Not Unlike Escargot
Gaberielle hadn’t yet arrived when I came to sit at our usual table in the far corner of the cafeteria. I set out the Tupperware containers of lunch I’d made for the both of us and then folded my hands in my lap, determined to wait for her before starting to eat, myself, even though my stomach was protesting the delay. I examined my hands, freshly washed and still fragrant, nails trimmed just this morning. I wondered if maybe I could recite bismillah while I waited, seeing as Gaberielle didn’t take part in that ritual, anyway, but decided against it. She had her own prayers to say before eating, and I wouldn’t want to start before her, anyway.
We were a bit of an anomaly, as far as the stereotypical way of things was concerned. On the one hand, you had me, a Muslim immigrant from Iraq and therefore an outcast in the tiny religious town we both lived in. Gaberielle, on the other hand, was the eldest daughter of the town’s most prominent family and as such considered to automatically be a devout Catholic. In truth, Gaberielle was more than a little bit disillusioned with the idea of religion, but this reality was well masked by her mother’s careful efforts to appear to be the perfect Christian family. That Gaberielle was having doubts was none of her mother’s concern; it only mattered that the outside community thought of things. As though it were other men, fallible and ignorant, who were the judges of faith, rather than God Himself. The idea of it left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Not to say that I didn’t doubt religion myself, sometimes. It was hard not to blame Allah when things I felt or saw were unjust. It was hard not to be tempted into believing Science and religion were incompatible and in competition. It was hard to see the terrible things carried out in the name of Islam and wonder why Allah had allowed them to occur even though they were blasphemous. It was hard to endure taunts and teases as a child and later, accusations of allowing myself and all womankind to be oppressed, because I chose to wear the hijab. It was hard to be thought of as the bride of terrorists. Unlike Gaberielle, though, my mother didn’t ignore my doubt just as long as no one else saw it. My mother loved me, understood that even if the community was oblivious to my doubt, Allah saw it, and that it was His opinion that mattered, not theirs. She valued my happiness, the happiness I could only get by worshipping Allah, over some selfish happiness for herself that could be gained by having the approval of some community. And that was why she nurtured me, guided me, held me when I cried, prayed with me and for me and showed me to where I could find the truth in the Quran but also in the world around me.
The scrape of a chair being pulled out from the table and the audible thud of someone sitting in it caused me to look up from my thoughts, smiling gently in the way I always did when Gaberielle arrived. She was tense all the time, but I found merely smiling at her, offering her food and saying nothing, would often cause her to relax enough that we might share polite conversation. We were both private girls, and the grittier parts of our friendship, her issues with her mother and possible eating disorder, and my constant battle with the roll I forced myself to play (the shining Muslim girl—quiet, polite, conciliatory—even though I was, beneath the surface, quite stubborn, even brash) went largely unspoken. We dealt with our problems not by discussing them with one another, but rather by simply being around one another, accepting and supportive.
When I looked up, however, it was not Gaberielle sitting across from me. Straddling the backwards chair was a male classmate, leaning onto the table toward me and smiling in a way that made me bristle. I instinctually reached for the loose portion of my tan hijab that normally draped around my neck, pulling it up with one hand to shroud my nose and mouth. It took all my effort not to glower or shout; I managed to control myself enough to settle with an arch expression of distaste. Men smiling would never offend me, usually, but this one, a lolling half smirk, smug and assuming, reminded me too much of a cartoon drawing of a wolf trying to seduce a sheep.
“Are you a transfer student?” he asked, unhindered by my reaction and still smiling, leaning closer, even. He had an accent. . . French?
“No,” I replied briskly. I almost added a ‘why do you ask?’ but decided it would be better for my temper if I didn’t engage him in unnecessary conversation.
He ran a hand through his perfectly-coiffed blond hair, arching a carefully plucked eyebrow at me in silent invitation. “Then why haven’t I seen you around?” he purred. His expression, though, asked a different question: ‘Why haven’t you thrown yourself at me yet?’
I chose not to respond. My stomach was churning. I wanted to make a scene, embarrass him, tell him off, swear at him, spit at him, push his face away with my left hand. Instead, I sat very still behind the shield of my improvised veil, wishing, as I often did, that I had a crass older brother to defend me at times like these.
“Don’t talk much?” he prompted, and then shrugged and continued before I could respond, “That’s okay. Most girls who spend time with me find they don’t need to.” That disgusting smile.
My patience ran out. “You’re obscene,” I hissed. His blue eyes flashed, and for a moment he looked taken aback at the thought that a girl was able to refuse his charms, but then he smiled dismissively, leaning back with a shrug.
“I’ll be around, Princess Jasmine,” he offered over his shoulder as he walked away.
“Thanks for the warning, Iago,” I muttered behind my veil, glowering at his back as he disappeared into the crowd of students, though truth be told the annoyingness of a squawking parrot didn’t do him justice.
Gaberielle approached, just then, turning the chair around carefully and seating herself. She noticed the expression in my eyes, the hiding of my face behind the veil, and smiled a sort of lopsided smile.
“That’s Luc Fourcade,” she said in an uncharacteristically easy voice, smoothing out the wrinkles over the lap of her long black skirt. “He considers us religious girls to be a delicacy. Shall we say grace before we run out of time to eat?” She gestured toward the food I’d brought and I lowered my veil, nodding.
We were a bit of an anomaly, as far as the stereotypical way of things was concerned. On the one hand, you had me, a Muslim immigrant from Iraq and therefore an outcast in the tiny religious town we both lived in. Gaberielle, on the other hand, was the eldest daughter of the town’s most prominent family and as such considered to automatically be a devout Catholic. In truth, Gaberielle was more than a little bit disillusioned with the idea of religion, but this reality was well masked by her mother’s careful efforts to appear to be the perfect Christian family. That Gaberielle was having doubts was none of her mother’s concern; it only mattered that the outside community thought of things. As though it were other men, fallible and ignorant, who were the judges of faith, rather than God Himself. The idea of it left a bitter taste in my mouth.
Not to say that I didn’t doubt religion myself, sometimes. It was hard not to blame Allah when things I felt or saw were unjust. It was hard not to be tempted into believing Science and religion were incompatible and in competition. It was hard to see the terrible things carried out in the name of Islam and wonder why Allah had allowed them to occur even though they were blasphemous. It was hard to endure taunts and teases as a child and later, accusations of allowing myself and all womankind to be oppressed, because I chose to wear the hijab. It was hard to be thought of as the bride of terrorists. Unlike Gaberielle, though, my mother didn’t ignore my doubt just as long as no one else saw it. My mother loved me, understood that even if the community was oblivious to my doubt, Allah saw it, and that it was His opinion that mattered, not theirs. She valued my happiness, the happiness I could only get by worshipping Allah, over some selfish happiness for herself that could be gained by having the approval of some community. And that was why she nurtured me, guided me, held me when I cried, prayed with me and for me and showed me to where I could find the truth in the Quran but also in the world around me.
The scrape of a chair being pulled out from the table and the audible thud of someone sitting in it caused me to look up from my thoughts, smiling gently in the way I always did when Gaberielle arrived. She was tense all the time, but I found merely smiling at her, offering her food and saying nothing, would often cause her to relax enough that we might share polite conversation. We were both private girls, and the grittier parts of our friendship, her issues with her mother and possible eating disorder, and my constant battle with the roll I forced myself to play (the shining Muslim girl—quiet, polite, conciliatory—even though I was, beneath the surface, quite stubborn, even brash) went largely unspoken. We dealt with our problems not by discussing them with one another, but rather by simply being around one another, accepting and supportive.
When I looked up, however, it was not Gaberielle sitting across from me. Straddling the backwards chair was a male classmate, leaning onto the table toward me and smiling in a way that made me bristle. I instinctually reached for the loose portion of my tan hijab that normally draped around my neck, pulling it up with one hand to shroud my nose and mouth. It took all my effort not to glower or shout; I managed to control myself enough to settle with an arch expression of distaste. Men smiling would never offend me, usually, but this one, a lolling half smirk, smug and assuming, reminded me too much of a cartoon drawing of a wolf trying to seduce a sheep.
“Are you a transfer student?” he asked, unhindered by my reaction and still smiling, leaning closer, even. He had an accent. . . French?
“No,” I replied briskly. I almost added a ‘why do you ask?’ but decided it would be better for my temper if I didn’t engage him in unnecessary conversation.
He ran a hand through his perfectly-coiffed blond hair, arching a carefully plucked eyebrow at me in silent invitation. “Then why haven’t I seen you around?” he purred. His expression, though, asked a different question: ‘Why haven’t you thrown yourself at me yet?’
I chose not to respond. My stomach was churning. I wanted to make a scene, embarrass him, tell him off, swear at him, spit at him, push his face away with my left hand. Instead, I sat very still behind the shield of my improvised veil, wishing, as I often did, that I had a crass older brother to defend me at times like these.
“Don’t talk much?” he prompted, and then shrugged and continued before I could respond, “That’s okay. Most girls who spend time with me find they don’t need to.” That disgusting smile.
My patience ran out. “You’re obscene,” I hissed. His blue eyes flashed, and for a moment he looked taken aback at the thought that a girl was able to refuse his charms, but then he smiled dismissively, leaning back with a shrug.
“I’ll be around, Princess Jasmine,” he offered over his shoulder as he walked away.
“Thanks for the warning, Iago,” I muttered behind my veil, glowering at his back as he disappeared into the crowd of students, though truth be told the annoyingness of a squawking parrot didn’t do him justice.
Gaberielle approached, just then, turning the chair around carefully and seating herself. She noticed the expression in my eyes, the hiding of my face behind the veil, and smiled a sort of lopsided smile.
“That’s Luc Fourcade,” she said in an uncharacteristically easy voice, smoothing out the wrinkles over the lap of her long black skirt. “He considers us religious girls to be a delicacy. Shall we say grace before we run out of time to eat?” She gestured toward the food I’d brought and I lowered my veil, nodding.
posted by Heather Salmon at 8:36 p.m.
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