Trying to have a day of rest
I would sleep all day tomorrow, I decided. After a filled-to-the-brim month, my body was worn out.
Then the instructor from a nearby language school responded to an email that evening, asking to meet at 9 a.m. the next morning. I tried not to panic–“Nine o’clock on my day off!?”–and kept reading the email. “Or 12:00.” I supposed I could drag myself out of bed by then and agreed. But I must have been a little too agreeable because I ended up agreeing to start Spanish class the following Monday, although I hadn’t meant to.
My agreeable mood would be tested yet again. Early in the afternoon, my landlady messaged me. “The grandpa upstairs died. His funeral mass is at 6:30.” The “grandpa upstairs” had always been kind. I hadn’t seen him often, but when I’d stop by to visit, he’d invite me in to sit and chat. I knew his three daughters by sight, but attend his funeral? Why oh why had my landlady told me about it? I could no longer feign ignorance.
I pictured myself tromping into the Spanish funeral mass, outrageously uncatholic. What kind of rituals would they perform? Would I be required to take part? Goodness, what in the world would I wear? My only pair of dress shoes had long since passed their prime. I meticulously de-pilled my black sweater.
“It would be good to go, wouldn’t it? I don’t know your culture very well…” I tried, hoping that my landlady would say that it wasn’t a big deal. I wanted a loophole so I could conveniently lose my nerve.
“Yes, clearly.”
All righty then.
As it turned out, several of the pallbearers wore hoodies and sneakers, and I don’t think people bothered to notice my scruffy dress shoes at all.
Ramadan
All year long, we can pretend that we aren’t so different after all. Then Ramadan starts and suddenly we’re at a fork in the road. I choose one way and my friends choose the other. I catch myself lingering there at the fork, wondering how many want to go that way and how many go because that’s how it’s done.
Yes, Ramadan has a way of waking me up again.
A creep at my elbow
I was meandering to a local shop on a sunny afternoon when a presence at my elbow startled me. The presence wasn’t inclined to pass me. Oh brother. A creep. Adrenaline shot through my veins as decided what to do.
Then he greeted me. And grinned, like the twerp he can be sometimes, when he realized that he had successfully disconcerted me.
Interns.
Breaking the fast with pre-packaged cakes
The call to prayer sounded. Allahu Akbar! Time to break the fast.
Noura, the lady beside me, closed her eyes and whispered a prayer. I sat in my bus seat, still and alert, curious what the Muslims around me would do to break the fast. Or if the cantankerous bus driver would allow them to do anything at all.
“I don’t have anything halal!” The guys in the seat behind me frantically rustled through the plastic bags at their feet.
Ashhadu alla ilaha illallah!
Then they broke the fast with pre-packaged cakes, half dipped in chocolate. Hayya ‘alas-Salah!
After rustling up their own ftur, they began offering cakes to the Muslims around them. A sub-Saharan man declined politely. They threw a package to one of their buddies in the front and he caught it with a crackle. Then across the aisle to another buddy. Last, they peeked through the gap of the seat in front of them.
“Is she North African or Romanian?” they asked each other. My ethnicity was in question. Noura turned to me with a smirk. I smirked back.
“Sister, do you want one?” one asked at last.
I smiled. “No, thank you.”
“She’s a Christian,” said Noura.
And I’d been eating all day.