One Year Anniversary 2001

Zainab loved seeing the kids dressed up and going trick or treating. She helped her mom decorate and shop every year and tried desperately to pass out candy with her just to see this year’s inspirations.
When reconciling with Islam, she studied the origins of traditions to see how religious they were. She understood when she was a child that Halloween was fine. She knew people who thought that Halloween was a sure path to damnation. They had her investigating her favorite holiday in a hurry.
When it got close to Halloween she had to explain it in detail to Mohamed who was still learning English but far better than when they met over a year ago.
Zainab and Mohamed’s first ‘date’ was just about as un Islamic as it gets. By American standards, it was rather tame. She met him at the restaurant next to her office building. She was recently divorced, hated cooking for one and loved Lebanese food.
She was a regular who everyone knew. She would talk to the employees when it was dead and learn about their lives, homelands, cuisine, culture and languages. She was smitten.
Mohamed didn’t come near her because he found it undignified to talk to a woman in this shameful manner. Yes, ladies. You will grow to hate Mohamed just as much as poor Zainab. He gets what he deserves in the end. Don’t worry.
Mohamed had an employee translate for him as he asked her to go to a disco with her. She tried not to burst out laughing as an American. She understood that in Europe many nightclubs are called a discotheque even though Americans instantly imagine dancing with John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.
“Are you joking? Or is he joking, Hassan?”
“It’s no joke, Tina. He’s sincere.”
“But he doesn’t even speak English and I don’t speak Arabic or French.”
“You know some Arabic. You’ve been studying and helping the others. He said that he’ll bring friends to translate.”
“Okay. But his friends better know more English than Mr. How you are? over there. I am barely over that Kenyan guy who you encouraged me to go out with. That brother took me to Wonderland Mall and kissed all over my fat, White ass on purpose. I am lucky to have made it out alive.
I was trying to find the sister who didn’t want to kill me as much and try to corner her and say that his sorry butt isn’t worth anyone’s time. I was just lucky to get out alive. The ladies were fierce that day.”
You’re in America and you’re an American. You’ll be fine. One date won’t hurt. You got rid of that Kenyan, didn’t you?
Hassan’s words would bite him in the ass but Zainab agreed. It was better than watching tv with her cat, Bubula and eating out of carry out containers like most Friday nights. If nothing else, it’d be an adventure.
Zainab is Audhd and timid. Her mom understood her well and was constantly and lovingly pushing her into the deep end of the pool. It might’ve seemed cruel but Zainab would still be in her childhood bed, terrified of ever leaving if she didn’t. Her mom was always standing there in the water with her, just in case.
The evening began with a phone call and panic. Mohamed insisted on picking Zainab up at her place. She gave him the address and instructions in English and prayed. Her prayers went unanswered as he phoned in confusion.
Hello?
Umm, yes, thank you. I house. No know you house.
I don’t live in a house. Where are you?
I you house.
What do you see?
House.
And?
Flag. Tree.
Okay. I am going to find you. Stay.
No know.
Wait.
Okay. I wait.
Zainab hung up the phone and wanted to die. She was about to get an African man killed. She lived in an older apartment building in an affluent suburb. A new subdivision was being built nearby.
Every horrific act of violence that Americans had ever wrought upon the African American community was running through her mind. She was preparing for battle as she grabbed her car keys to save an idiot named Mohamed. She understood that she was even dumber for marrying him. This was only the beginning.
She pulled up behind the lone car in a desolate and dimly lit subdivision with flags advertising the houses being built. There wasn’t anyone else. She got her game face on and took a deep, cleansing breath before exiting. She knew that her White face and femininity in a dark place alone would cause people to question her at the very least. She kept the worst thoughts to herself and prayed.
Hi, Mohamed.
Yes. How you are?
I’m fine. How are you?
Good, thank you. Yes. Umm. Where you house?
I live in an apartment. It’s just me and my cat. These aren’t finished and huge.
Okay. No house. Where you house?
Follow me and I’ll show you.
No know.
Zainab thought for a moment on how to get this man to understand before some even dumber person showed up with a shotgun aimed at this poor man’s head because he doesn’t know the word, follow.
Synonyms and Spanish eluded her, not that he understood Spanish but maybe it’s close to French, she hoped. There was always the possibility. It’s how she survived when absolutely nobody around her understood English.
Time for charades. Whatever works and gets them away from these houses. She walked away from him and hoped that he’d instinctively follow but he didn’t. She felt like she was training a dog and was extremely uncomfortable with it but she would apologize later from a hopefully safer place.
She motioned and repeated the words “Follow me” but he kept saying that he didn’t understand. She thought some more before commanding her new pup to walk. He didn’t understand so she walked while saying, “Walk.”
He thought about it for a moment before the lightbulb turned on slightly. “Ah, Promenade!” It was French but she knew that word.
Stupid Henry Ford and his freaking love of Square Dancing. She was an hour away from Dearborn and Ford but gym class still had square dancing because of that man who had long since passed on. Americans.
She went with it, “Yes. Promenade. You. You promenade.”
Where?
Go. Promenade. Anywhere.
You go?
Yes. I will follow. Ugh. Just. Promenade, please. Then I promenade.
He finally walked a few steps and she stomped her feet and made a massive production out of following him while saying, “I follow you.” He smiled and tried not to laugh at this crazy woman acting like a lumbering dinosaur in a suburban neighborhood.
When he was still a bit confused, she repeated it again but had him walk further away before following him. She continued with her massive production of foot stomping and saying, “I follow you,” like she was just learning English. He continued to smile and find her insane.
It finally clicked and he calmly said, “Ah. Follow. Yes.” As if he was in a boardroom discussing a new concept.
She looked upwards for some divine inspiration and strength before continuing, “Yes. You,” pointing to him. “Follow me,” pointing to herself. “In car,” pointing to his car. To emphasize it she told him, “I go,” pointing to herself. “In my car,” pointing to her car.
Even this took a couple of passes. He was trying to get into her car and leave his there. There was no way that she was going to do this on repeat even later in the evening. She didn’t want to be doing it now. She kept looking over her shoulder for the stereotypical pickup with a shotgun rack fully stocked and loaded as it was.
Her prayers were partially answered. They finally left and she prayed that he wouldn’t get lost in the two blocks to her apartment. When she parked, she breathed a sigh of relief and exhaustion before the evening even started.
By this point he could’ve been a serial killer, she really didn’t care. She just wanted to stop thinking so hard. When he offered to drive, she made sure that he understood where he was going and slunk into the passenger’s seat for a rest.
She’d need the strength of Hercules and the patience of Job to get through the “date.” She never did receive any actual clarification on that subject. By American standards it was a date so she went with it.
He tried to talk but she was exhausted. She stopped speaking for clarity and figured that whatever happened, happened.
When they got into the nightclub, she felt a hundred years old and foolish to even be there. They had to scream to hear the two words that they both understood.
“Umm. Yes. I drink. What drink you?”
Zainab wanted to scream in frustration and said, “Southern Comfort and 7 Up.” It was her usual. She knew that Muslims don’t drink alcohol but was in no mood to find out if he actually abstained. She needed it already and she didn’t usually drink. It was bad, ladies.
He said, ‘No, know.’ Yup. Just ask the bartender for an IV of whatever sounds good, Miskina Zainab.
His confusion was understandable. She was speaking a foreign language with foreign products. She sighed and tried for simplicity and volume, “7 Up. Pop. Soda. Coke. Anything. Agua. Water.”
When he left, she was thinking of making a run for it but didn’t have her car. Paying for cab fare wasn’t an option so unless police involvement was necessary, she was stuck with him.
He came back with friends, at least they had drinks. Yes. Zainab looked upwards praying that their English was better and there was straight Caribbean Rum in her glass. She was developing mom brain on a date.
She desperately needed a bit of normalcy in the American nightclub playing American music for Americans. She even wondered how this feeling was even possible, as an American.
“Umm. Tina? Khalil,” Mohamed said introducing them. She waved and said hello wondering what fresh adventures she’d have with him.
“Hello, Tina. How are you?” Khalil responded.
She was delighted to hear proper grammar but understood that this could be the extent of his English skills. “I’m fine. Thank you. How are you? I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite hear your name.”
“My name is Kalil. I’m good. Thanks. It’s okay if you don’t get my name. It’s difficult to hear in here. I don’t know why he would bring you here. He doesn’t really know much English, as you know.”
She was impressed. She wanted to keep talking to him but they had to keep reminding each other that she was on a date with the man who was obviously out of his league.
Khalil was wondering what Zainab saw in Mohamed when he acted as her mahram during their Islamic wedding a month or two later.
The entire community and world would watch events unfold before their very eyes. People would take sides. Brother would fight brother. Sisters would unite against all comers. Generational enemies would unite against a common enemy. The flames of hatred would die.
That was just in regards to Zainab’s life. The world was a dumpster fire too. Just in case you have amnesia but that’s still decades away for our miskina Zainab.
What was the world going to do with a problem like Tina Marie? AKA Zainab.
Hopefully not a street fight like in West Side Story but Ibrahim would surely be there to sing for his adopted Muslim American Princess daughter. He was a mensch.
Until next time, Ma’salam. With Peace.

Men Sadiqatuk, Drsy.
From your friend, Darcy.