Northern Virginia. Even my grandmother Titi—convinced that a spoonful of honey and nigella seeds can heal anything—swore by his talent. Nobody listened. The depressing truth about the Muslim community, at least ours, is that it sucks at supporting its own. We’re either trying to cope with our alienation or debating the legality of something ridiculous, like what qualifies as a “clean sock.” I’m not kidding. Our imam might hold the world’s record for discussing the virtues of doing laundry. Shoes come off for prayer at every mosque, yet somehow we here in Arlington, Virginia, end up with the halal sock police. (Of which Titi is a proud member. So I’m just as guilty of not listening to her sometimes.) All of which is to say that occasionally I’m forced to take matters into my own hands…or fingertips, to be exact.
Anyway, Mariam is naïve, too.
Like most non-nerds, Mariam doesn’t have a clue as to how interconnected we all are. Or that there are people—yes, even some who aren’t Russian villains—who manipulate search engines. There are even some who do it legally, as a job. Yet for some reason we nerds seem to be the only ones who know the truth.
Human beings don’t pay attention to truth or logic. They pay attention to Google searches.
While I couldn’t hide the Muslim heritage of Dr. Muhammad Muhammad, I could up his game by placing his reputation front and center. The downside: I couldn’t tell Mariam, because I had to hijack her router to do so.
In my defense, I’d at least tried to guess her dad’s username and password. (Isn’t it a good thing I can’t read the mind of a suburban chiropractor?) Failure to hack in the old-fashioned way prompted me to cross a line I hadn’t before: I ventured onto the Dark Web. For better or worse, it didn’t take long for me to understand what the benefits were. After I tossed off just a single cursory password-and-username query into this gated netherworld of encrypted networks, a friend appeared to help me: Pulaski88. I was quickly ushered into a chatroom for “ethical hacking”—a forum for the subversive but righteous—and there, under the handle I’ll never share, we struck up a conversation. It turned out Pulaski88 was exactly who I was looking for, someone who specialized in accessing “nearby non-criminal hardware.”
Long, redacted story short: after I answered some ridiculous questions (“On what planet would you hypothetically live?”), Pulaski88 walked me through what I needed to do to take control of Dr. Muhammad’s hard drive—and also warned me of the penalties involved, everything from a class B misdemeanor to a class D felony.
I wasn’t concerned. Pulling it off was the easy part.
Once inside, undetected and glitch-free, I tinkered with Dr. Muhammad’s meta tags, those keywords that make websites more discoverable. From that night on, whenever someone local searched for a back pain specialist, voilà: Dr. Muhammad Muhammad rose to the top. I did feel guilty. What I’d done was black hat, criminal. And worse, I’d kept it from my best friend. But it reinforced that invaluable secret: privacy is an illusion. Easily hacked and easily violated. The next morning I covered my webcam with a postage stamp in case anyone out there wanted to snoop on me. And full disclosure? Mostly I felt a flush of pride. Mariam’s father was briefly the king of the Arlington chiropractors.
My happiest memory from that otherwise grim period was catching him at his phone with a bewildered smile, shaking his head at his sudden rise in internet rankings.
The difficult part? Accepting fate. Boosting his rankings was like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic. A futile, pathetic attempt at stemming the inevitable.
“SALMA, GET READY. No dawdling. And please wear something nice. Like one of your kaftans.”
Ugh. Saturday evening, and instead of going out with friends, I was being dragged to the mosque. During Ramadan. I don’t fast for health reasons, which means that I’ve always struggled with the Ramadan spirit. “Mom. Do I have to?”
“For Titi, dear. It’ll bring her joy.”
It’ll bring her joy. Titi is moving in with us. Salma! Can you take the basement and give her your room? It’ll bring her joy. Titi would like to go on a walk. Salma! Can you be her cane? It’ll bring her joy. Salma! Titi needs another prescription refill. Can you run to the pharmacy?
Yes, I’m Titi’s personal assistant. A full-time joy-maker. But you know what? Titi deserves it. And if paradise lies at the foot of a mother, I am quite certain that the key to its highest realm is straight through the heart of a grandmother. So I forced myself out from under the covers, brushed my teeth, and jumped in the shower. After battling with my Queen Bey big curls, I unzipped the hermetically sealed takchita that had been hiding in my closet since last April.
A takchita is like a kaftan on steroids. Mine was a vibrant sea of oranges and reds. It would have been gorgeous on some, no doubt—if you had big boobs and wide hips to fill it in, but that ain’t happening. Besides, I was more of a tunic-with-leggings sort of girl. I preferred something low-key and comfortable. Simple. A double-layered, ankle-length dress is…anything but. This particular takchita consisted of a cotton undergarment hidden by a layer of silk and sequins, dripping with beads: a fountain of femininity tied at the waist with an oppressively thick made-for-a-queen belt.
As I tied it tightly, I reminded myself of Titi’s joy. Then I contemplated the shoes. They matched perfectly with the gown, but those two-inch heels induced palpitations. I, Salma B., utterly lacked the charm and grace of an Oscar-winning actress. Odds were that I would stumble and fall on the mosque’s red carpet. Forget it. No way. Mom appeared once again as I finished lacing my cherry-red Doc Martens—Amir’s favorite.
“Really, Salma?”
“This dress is ridiculously long. No one will see.” Then I smiled sweetly. “It’ll bring me joy.”
She laughed. “Touché. Now hurry up.”
My family attends the local mosque only a few times a year: for janaza—the funeral service—when someone dies, the two Eids, and a night or two during Ramadan. It was the grand fundraiser and fancy weekend iftar that had us all piled into the minivan and overdressed. When it comes to how my family practices Islam, both of my parents are highly opinionated. Dad is outwardly secular, but as Titi’s original joy-maker, he doesn’t mind going to the mosque a few times a year. It makes her happy. It’s “heritage.” Mom is outwardly more observant, but inwardly critical. She’s got major qualms with the board of our local mosque. “It’s all male and physician dominated,” she regularly complains. But she still felt bad for not attending regularly, so going on a night like tonight—holy and charity-oriented—was like double the karmic value.
The funny thing: Mom was born a white Anglo-Saxon Protestant. She grew up not far from where we live now. Her life changed in 1993, the year she received a postdoctoral research grant to study Islamic literature in Tangier. (In her heart she’d dreamed of studying in Tehran—both cities are notorious for producing brilliant authors and poets—but as an American she couldn’t if she’d tried unless she was a spy.) Her love of the Transcendentalists, particularly Ralph Waldo Emerson and his poem “Saadi,” attracted her to Sufi poetry; her determination to educate herself in a Muslim country brought her to Morocco instead of Iran. By year’s end, she’d met my father. She fell in love with him as she fell in love with Islam. Ever since, she’s been a proud WASM: a white Anglo-Saxon Muslim.
Of course, she claims she’s always been one, her entire life. It just took one step toward Allah for Allah to take two steps toward her.
* * *
—
Amir was waiting for us in the parking lot. He wa
s standing in one of the last empty spots, saving it for my family. Parking is tight on holidays, even though our nice neighbors at All Souls Church share their lot with us. They’re Unitarians. (I’m still not sure what that means, but I know they’re very welcoming.) They have amazing signs all over their lawn. I’ve always loved the quotes they display. LOVE RADICALLY. WONDER DAILY.
Amir wore a long tunic, a matching kufi, and pressed khakis. He was a gorgeous slender reed.
Me, I was a carrot in a takchita and Doc Martens. I didn’t care, though. I burst out of the door and ran to him. His parents were already inside.
“Ramadan Mubarak, beautiful,” he said.
I should have expected he’d add a little compliment to lift my mood.
“Ramadan Kareem,” I murmured back.
“Ramadan Mubarak,” or “Blessed Ramadan,” was the standard greeting. But I love the word kareem, for “generous.” It rolls off the tongue like a poem. Anyway, it perfectly embodies Amir. I wanted to hug him, but knew better; I didn’t want the “aunties”—the older women in the community—to take notice. Funny: he still blushed and glanced around, even a couple of feet apart. Mariam always teased me, “Man, that brother is shy!” And she was right; Amir doesn’t like being in the spotlight in public. On the other hand, nobody engages in PDA at the mosque—not even parents.
“How are you holding up?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Okay. But I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
He reached out and touched my arm, then quickly folded his hands behind his back. “Well, you know what Mariam told me? There’s no point in missing two people when one of them is still here. I’m guessing she fed you that same BS, too?”
I could feel a smile spreading across my face as I stared back into those date-brown eyes. “Yeah. And…thank you for—you know—giving me space. I’m better. Ready to exit the scones cave.”
Amir pretended to frown. “She didn’t tell you to give up scones, did she?”
Before I could respond, Yasmin leapt between us. Amir scooped her up without even blinking, and after a twirl, he set her down lightly on her feet. Even in my crap mood I had to admit that my little sister’s hopeless crush on my boyfriend was cute, in its adoring and completely unselfconscious way. More cute was the brotherly way he handled an annoying ten-year-old.
“So?” she said. “Can you help? With my project? For Mr. Peck?”
He shot me a quick smirk. “Your Peck project?”
“Yes? Best All-Time American?” Her voice seemed to suggest a silent Duh.
Naturally, Yasmin never had any doubts that Amir would recall every moment of her fourth-grade schedule.
“For history class,” I grumbled. “Her presentation. She’s enlisting extra help. Yours, specifically.”
“We-e-ll,” said Amir in a slow, drawn-out voice. His eyes flashed again to mine, desperate for any cue to help jog his memory.
Muhammad Ali, I mouthed to him.
His face brightened. “Yes! You want me to look at your poster, right?”
Yasmin frowned. “No. I want you to record some music. You know, as a soundtrack for my presentation. We talked about this.”
I had to laugh. The truth was that I’d also been on Amir to record some music. And to perform live. To share his talent in general. Yes, I know he’s pathologically shy. But I also know it “brings him joy.” If it took my sister’s fourth-grade school project to get him to play in front of other people besides me, then so be it.
I folded my arms across my chest and arched an eyebrow. You better do what my sister wants, I told him with my stare.
“It’s already done,” he said.
“Seriously?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Awesome!” Yasmin cried, oblivious to my doubts. “Remember: the song is due in two weeks.” With that, she fluttered off to join our little sister Hala to stand in line and plate up. Yasmin just turned ten, and this was the first year she had tried fasting for an entire day. Weekends only, but still. She was proud and equally famished. Hala, close in age, who likewise refuses to ever be outshined or left alone, was also “fasting.” Or had been since snack time.
“Wow,” he said. “That girl is all business.”
“Runs in the family,” I replied dryly. “I’m assuming you were lying. How long does it take you to write a song, anyway?”
He cocked an eyebrow. “About as long as it would take you to hack into the Franklin computer system—to make sure Yasmin will get an A-plus, song or no song.”
I laughed again. “Well played, handsome. Wanna bet?”
* * *
—
Since it was the first week of Ramadan and everyone who was fasting was still adjusting, Amir decided to hang out at my house the next day and watch the Nats game with Dad. His father isn’t much of a sports fan, and neither am I. But I’ll take any date with Amir, even if it’s supervised. Even if I’m basically the third wheel with him and my dad.
Mom, Titi, and my younger sisters were hanging in the kitchen preparing iftar.
“Salma?” Mom called before I even made it out of the living room.
I hung my head and turned as she emerged from the kitchen with a large platter of food.
“It would be good to welcome that new family across the street,” she said. “Why don’t you walk it over?”
I glanced at Amir. He was staring at the TV, furiously pretending to be engrossed. Too bad it was a diaper commercial. Of course, he knew what I knew: that my mother frequently made suggestions that were in fact orders.
I tried not to groan as I took the platter. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously,” she said. Her hands moved to rest on her hips. Yet another weapon in her arsenal of overused body signs. This one meant: Salma, the conversation is over, period.
Amir hopped up. “I’ll come with you,” he offered politely. “It’s the seventh-inning stretch. Besides, I’d like to meet them, too.”
I focused on the tray, gripping it like a life raft as Amir held our front door open for me. I didn’t need to look where I was going. I could have walked across the street to Mariam’s blindfolded. But this was my first time back there. I couldn’t bring myself to look up at her house. Luckily, my hands were full, so I didn’t have to ring the bell, either.
Amir pressed the button.
I only lifted my head when I heard footsteps.
A middle-aged woman answered Mariam’s door. The new neighbor’s door, I reminded myself. She had a heart-shaped face and soft laugh lines. Something about her put me at ease. I hadn’t expected that. With her hand-knitted sweater and pear-like petite frame, she was…mom-like. Like Mariam’s own mom. Like a dove perched in a nest.
“Hi, nice to meet you,” I said. I shoved the plate abruptly in her direction. “Welcome to the neighborhood. This is a gift. From my mom.”
The words sounded flat, as if I were reading aloud from a coder’s manual.
As she took the platter, I stepped back. Great start. In less than ten seconds I’d made this awkward surprise visit even more awkward.
“Aren’t you a dear!” she exclaimed. “Why don’t you come on in?”
“Thanks. But you must be exhausted…from the move.” I know I am, I thought. Exhausted by my pushy mother. Exhausted by standing at Mariam’s door without Mariam. Exhausted by Mom’s Ramadan generosity. By all of it.
“Oh, hardly. I insist. I’m Mrs. Turner, but you’re welcome to call me Kate.” She practically yanked us inside, then steered Amir and me down the hallway. “Come and meet the men. They’re watching the Nats game.”
“Oh, okay, Mrs. Turner,” I said. “But we should be heading back—”
“Kate!” she interrupted with a laugh. “Mrs. Turner is my mother-in-law.”
I forced a clumsy laugh of my ow
n and followed her to the back of the house.
There were boxes stacked everywhere. Still, the family room was almost completely set up: brown leather sofa wrapped around the back wall, complemented by a rocking chair with a quilted pillow and a big flat-screen TV—not as big as the one in Vanessa’s basement, but a decent size.
Amir’s eyes zeroed in on the game. Mine roamed the room. I’d been worried I would burst into tears. Now I just felt oddly detached, as if I were in a dream, or I’d entered some dulled-down alternate universe. Walls once splashed with a haphazard jumble of Mrs. Muhammad’s paintings, mostly exotic South Asian birds and verses from the Quran, were now barren—except for three framed documents, all rendered in the same illegible calligraphy. Each was perfectly centered. They looked store-bought. Cheap, even…although that was unfair. Point being, I missed Mrs. Muhammad’s bohemian flair. I missed the Muhammads. My gaze finally came to rest on one of “the men”: a sunburnt middle-aged guy with a close blond buzz cut, sitting on the sofa.
He looked a little older than my dad. If his wife was a dove, then he was an oak. Hairy. Rugged. Thick. A bit too thick in the middle, more sturdy than paunchy, a bottle of beer clutched in one hand.
“That’s Kyle Senior, my husband,” Mrs. Turner said.
I nodded silently because I still couldn’t bring myself to call her Kate, even to myself.
Mr. Turner smiled. “That’s me!” His voice was loud and warm. “Welcome! Very pleased to meet you.” His eyes stayed on the TV as he waved his free hand at us. I saw that he had a small tattoo on the inside of his forearm. Four tiny digits: 1493. I wondered if that was his unit number. Vanessa’s dad, a vet, had a few service-themed tats on his arm.
No True Believers Page 2