Mariam Sharma Hits the Road

by Sheba Karim

  It was classic love the sinner, condemn the sin rhetoric. Across the aisle, Umar had turned pale and still. Next to me, Ghaz was clenching her fists.

  “Now, I have people come to me and say, ‘Sheikh, gay people are BORN that way. If ALLAH made them this way, would He not WANT them to live as homosexuals, engage in homosexual RELATIONS with another man?”

  This was similar to Umar’s argument.

  “To THEM I say, just because you’re BORN with an urge does not make it RIGHT. Lots of people are born with innate, sinful urges that they must FIGHT against. For example, PEDOPHILIA. Some people have the innate urge to have sex with young children, but they must FIGHT THIS URGE if they want to be good people because to ACT upon the pedophilic urge would be a sin.”

  Ghaz gasped. “Oh, no, he didn’t.”

  “Compare homosexuals to pedophiles? Oh, yes, he did,” I muttered.

  Umar was staring at his feet.

  “The same goes for,” the sheikh went on, “KLEPTOMANIA. Some people are born with the desire to steal, but they must RESIST the urge to act upon it. Now people ask me, ‘But Sheikh, how does a sexual act between two CONSENTING ADULTS harm anyone?’ Well, does the fact that two adults consent to SNORT COCAINE together mean it’s no longer a SIN? While it is important for us to accept that there is nothing sinful about homosexual attraction, to ACT upon it is most definitely a GRAVE sin, and there are NO EXCEPTIONS.”

  There were so many fallacies to his arguments, I didn’t know where to begin.

  Ghaz was gritting her teeth, her foot shaking. A young woman walked down the aisle with slips of paper and pens to write questions on. Ghaz grabbed four slips and began scribbling furiously.

  The female chaplain spoke next. She had a soothing counselor’s voice, and maintained a steady, gentle tone.

  “As someone who works with Muslim students, I’ve had several Muslim students tell me they are gay and are valiantly struggling to fight the urge to act on it. When I see the courage these students have, the love they have for Allah, their willingness to fight their own physical impulses to obey Him, it makes me humble about my own faith. And we must, must, must love and support these people, not only because they need love and support in their struggle, but also because if we don’t they could turn away from Islam. I had one student who was so upset by homophobic comments he heard other Muslim students make that he decided to leave Islam, go to the Gay Pride parade, and come out to everybody.”

  As the audience murmured in dismay at this boy’s actions, I couldn’t believe how glibly the speakers were reducing queerness to an “urge”—acting like they were only denying people like Umar sex. But it wasn’t only an urge, and it wasn’t only sex. They were essentially telling them don’t have too much pride in it, don’t kiss anyone or be held by anyone or hold anyone, don’t go on long walks with your lover in the moonlight, don’t tempt it by dancing too close, don’t mind your frustration while your heterosexual friends and family fall in love, get married, kiss, fuck, have kids. Don’t find a loving partner. Resign yourself to growing old alone. They were denying Umar his dreams, dreams he deserved as much as anyone else. They were denying Umar love, companionship, intimacy.

  “But masha’allah,” the chaplain continued, “I know many homosexual Muslims who continue to fight the urge in their quest to please Allah, subhanahu wa ta’ala. And with our continued love and support, they will continue to choose Allah.”

  So, this was the message. Either live your life as a celibate, and choose Allah, or don’t, and reject Him.

  The audience burst into applause. Umar was looking straight ahead now, his hands folded in his lap.

  “Note,” Ghaz said, “they didn’t even mention lesbians. Even the LGBTQ panel was patriarchal.”

  The moderator announced there was only a little time left for questions. “I received a lot of questions, al-hamdu lillah,” she said, “but unfortunately we only have time for one. Here’s the question: I wear hijab. What if one of my female friends comes out to me as a lesbian? Can I still hug her?”

  The chaplain ceded to the sheikh who said, “You should treat her as you would a non-mahram, an UNRELATED male. So, don’t touch her, don’t hug her, don’t be alone with her. However, if she is Muslim you should encourage her down the path of righteousness Allah has clearly laid out for us.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” Ghaz said. “I have to get out of here before I blow. I’ll see you and Umar by the jester.”

  The audience broke into another round of applause. As I stood to leave, I noticed a guy in the row behind me. He had a dimpled chin and long, lush eyelashes; broad shoulders; short, wavy hair; a hint of stubble. He was wearing a light blue denim shirt that fit nicely. I’d seen enough of Umar’s outfits to recognize a well-tailored shirt. He seemed dismayed, lost in thought.

  He looked up, and I realized I’d been staring.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.”

  “I’m Mariam. My friends call me Mars.” I was about to offer him my hand, but then remembered that unrelated men and women weren’t supposed to touch.

  “Salaam, I’m Ali,” he said.

  “What did you think of the panel?” I asked.

  “Uh . . .” He scratched his dimple. “It was interesting. You?”

  “I found it extremely upsetting and problematic,” I declared.

  “Yeah,” he said, but didn’t elaborate.

  “I’m going down to the lobby to meet my two best friends—would you like to come? You should meet them. They’re really cool,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t think I was totally weird, especially considering my current status as fashion emergency.

  Ali studied me for a moment and I smiled, hoping to convince him of my good intentions.

  He smiled back and said, “Sure, why not?”

  On the escalators, we fell into easy conversation. I learned he was from Charlotte, North Carolina, was starting at Duke in the fall, that he hadn’t been to IANA in a while but had come this year with his family because they wanted his older sister to find a husband.

  “Oh yeah,” I said. “I saw a sign for a matrimonial speed dating event outside one of the rooms. Did your sister do that? How did it go?”

  When Ali smiled, another dimple, small, subtle, appeared on his cheek. “She has a very sharp, dry sense of humor. A lot of people don’t quite get it at first, so I don’t think speed dating is the way for her to go.”

  “Unless she meets someone who gets it right away. That could be a sign. Ah, there are my friends.”

  Ghaz and Umar were standing on opposite sides of the giant statue of a Mardi Gras jester, trying to seem like they weren’t talking to each other. The statue was a little obscene, the hem of the jester’s shirt sticking out from between his legs like a golden phallus. Every convention center I’d ever been to had been staid and corporate, but New Orleans danced to its own rhythm.

  “Ghaz, Umar, this is Ali,” I said. “We met at the panel.”

  “Umar and Ali!” Ghaz exclaimed. “The second and third caliphs.”

  “Second and fourth,” Umar and Ali corrected her at the same time, then looked at each other and smiled shyly.

  My heart melted.

  “We’re going to get some coffee and beignets,” Ghaz told him. “You want to come?”

  Ali checked his phone. “I have to go to a panel in twenty minutes. My friend is on it and I promised him I’d be there. But I’ll walk you guys out.”

  “Great!” I said, a little too enthusiastically, judging by Umar’s deepening blush.

  As we walked, I said, “Umar, Ali is also starting his freshman year this fall.”

  “Oh yeah? What school?” Umar asked him. As they began to chat, Ghaz and I discreetly fell behind.

  “You think he’s gay?” Ghaz asked me.

  “Not sure. But he’s so frigging cute. I know he’s not a bear, but I think that’s more about Umar’s fantasies.”

  “Oh, he moved on to straight boy jock porn months ag
o,” Ghaz said.

  “What? I didn’t know that.”

  “That’s because you don’t ask about his porn habits.”

  “Do you think Ali’s gay?” I asked.

  “He’s wearing chambray,” she said, like this would mean something to me.

  Outside, Umar and Ali were deep in conversation. We stopped several feet away, far enough to allow them privacy but close enough to observe.

  “Look at that dimple,” Ghaz noted.

  “I know, right?” I said. “He gets one on his cheek, too, when he smiles.”

  “Yum,” she said.

  They both pulled out their phones.

  “They’re exchanging numbers!” Ghaz exclaimed. “Well done, Mars!”

  They said good-bye and Umar signaled for us to follow him. By the time we were a few blocks away, Ghaz had taken her hijab off and Umar deigned to walk alongside us.

  “That whole thing with Ali was awkward,” he said.

  “It was,” Ghaz agreed, “until it wasn’t.”

  “Okay, he seems cool, but I need you guys to understand something. Just because another guy and I are both gay doesn’t mean we’ll hit it off. That’s like me saying, Ghaz, you’re straight, and that guy over there, he’s straight, too! You two should hook up!”

  “Point taken,” I said. “But isn’t he cute?”

  “Uh, yum,” Umar replied.

  “Did he tell you he was gay?” Ghaz asked.

  “No, but I got the vibe.”

  “And you got his number,” I added.

  Umar grinned, and Ghaz did a little dance that made him laugh.

  Though Decatur Street in the French Quarter was lined with lovely pastel buildings with wrought iron balconies, the scene was cheesy. Tacky shops sold cheap souvenirs and gator bites. Tourists crowded the sidewalk, rode by on horse-drawn carriages. There was music in every store and on the street, and food and drink everywhere you turned: oysters and muffulettas and pralines, Bloody Marys and hurricanes, delicious smells permeating the heat. This was a city that embraced its appetites, and the sweaty mass of tourists was only too happy to oblige. When we sat down on the patio of Café Du Monde, I’d never been so grateful for a ceiling fan.

  Outside, a sax player performed on the sidewalk, playing a lively rendition of “My Favorite Things.” After the gluttonous brunch, I couldn’t imagine eating again, but the moment the beignet coated with powdered sugar was set before me, I knew I’d have no problem. As Ghaz caught up with social media on Umar’s phone, he’d been eating quietly, and I could guess the object of his contemplation.

  “I’m really sorry about the panel,” I said, licking sugar from my lips.

  Ghaz looked up from the phone. “Me, too.”

  “You know what’s really annoying?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “There’s this verse in the Quran; it’s really beautiful. ‘Allah created for you mates among yourselves, so you may dwell in tranquility with them.’ And the verse, it’s gender neutral. It’s like Allah is saying, ‘I’ve put you on earth to find love’. And then you have to listen to these straight people who tell you, ‘No, that doesn’t include you, queer people. Allah doesn’t want you people to love. He wants you to suffer gladly, even if He did make you that way.’”

  “And the way everyone applauded at the end,” Ghaz said, “like, ‘Let them suffer and be celibate! Yay!’”

  “And when he started comparing homosexuality to pedophilia?” Umar said.

  “Oh.” Ghaz set her fist on the table. “I was like, ‘Queer people aren’t sick. You know who’s sick? You, for thinking like that. Boom! Done. See you later.’”

  I shook my head. “Come on, I don’t know if most mainstream religions could ever fully embrace homosexuality. Will the Catholic Church ever come out and say sex between two men or two women is A-OK?”

  “Maybe,” Ghaz said, “when it’s the future, and there are more robots than people. Robots might have more sense.”

  “Oh, the way mankind is going, I have no reason to doubt the future moral superiority of robots,” I said. “I love America, but most of the time I feel like this country’s going to shit.”

  “How bad do you think it’s going to get?” Umar said. “I mean, they can’t actually put us in internment camps. It couldn’t go that far, that would be America having a total breakdown. We have good bones, right? The Constitution is strong. We have gay marriage, the Bill of Rights.”

  “For now,” Ghaz replied darkly.

  “I don’t know, friends,” I said. “A few years ago, I would have agreed with Umar, but we live in strange times.”

  “Let’s talk about something less depressing,” Ghaz said. “Guess what we’re doing tonight?”

  “What?” we asked warily.

  “Going to a drag show!”

  “Ooh. Maybe Chi Chi DeVayne will be in it,” Umar said.

  “Who?”

  “She’s a drag queen from New Orleans. I’m not a huge fan, though.”

  “Okay, well,” Ghaz said, “why don’t you invite Ali?”

  “To a drag show?” Umar said. “I barely know him! That could be awkward in so many ways.”

  “You have a point,” she concurred. “Have you texted him yet?”

  “No! I don’t want to seem desesperado. It’s been, like, half an hour.”

  “Another good point,” she said. “Umar, when did you start getting so smart?”

  We went back to the hotel, took a nap, had delicious po boys, got ready for the night ahead. But when Ghaz was finally dressed, Umar was still in his boxers, lying on the bed, watching a Drag Race marathon on TV.

  “Why don’t you guys go and I’ll meet you there?” he said.

  “Liar,” Ghaz said, smacking his foot. “You’ll stay here and order room service and watch Drag Race all night.”

  “Season five is one of the best,” Umar agreed. “Roxxxy Andrews takes off her wig and has one on underneath.”

  “Umar, we’re in New Orleans. Are you seriously going to miss an actual drag show for one on TV?” Ghaz cried. “Please don’t tell me you’re feeling guilty.”

  “Why would I feel guilty?” he asked.

  “Um, because today a sheikh and a chaplain told you that you should. Now do you want to get up or do you want me to drag you out of here?”

  Umar and I groaned.

  “What is with your jokes today?” I asked.

  “Side effect of all the fat and sugar I’ve been consuming,” she said.

  “Fine,” Umar said. “Though my cousins were thinking of visiting the French Quarter tonight. What if I run into them? I told them I felt sick and was going to stay in.”

  “What would they do there?” I asked. “Do they drink?”

  “No, but they could walk around, find a hookah joint.”

  “So wear a disguise,” Ghaz suggested.

  Another disguise. How many disguises did this community require of its members?

  “Like what?” Umar asked.

  Ghaz rubbed her hands together with a wicked grin.

  Thirty-Two

  AN HOUR LATER, we were walking down Bourbon Street. Umar was wearing his black Tabitha wig, holding a green, purple-feathered Mardi Gras mask up to his face, which would have been pretty weird had this not been New Orleans.

  So far Bourbon Street was our least favorite part of the city, packed with tawdry bars offering massive to-go cups of booze and the occasional strip show. The whole scene felt like a perpetual, hormonal, misogynistic spring break. Drunk guys dangled beads over bar balconies, hoping for someone to take the bait and show them some skin in exchange for a necklace.

  “No one’s showing their tits,” Umar observed.

  “It’s too early for tits. I bet if we came back at three a.m. we’d see some,” Ghaz said.

  “I wouldn’t want any of these guys to see my tits,” I said. “Would you?”

  “No way. Well, maybe that one guy walking over there.”

  “Hey, mask boy!
”

  Umar looked up. A plump woman in a shiny red dress was calling out to him from a balcony above. “Take this, honey!” she exclaimed, tossing down a heavy necklace of gold and purple beads with a jester pendant.

  “Wow, you just got beads for being cool,” Ghaz said.

  Umar put the necklace on, even humored Ghaz by posing for photos.

  The gay club was on a corner of Bourbon Street populated with rainbow flags. The drag show was on the second floor, in a black box with some café tables and a small stage. Umar removed his wig, saying he’d rather die than be caught wearing such a cheap Shake-N-Go at a proper drag show, which turned out to be a celebrity impersonation starring two queens. The African American queen, with a curvaceous body and sparkling pink lips, imitated a different celebrity each time—Aretha Franklin and Diana Ross and Whitney Houston—but the white one stuck to her tried-and-true act, a trashy Britney Spears.

  During the song “Toxic,” Britney started dancing toward Umar, flaunting her long, leather-corseted body and gyrating her whip. Ghaz passed Umar some dollar bills under the table. Blushing, he held his Mardi Gras mask to his face.

  Britney wrapped her legs around Umar’s chair and ran her cuffed hand down his chest as she leaned far back, then threw herself forward, her lips perilously close to Umar’s mouth. We watched, duly impressed, as she tapped his nose with the handle of the whip while simultaneously stuffing the dollars he’d given her into her cleavage and shaking her ass. She could really multitask.

  She whispered something in Umar’s ear then whirled around in time with the music, snapping her whip as she pranced back onto the stage, executing a perfect split that made the audience cheer wildly and resulted in another round of dollar bills.