I jump. “I’m sorry, you were telling me about how you decided to convert.”
He shakes his head. “No, this just makes me feel sure of my decision.”
I clear my throat. “You’re right about that, you know. I mean that being Muslim doesn’t make you any less Vietnamese. I’m Syrian and Muslim. But you know people, even good ones, look at us and think we’re confined to one space. That we can only exist in one boxbecause they think being Muslim means being limited. It’s an unconscious bias. As if being Muslim is some sort of hurdle to overcome or something. Or a crutch. It’s condescending.” I exhale loudly, so many moments in my life replaying in my mind.
In middle school, we were asked to present on something we liked. I decided to talk about the architecture of Alhambra that my ancestors built. My teacher was surprised I knew anything about history. I think of how shocked Linda was when she found out Baba has a degree in civil engineering. Or Mason and his poster of Muhammad Ali. It’s always this little stunned expression before their eyes clearly say,Well, they’re not like others.
“You’ll meet so many people with preconceived ideas of how they expect you to act,” I tell Jamie, even though I know this is more of a reality for me as a hijabi than it will be for him. My whole image screams Muslim, while he has the privilege of ambiguity. Not that he wouldn’t face discrimination. But it wouldn’t be the way I face it. “And when you shatter those ideas, they will pat you on the back for not being the stereotype. Because fundamentally they think the stereotype is what’s normal. This happens with everyone. Even with allies.” I breathe in deeply, hold the air in my lungs before letting it go. “You will spend so much time trying to convince people you’re just a human being.”
He nods slowly. “I know.”
I smile, and it feels effortless.
“I’ve been looking for peace for so long,” he says quietly. “I found it with Bà Ngo?i and the farm, but it comes and goes, you know? I don’t have it in New York. I thought it would be a chance for my parents to make up for the past.” He looks suddenly alarmed. “Not that they did anything wrong. I get why they work. But I thought it would be the start of something. I think…I think I will find my peace in converting.” He laughs lightly, running a hand over his face. “Just saying it makes me happy.”
I stare at him for a beat. “Can I ask why now? Why today?”
He thinks about it for a second. “I’ve been postponing it for a while with no real reason. But I woke up this morning, and I just… decided. Why am I putting it off when I’ve been thinking about it for so long? Am I waiting for a miracle to fall from the sky?” He laughs. “Well, a miracle did happen. Your murals.”
He goes quiet, closes his eyes, his expression raw and honest.
My chest expands with a mouthful of air. The colors are back and they’re beautiful. There’s an added richness, a deepened color like I can see every atom making them up.
“How can I help?” I ask quietly.
His eyes flutter open. “Could you take me to the mosque? I know that’s where you convert.”
Something’s changed in his face, and I don’t know what it is. Something unexplainable. It’s like the curtain has dropped. I can see him whole.
“Yeah,” I say in a hoarse voice. “Yeah, I can.”
We’re silent on our walk to the mosque. We go to one closest to the school. It’s not one my family and I attend. Even though we’re not talking, Jamie grows quieter; it’s like he’s not breathing.
I glance at him. He’s looking straight ahead, studying everything around him like he’s seeing it for the first time. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. But the orange in his soul glows like a fire opal. It’s a rare sunny autumn day, and the breeze rushing past our silhouettes feels like it’s walking with us to the mosque. If my great-aunt were here, she’d tell us the trees are congratulating Jamie, sending prayers to the heavens.
I try to hold on to this moment. It’s a happy one, but I know they don’t last as long as you want them to. I memorize the color of his peacoat, a navy blue, and that one ray of sun that turns his blond hairgolden. The wisp of his curls along his cheekbones. That one bee snuggling on a flower we pass by.
The mosque is in a plain building, no domes or minarets, and my heart aches that he’s not doing this in a Muslim country where mosques are a works of art. This one is just as precious, but his conversion deserves to be celebrated in a way that rings loud across the skies. Somewhere like the Umayyad Mosque.
I think of Jamie in Syria, walking along the crooked alleyways of Damascus, stopping at the stalls to look at what the merchants are selling. He’d probably buy a rug that would be in the living room of the farmhouse and an arabesque painting of Quranic verses to hang in his room. I wonder what he’d be like in my hometown. I don’t know whatIwould be like. Maybe I’d be more myself, more saturated, borrowing color from the nature around me. The seaweed giving me the green, the Mediterranean the blue, and the red from the pomegranates growing in our gardens.
I want this life for me so bad, it hurts to think of it.
There are just six people in the mosque, one of them being the imam. Some of them shed a few tears when Jamie tells the imam why he’s here.
Jamie’s trembling. I can see it from where I’m standing at the back of the mosque. His voice shakes when he repeats the shahada, the Muslim declaration of faith, his breath hitching.
My head spins from how this is actually happening. That I’m standing here watching Jamie do this. I feel a rush of strength, a comforting hug. I’m not alone, and I see my identity through his eyes. Something precious and wonderful to be proud of. Everything that my ancestors achieved and gave to this world so I could stand here.
When Jamie’s done, the imam pulls him into a hug, and the rest of the people in the mosque all take their turn, patting his back and giving him their phone numbers if he needs help with anything. They invite him to come in on Saturday, as the mosque becomes a schoolto teach Arabic and Islam to kids but also to others who need it. They ask him to come during lunch, making him promise because they’ll be preparing a whole feast.
Jamie looks overwhelmed, his face a bright pink, and he keeps chancing looks at me like he’s seeking approval.
It’s endearing, and I can’t help the smile on my face.
The imam gives him a small booklet before he leaves, and Jamie shows it to me proudly.
“YourIslam for Dummies.” I smile.
