The Taqwacores by Michael Knight Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Knight
Tags: Fiction, Coming of Age
did marry a six-year-old,” she said.
“But he did not consummate until she was—”
“Nine, I know. That makes it all okay. It’s okay Rasullullah, she’s nine, she had her period so throw it in’er. What am I supposed to do with that, Yusef?”
“I don’t know, Lynn.”
“I’m a spiritual person,” she said. “I believe in Allah, you know, though I don’t always call It ‘Allah’ and I pray the way I want to pray. Sometimes I just look out at the stars and this love-fear thing comes over me, you know? And sometimes I might sit in a Christian church listening to them talk about Isa with a book of Hafiz in my hands instead of the hymnal. And you know what, Yusef? Sometimes, every once in a while, I get out my old rug and I pray like Muhammad prayed. I never learned the shit in Arabic and my knees are uncovered, but if Allah has a problem with that then what kind of Allah do we believe in?”
“I don’t know.” Her ride pulled up by the curb, just behind Umar’s truck.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rising out of the recliner. “I don’t mean to come across like that, it’s just hard sometimes.”
“Oh no, no, that’s okay.”
“I wanted to be Muslim, do you know that?”
“Yes.” She had her face half-turned to me as she descended the steps of our porch.
“They just had to give me so much shit about it,” she said.
“I know they did.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Yusef.”
Once the car drove out of sight I went off the porch myself and walked. Had no idea where I was going or even what time of night it was. Walked up the street and turned the corner. Looked at all the houses, the lights out in every one, wondering what it would have been like to be Umar and walk through neighborhoods in moral opposition to everything, and then wondering whether he had something beautiful that I had lost; had I really reasoned above so much of my religion, or merely sold out for the path of least resistance? It would have been a hassle to pray faithfully five times daily, but Umar did it. I could excuse myself from class for
five minutes, make wudhu in the men’s room sink and find somewhere quiet. I was sure that other guys did.
But if there was something beautiful in Umar, why did it block him from seeing the beauty in Lynn? She had so much love and faith that she didn’t even need religion anymore. Or she was just lazy.
Somewhere on those streets, I imagined, Fasiq Abasa was bugging out to Shaikh Iggy Pop; while somewhere in the house Jehangir Tabari was probably passed out, the golden-drunk majesty that Allah had sprinkled on him long gone. Umar was most likely still mad and strong, refueled for the night by but one look at unconscious Jehangir. Amazing Ayyub would have decorated the bathroom floor with his stomach-lining. Rabeya had undoubtedly drawn two or three people into a heated discussion; she was almost like Umar in that way, but with more people-skills. Rude Dawud would have been floating through the party, making the rounds, shaking hands and then finally heading upstairs with his victim for the night.
It was so easy to imagine them, each in their standard costumes: spikes, mohawks, burqas, patches, tattoos, sunglasses, pork-pie hats, hoodies. And then there was me. What the hell was my place in that zoo?
CHAPTER III
The next morning, my place would be recorder. I awoke to Jehangir Tabari tapping on my skull with an index finger while holding my digital video camera in his other hand.
“Yusef, bro, wake up,” he said gently, leaning over me. “We’re gonna go shred.”
“Don’t you get hangovers?” I asked with one eye open.
“Al-hamdulilah,” he replied, handing me the camera. Jehangir commonly recruited me on skateboarding expeditions just to have someone capture his stunts and bumps on film.
“I’m sure my parents only bought me this so I could tape you breaking your neck every weekend.” It had been an Eid present.
“Tell them I said jazakullah khair.
“But he did not consummate until she was—”
“Nine, I know. That makes it all okay. It’s okay Rasullullah, she’s nine, she had her period so throw it in’er. What am I supposed to do with that, Yusef?”
“I don’t know, Lynn.”
“I’m a spiritual person,” she said. “I believe in Allah, you know, though I don’t always call It ‘Allah’ and I pray the way I want to pray. Sometimes I just look out at the stars and this love-fear thing comes over me, you know? And sometimes I might sit in a Christian church listening to them talk about Isa with a book of Hafiz in my hands instead of the hymnal. And you know what, Yusef? Sometimes, every once in a while, I get out my old rug and I pray like Muhammad prayed. I never learned the shit in Arabic and my knees are uncovered, but if Allah has a problem with that then what kind of Allah do we believe in?”
“I don’t know.” Her ride pulled up by the curb, just behind Umar’s truck.
“I’m sorry,” she said, rising out of the recliner. “I don’t mean to come across like that, it’s just hard sometimes.”
“Oh no, no, that’s okay.”
“I wanted to be Muslim, do you know that?”
“Yes.” She had her face half-turned to me as she descended the steps of our porch.
“They just had to give me so much shit about it,” she said.
“I know they did.”
“I’ll talk to you later, Yusef.”
Once the car drove out of sight I went off the porch myself and walked. Had no idea where I was going or even what time of night it was. Walked up the street and turned the corner. Looked at all the houses, the lights out in every one, wondering what it would have been like to be Umar and walk through neighborhoods in moral opposition to everything, and then wondering whether he had something beautiful that I had lost; had I really reasoned above so much of my religion, or merely sold out for the path of least resistance? It would have been a hassle to pray faithfully five times daily, but Umar did it. I could excuse myself from class for
five minutes, make wudhu in the men’s room sink and find somewhere quiet. I was sure that other guys did.
But if there was something beautiful in Umar, why did it block him from seeing the beauty in Lynn? She had so much love and faith that she didn’t even need religion anymore. Or she was just lazy.
Somewhere on those streets, I imagined, Fasiq Abasa was bugging out to Shaikh Iggy Pop; while somewhere in the house Jehangir Tabari was probably passed out, the golden-drunk majesty that Allah had sprinkled on him long gone. Umar was most likely still mad and strong, refueled for the night by but one look at unconscious Jehangir. Amazing Ayyub would have decorated the bathroom floor with his stomach-lining. Rabeya had undoubtedly drawn two or three people into a heated discussion; she was almost like Umar in that way, but with more people-skills. Rude Dawud would have been floating through the party, making the rounds, shaking hands and then finally heading upstairs with his victim for the night.
It was so easy to imagine them, each in their standard costumes: spikes, mohawks, burqas, patches, tattoos, sunglasses, pork-pie hats, hoodies. And then there was me. What the hell was my place in that zoo?
CHAPTER III
The next morning, my place would be recorder. I awoke to Jehangir Tabari tapping on my skull with an index finger while holding my digital video camera in his other hand.
“Yusef, bro, wake up,” he said gently, leaning over me. “We’re gonna go shred.”
“Don’t you get hangovers?” I asked with one eye open.
“Al-hamdulilah,” he replied, handing me the camera. Jehangir commonly recruited me on skateboarding expeditions just to have someone capture his stunts and bumps on film.
“I’m sure my parents only bought me this so I could tape you breaking your neck every weekend.” It had been an Eid present.
“Tell them I said jazakullah khair.