Call Me American

by Abdi Nor Iftin

  “A famous actor,” I said.

  “Please throw him in the trash! Angels are not coming into this apartment!”

  The next day he brought us five beautiful calligraphy verses to hang in our rooms and a prayer mat.

  After Sheikh Ahmed found out about my white family in Yarmouth, he would come to our apartment for hours of talk and questions.

  “Do they let you practice your religion?”

  “Do they eat halal meat?”

  “How do you deal with the dog?”

  “Do they ever ask you to convert?”

  “Can we convert them to Islam?”

  To him there was no middle ground, no mixing. “You must choose one or the other.” It was just like the clans, I thought. Either Rahanweyn or American, Christian or Muslim. I got frustrated and walked away. Then I started ignoring his morning prayer calls. There are two types of people in the Somali community: those who go to the mosque (the good ones) and those who go to the clubs and drink alcohol (the bad ones). Even though I didn’t go to clubs or drink alcohol, I managed to be lumped into the bad-guy category because of my love for American culture.

  The sheikhs in Portland told people to do the same things they expected in Somalia: women should not go outside without their husbands, men should wear ankle-length clothes and a beard, and on and on. But here in the United States they couldn’t force people, especially me. I had memorized the Koran; I knew and respected my religion. But still my roommates and I got into heated debates about the message the Koran sends. To them the message was clear: you must be a God-fearing person and stay away from anything that could distract you from the five daily prayers. At their jobs at Walmart and Shaw’s, Yussuf and Awil asked their bosses for prayer breaks. And so every day, somewhere in the back of the building with all the other Somalis, they would throw a mat on the floor and pray to Allah behind the stacks of canned hams and flat-screen TVs.

  I came to see that my roommates would never assimilate, and they were not alone. Like the first Italians or Chinese or Slovaks who came to America, the first-generation Somalis, many of whom were already old when they arrived, were too set in their language, culture, and religion. It would be the next generation to call themselves American, and they were the ones giving their parents, and the sheikhs, so many headaches by dating before marriage or even going to nightclubs and drinking alcohol.

  Meanwhile, an army of caseworkers, many of them working for Christian organizations, rallied to help refugees navigate this strange new country. There was an opening for an interpreter on the Catholic Charities Maine website. People were needed in hospitals and courts who could help Somalis talk to lawyers, doctors, and judges. I quickly applied and a day later got a call from Lucy in its language department. “Oh, your English is good,” she said. I went for an interview, filled out the usual forms. A week later I was hired, but before I could start the job, I was sent to take a required interpretation course at Southern Maine Community College.

  My classmates were all foreigners from Burundi, Rwanda, Iraq, and even Russia. We were taught the medical and legal terms, the dos and don’ts of being an interpreter. They said we must never interact with clients outside the job; that would be unprofessional. I learned about the U.S. health-care system, medical terminology, basic human biology, systems, and treatments.

  My first job was at Community Dental, translating for Farhan, an elderly Somali man who had been in Portland for two years. Farhan had a bullet wound on his head from a gunfight in Somalia. I sat across from him, next to the dentist, translating what the doctor said as well as what Farhan said. In the next few weeks I got more and more assignments, traveling to Maine Medical Center, Mercy Hospital, the Department of Health and Human Services, Opportunity Alliance, Portland high schools, job fairs, the courts, and many other places around southern Maine.

  I soon realized it would be impossible to maintain a professional distance from the clients. Many times they just wanted to ask me about my tribe or my background, and I felt it would be rude not to converse with them. Also, they often had so many questions about the law or the medical treatment that had not been answered by the lawyers or doctors. This was cultural: Sometimes a doctor would tell a patient to eat things, like yogurt, that I knew Somalis had never heard of. Doctors would ask female patients how often they exercised. I dutifully translated, but I already knew the answer: Somali women do not go around jogging in their hijabs. Often when we left the medical building, clients would pepper me with questions: What does this mean? What did that mean? Sometimes they would complain that the doctor must be stupid, then ask me where they could get traditional Somali medicinal herbs.

  I had become an expert on the Portland public bus system, but I knew I would need to drive a car someday, so I started taking a driver’s education course. The class, at Yarmouth High School, was all teenagers. I couldn’t believe the way they sat with their feet up on desks, talking over the teacher and throwing things at each other. You would surely be whipped in Somalia for such disrespect. I paid careful attention, but I did not understand basic things like traffic lights or signs, things the American students all took for granted. The teacher was kind and helped me after class. When I was finally ready to start driving, the first thing I did was smash Sharon’s car into her garage. It took me three times to pass the test for my license, but finally I became a safe and responsible driver.

  In November 2015, I had saved enough money to buy a used car, which allowed me to take even more jobs. Now my assignments doubled, and I was interpreting for court cases in both Lewiston and Portland. I was in a courtroom with a Somali couple getting a divorce and arguing over the custody of their kids. I stood between the judge and the couple, simultaneously translating. As the couple’s arguments heated up, my voice rose to match their angry tones. I felt like I was getting paid to be an actor, and in that moment I knew that all those years watching Hollywood movies in Falis’s video shack were finally paying off.

  * * *

  —

  One day I went to interpret at a dental center in Bath, Maine, about forty minutes up the coast from Portland. The patient was an elderly Somali woman, and her caseworker was the most beautiful girl I had ever met. She was tall, like me, with an open face and eyes that seemed curious to know all about the world. Half of her hair was uncovered, and she was wearing jeans with a light dirac on top. She seemed so outgoing and confident that at first I could not imagine she was a Somali immigrant. Her name was Fatuma, and she said she lived in Lewiston.

  The old lady kept asking me about my tribe. We started discussing clans, animals, and life in the bush. Fatuma was just sitting there listening, but she had not said a word. I asked her to join our conversation, but she admitted her Somali wasn’t very good and she couldn’t follow us.

  “A Somali who can’t speak Somali?” I asked.

  “I grew up in Vermont,” she said in American English with no accent.

  “So you are American?”

  She smiled proudly. “My family came here when I was six.”

  Fatuma went to college in Vermont and Maine, earning a degree in social work. At age twenty-six she was already co-owner of the New Mainers Public Health Initiative, and she also worked with a community service agency. She was more American than Somali, and for that reason she was under pressure from her parents to be more of a typical Somali girl who stays in the house and knows about her tribe and her family’s history. Fatuma had two cats and lived in her own apartment with some of her siblings; I had never seen a Somali with a pet. She even named her cats after her best friends from high school, such an American idea. When I told her that I had been in the United States for only two years, she did not believe me. All she had been seeing in her work were newly arrived Somalis struggling to adjust. They would only talk about their tribes, but when Fatuma and I started talking, it was about movies we had seen, food we liked, and places we ha
d hiked. It was just a typical American conversation, except with a Somali girl. That was a first for me, and the time flew by. Then the dental appointment ended and we said good-bye. A few nights later she texted me: “I like you. You are awesome!”

  * * *

  —

  We got together for dinner a few times and began to develop a great friendship. I told her my life story and how I was the kid in Mogadishu known to all as Abdi American. She laughed so hard at the idea that I was already an American way back then. Every time we got together, Fatuma came with her hair showing and wearing pants. I told her she looked great. Her friends were American citizens; some were even white. They would have what they called girls’ nights, and they would talk about makeup, clothes, and new music.

  We took walks along the beautiful beaches of Maine; we drove to Vermont, where she showed me her old neighborhood in Burlington. I took her to Yarmouth and introduced her to my American family. Fatuma cooked traditional Somali samosas for Sharon and Gib; everyone liked her.

  Then it came time for me to meet her parents. Although they had been in the United States for twenty years, Fatuma’s parents had not assimilated at all. Her dad had been an engineer in Somalia with a government job before the wars, but in Lewiston he didn’t work; he spent his time in the mosque. Her mom was the breadwinner; she owned a store that imported all kinds of housewares and clothes for Somali immigrants. She traveled often to China, buying goods for her store.

  I felt butterflies in my stomach the day I walked up to their house. Fatuma’s dad was waiting outside the door. It was snowing, and frozen white flakes were sticking to his long beard like confetti. He shook hands with me and asked, “Did you pray today?”

  I told him I did. He threw out several test questions about Islam, Somali culture, and places back home. I gathered he was not impressed by my tribe, but I think he still respected me because he and his wife had lived in Mogadishu in the 1980s, so we all had Mogadishan accents. As soon as we walked inside, he took out his phone and asked me for my dad’s number. He dialed my dad in Baidoa and talked for a few minutes. Then he hung up and called my mom in Mogadishu. Within an hour, all four of our parents had arranged our engagement.

  Fatuma and I felt so betrayed. We both well understood that in Somali culture “engagement” is not some symbolic commitment; Somalis don’t get engaged and marry two years later, like Americans. It’s basically a wedding announcement. Like with my sister, Nima, an engagement means the wedding will happen as soon as the goats and camels can be rounded up for slaughter.

  Fatuma and I certainly felt stirrings of that commitment, but neither of us was ready to get married anytime soon; we just wanted to greet her parents out of respect. Fortunately, Fatuma was not afraid to speak up to them. She told her dad to hang up the phone with my mom and that she wanted to talk to him and her mom in private. The three of them disappeared into the bedroom for several minutes. When they came out, her dad was frowning, and her mom seemed mad.

  Fatuma’s parents were about to move back to Somalia. Her dad had health problems that he felt were made worse by the cold weather, and they decided to move back to their home in Kismayo in southern Somalia, even though it was surrounded by al-Shabaab and not very safe. They had saved money and were hoping to start a fishing business. They tried to encourage Fatuma to come with them, but she refused. Her home was America. Now they were understandably worried about their daughter being left alone, even though she had nine siblings in Lewiston.

  “How can we trust him with you?” her dad said to Fatuma, as if I weren’t in the room. “We don’t want this American thing where people sleep together without being married. We are respecting our culture and glorifying our religion.”

  Then he looked me in the eyes and asked, “What is your intention?”

  “Fatuma and I have only known each other for a couple of weeks,” I said. “When we know each other better, we will make our own decision. We don’t need someone to make decisions for us.”

  This would have been unthinkable to say to Faisa’s dad in Mogadishu, but I was finding my American voice. Of course it helped that Fatuma was on my side. We were able to stand together and say no to an arranged marriage.

  After that meeting, Fatuma’s parents called her constantly. They would ask where she was, what she was doing, making sure she was not spending too much time with me. Finally the day came in April 2017 when her parents were leaving for Somalia. I had been invited to their house to say good-bye the day before. Her dad took me to the mosque. We recited the midday prayers, then he called together a group of other elderly men. We all sat together in a corner. Fatuma’s dad took out a Koranic book and opened it.

  “Put your hand in the book,” he said. I did.

  “Now swear that you will not have sex with Fatuma until you get married.”

  I was so shocked I had no words. I was thirty-one years old! Would sheikhs be telling me how to live for the rest of my life? Was this what I came to America for? I wanted to run out of that mosque, run away from Fatuma’s dad and his long beard and those other stern men in that corner, but my parents had always taught me to respect elders, it is part of Somali culture. Then I thought, what about respect for Fatuma and for her decisions? That would be American culture. I had never felt so stuck in the middle, so unsure of my values. To be honest, I was also scared. I wondered if Allah would hold me to this oath. Fatuma’s dad pushed the Koran closer. His eyes were drilling holes in my own.

  I thought of all my struggles in life. I had truly loved my parents, but so many times I disobeyed them to follow my dreams. If I had listened to them, by now I would be an imam in Mogadishu, or beating kids in my own madrassa, or most likely a dead Islamist soldier. Was it disrespectful to do what I needed to do, say what I needed to say, in pursuit of my American dream? In everything I did for myself, I never hurt anyone else.

  I thought about Fatuma. She was the answer. She was as American as the California girls I had seen in countless Hollywood movies. She had gone to an American public high school and college, lived in her own apartment with cats, wore blue jeans, had no accent and no concern about someone’s clan. But she was also proudly Somali and had dedicated her life to helping other Somali refugees. Even if we weren’t ready for marriage, we had talked about it and decided that we would definitely want our children to grow up speaking both English and Somali. We wanted it all, which seemed pretty American.

  Fatuma’s dad closed the book on my hand. I shut my eyes and said, “I swear it.”

  Epilogue

  When I woke up on November 9, 2016, I felt sure it was all a mistake. Maybe I was still asleep, dreaming. Soon I would really wake up and Donald Trump would go away. This was the same Trump whose book I had read with pleasure while hiding from police in Nairobi. Now I felt I needed to hide from him. I had not been so devastated by world events, and so afraid, since the Westgate Mall attack in Nairobi. The same knot in my stomach. The same vague fear that things beyond my control were conspiring to destroy my American dream.

  My phone started ringing with friends and family. The first call was from Hassan, who had been watching the election in Kenya. “Abdi, stay strong,” he said. I could feel his voice shaking. “I hope it ends well. I hope he does not do what he said.”

  Whatever Trump would do, his rhetoric on Muslims was enough to scare everyone I knew. I found some comfort talking to Hassan, but it also felt like the world had turned upside down. When I said good-bye to my brother more than two years earlier in Kenya, I told him, “I am going to the land of the free. I am done with fear.”

  But I was wrong. I never thought Hassan would be calling me from Little Mogadishu to say, “Don’t worry, everything in America is going to be okay.”

  Leo called from the BBC. “Hey, Abdi, I can’t believe what is happening in the U.S. How are you feeling?”

  “I feel fear,” I told him. “I feel th
reatened. I am really scared now.”

  “Oh, this is not what I expected you would say to me in America, Abdi.”

  Friends all across the United States started calling, offering to help me or even shelter me if necessary. That made me feel better, but I stayed home. There were lots of Muslims in our complex, so I spent all day peeking through the windows of my apartment to see if police were out there cracking down on people. I had no idea if cops would actually start rounding up Muslims in America, but there was also the potential for vigilante gangs feeling empowered by the election. I played it safe and avoided going out that day. It was like Little Mogadishu all over again.

  My roommates stayed home too. Abdul was also frightened, even though he was an American citizen and had voted on Tuesday. But Trump’s election did not bother Awil, Mohamed, and Yussuf, who were hoping to move back to Somalia anyway. “I will save enough money to buy camels,” said Mohamed. “Soon I will be a chief and run my town.”

  So being deported was no big deal for them. But like all Muslims in America, they worried about violence. And for them, the election was proof of America’s evil ways. “I told you!” said Mohamed. “America is the enemy of Islam. Now look! They have elected Trump.” I had no argument against him that day.

  We got a text to go to the mosque for a community meeting that evening. We rode together, and after evening prayers the sheikhs called for calm but also caution. “Don’t go to the rallies,” Sheikh Ahmed warned. “Avoid going to restaurants, parks, soccer games. Don’t even go to the drive-through window at Starbucks. They can read your name from the debit card.” Compared with some other states, Mainers generally treated Muslims with civility—the mosques had no security—but now we had reason to feel unsafe: that summer during the presidential campaign, hate notes had been left on the door of a Muslim family in Westbrook, near Portland, and some people said they had been threatened on Facebook with hate crimes and deportations.