Jamie doesn’t hear me, staring at the booklet like it’s a lifeline.
“Jamie?”
He looks up, blinking.
“This—did I really just do this?” he asks in a hushed voice. “In my school uniform? I’ve imagined this moment for years. I never thought it would be like this.”
I nod gravely. “You must now declare yourself as a Muslim to every TSA agent you come across as you’re entitled to an entire body check at airports.”
He grins. “Entitled?”
“Entitled. Subjected. Potato, potahto.”
We put on our shoes and Jamie skips down the steps, looking up at the sky. The afternoon sun is syrupy, soft in her light, giving a magical air to everything around us. Like anything is possible in this bustling city and that tomorrow may be promised to no one, but it’s ours for the taking. I think I’ll remember this day forever.
The roots of his hair are darker, the new hair growing black, but the blond curls look like the sun.
He swirls around, watching me where I am up the stairs.
“How do you feel?” I drink in his joy.
There are universes in his eyes. “Not sure. I don’t really feel like myself right now. This is an out-of-body experience.”
“Can I treat you to a cupcake while your soul hovers beside us?”
He glances at the thin air around him. “How about it? Yes? Thought so.”
I snort so loudly I startle a pigeon and immediately clamp a hand on my mouth.
He looks delighted. “Oh, I’m gonna need to hear that again.”
“Never.” My cheeks are warm as I climb down the stairs and walk past him.
We settle on cupcakes from an adorable bakery down the block. A New York cheesecake–flavored cupcake for me and salted caramel for Jamie. We sit side by side on a bench by the street, people passing us by. It’s a sunny yet somewhat cold fall day. We’re in a part of the city where the mural is in fragments all around us. A group of people is taking pictures with Mama’s eyes and the pomegranate seeds on the ground. One girl, who looks like she’s in her early twenties, is drawing abstract shapes beside Mama’s eyes. I like them; they give the mural something different. People adding their own twists to the art just makes it more beautiful.
“Bismillah,” Jamie whispers, and takes a bite. He nods empathetically when he sees my impressed expression. “Oh, yes.Allthe research.”
I cross my legs on the bench, pulling my ankles close. “You know you… you inspired me today.”
He blinks. “Seriously?”
I nod. “I don’t know if I’d have the courage to do what you did. It’s not that I don’t want to be Muslim or wear my hijab. I’d never give it up for the world. I mean, the hijab is more than a part of me. It would be like asking me to detach my…” I frown, trying to think of something profound. “My arm.”
Jamie laughs.
“You get the idea,” I say, and he nods. “I know it would be easierfor me if I took it off. I could hide and blend in. But I can’t do it. It doesn’t even exist in the realm of possibility for me. It’s incredible how my main offense is wearing this piece of cloth on my head. If I wasn’t wearing it, Braxton would be difficult, but it wouldn’t be like this.” I blow out a puff of air. “But this is something I’ve known all my life. I don’t come with negative biases a lot of people have toward Islam. I separate the religion from the people. But you… you’ve lived a whole life on the outside, and I just find it amazing you looked in.”
“I read Malcolm X’s biography last year.” He sets his cupcake down beside him. “What struck me the most is when he mentioned going to Mecca and seeing every single race and ethnicity standing side by side for prayer. That there is no difference between rich and poor. Between any color. What matters is who you are as a person.”
I get what he’s trying to say. “Because living in a society that judges you on how you look is a broken society.”
He nods, eyes clear. “It’s like the people there in that place embodied that knowledge. It wasn’t just words. It wasn’t something idealistic. It was real.”
“Our community isn’t perfect… and there are some bad eggs, but what he wrote is how it should be,” I say. “Muslims have to believe it. You’ll see it when you go to the mosque here. I imagine it’s the same in Muslim countries. I like to think it is. People striving for equality.”
He looks away. “I guess I was, and still am, a bit worried I might not fit in being a convert and all. Kind of like those first nights in Vietnam.”
“I don’t think so. There’s what’s right, and there’s reality. What’s right is that it doesn’t matter if you’re a convert or born Muslim; there’s no difference between me and you, and you will fit in. The reality is that this world treats us both very differently. You can get away with a lot of things I can’t. No one will ever know you’re Muslim unless you tell them. And being white passing will give you privileges I don’t have. But I will always fall back on what’s right,notwhat the world tells me is right.” I smile, shrugging a shoulder. “Besides, you fit in with me.”
