My Name is Mohammad
By Paul P.iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Paul P.
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4502-5073-3Chapter One
Cold Arrival
Mohammad gazed at the snow covering the airstrip at JFK International Airport. The gray sky on the wet concrete was low and oppressive. It was his first moment in America. He thought there would be some joy in this after all the months of preparation, planning, and saving. Now, however, a knot of dread filled his stomach. "Come," Rashid had said. "Come to America. It is paradise. You will see." So far, all he could see was a mass of people with facial expressions ranging from annoyed to grim.
He followed a line of them pulling coats and baggage along through the terminal. He had never been so far from home. Physically, he was far away—two oceans and several continents from Pakistan. From his first glance at America, it seemed that the cultural distance was even further. Women went about with their heads uncovered. Some wore short dresses and others wore trousers like men. The appearance of so much female flesh startled him. Some of the men wore suits and ties as he had seen in the cities of Pakistan or in magazines. Many of the young people like himself wore blue jeans with wide legs at the bottom. At age twenty-nine, he would have to learn to exist in another world.
He was funneled into long line marked "Immigration." All types of people waited as the line crept slowly forward. Some, like him, were Pakistani, but all of them seemed to be holding back the same indignation. Immigration officers dumped suitcases onto metal tables for review. Each was full of items carefully chosen to make the trip across the ocean, but these things meant nothing to the officers—nor did the people who owned them. The officers barked questions without even looking at the person answering. It was as if they were interviewing talking luggage.
When Mohammad's turn finally arrived, the man squinted at his passport, frowned, and asked without looking up, "What's your name?"
"Mohammad."
"Mo Hot Met?"
"Mohammad."
"Oh, yeah, there it is," said a small-eyed man, peering at Mohammad's name on his passport.
Mohammad endured the further questioning, suddenly warm in his sweater and wool suit. He was medium height for a man, with black hair and warm brown eyes. In his twenty-nine years, he had lived an ordinary life in Pakistan, much as his father and brothers did. Yet he was the only one to rove so far into the unknown. Nothing about this place seemed familiar and he was startled at every turn. Likewise, after feeling so ordinary for his entire life, people now looked on him as an oddity.
When the official stamped his passport at last and released him, he stuffed his clothing back into his suitcase and latched it. He looked at the stamp on his passport: "United States of America. November 20, 1977." Mohammad merged into the flow of a human river. Despite his knowledge of English, the signs confused him. "Terminal." He was in the terminal. Yes. "Concourse B." What could that be? Concourses A and C were a mystery as well. He must get to Rashid—and Rashid was in Dallas. There were gift shops and shops selling foods wrapped in plastic, but where were the planes? All of the people swirling around him seemed to know where they were going, but they could not spare a glance at him. He could not stop them to ask a foolish question, so he found a man standing still. He was a large black man, muscular and in working clothes. Mohammad walked in front of the man and nodded to him respectfully. "Sir, excuse me. I want to go to Dallas. Can you help me get to the other flights?"
The man scowled. "Go, motherfucker." He tossed his head. "Go! Who is stopping you?"
Mohammad backed away and walked briskly down the corridor. He muttered to himself in Urdu, "This sister-fucking human-eater calling me names?"
He slowed his pace when he noticed a Sikh man mildly watching the passing crowd. He approached the man, repeated his polite nod and his question.
"Ah, yes," the man said. He pointed to the doors and told him of a bus that would take him to the right gates. Mohammad followed his directions outside and, sure enough, a blue bus was waiting. He boarded it and, within ten minutes, he approached Gate 27. A woman in a blue uniform and small cap was changing the sign behind her: "Dallas—1:20." Mohammad sank into a chair, relieved.
While he waited, he watched a knot of people waiting for their loved ones to arrive. Some held small children and one held a brightly colored package. Their anticipation grew when the plane landed and taxied up to the gate. A door opened and the passengers filed in, some scanning the crowd with their eyes. Immediately, passengers paired up with their families and friends with smiles and hugs attending each reunion. Some of them are coming home, Mohammad thought, and some have left their homes, journeying to find a heart they have loved from far away. He wondered if any of them, like him, were traveling to a new home in an unknown place.
He dozed fitfully on the flight to Dallas, but after the long flight from Pakistan, it seemed a short time before the plane's wheels bumped to the ground and rolled to a stop. He walked with purpose, following the herd of mostly Americans to the baggage carousel. It was five o'clock. He had given a day to this journey and it was not over yet. When at last his suitcase appeared, he exited the Dallas-Fort Worth terminal to find Rashid leaning against his car at the curb. Rashid was thirty-five years old, six years older than Mohammad was. In his American clothes, he looked different from the Rashid that Mohammad knew, but the smile was still that of his old friend. As Mohammad approached, he opened his arms wide. They laughed and exchanged hugs.
"How was your trip?" Rashid asked.
Mohammad shook his head and groaned. He looked at the car, which seemed old, but quite functional.
Rashid patted the car. "You like it? It is called an Impala."
"You have a good job to pay for this?" Mohammad asked.
Rashid laughed. "It is enough. Be happy, my friend. Work is waiting for you, too. It is all arranged. I will take you there tomorrow." Rashid chatted in the car, telling his friend all about Texas, but he seemed to understand that travel had made Mohammad weary. When they got to Rashid's apartment, Mohammad barely saw it. Rashid directed him to his bed and Mohammad welcomed sleep as Rashid had welcomed him to this strange place.
* * *
Mr. Richardson squinted at the application in front of him. He took a drag from his cigarette, tapped the ash into the ashtray, and set the cigarette down again. He was about fifty and had close-cropped sandy hair. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. He scratched his head and peered at Mohammad. "What's your name, boy?"
"Mohammad." Mohammad sat at the edge of a hard wooden chair. His short-sleeved white shirt was tucked into a pair of dark blue trousers. He had borrowed a tie from Rashid.
Mr. Richardson squinted at him. "What?"
"My name is Mohammad."
Richardson scratched his head again. He puffed his cigar and then set it in the ashtray. "Dammit. Just write your name down for me on the board so I can pronounce it." He pointed to a chalkboard on the wall facing his desk.
Mohammad stood, walked to a chalkboard, and wrote his name. "Mo ham mad."
"Mo Ham Mad? Damn." Richardson thought for a moment. "Okay, from here on in, your name is Mo. Forget about this mad pig crap." He slapped Mohammad on the back and walked him out of the office toward the factory floor. Mohammad looked back at his name on the board, puzzled. Why did this man insult the name Mohammad by calling him a mad pig? Before he could think on it further, Richardson stopped. He looked down at Mohammad and spoke loudly, even though there was not much noise in the corridor. "Be here at 11:00 pm. We'll get you started. You understand?"
Of course, you fool, Mohammad thought. But he said, "Yes, sir."
"Good." He slapped Mohammad on the back again. "We'll start you at $3.50 an hour."
A broad smile swept across Mohammad's face. "Thank you, Mr. Richardson."
"Time and a half for anything over forty hours a week," Richardson added. Mohammad smiled and nodded. $3.50 an hour and whatever time and a half meant. This was good news indeed.
That night at dinner, Mohammad told Rashid how the interview had gone. "It will be good to be earning six hundred rupees a day."
Rashid shook his head. "Here, this is nothing. You will learn, my friend."
"I just don't understand where mad pig comes from." Rashid walked out into the kitchen and Mohammad followed. The kitchen was tiny—barely able to accommodate cooking at all. A half-sized range, a sink, and a refrigerator the color of old limes clustered about a counter that looked to be made of pressed sawdust. The countertop was a slick white surface flecked with gold. The speckled floor tiles were scuffed and worn.
Rashid opened the green refrigerator. "It's okay, my friend. He calls me Ray."
"Is this an insult? Is he not educated?"
Rashid pulled a brown bottle from the refrigerator and closed the door. "As I said, my friend, you will learn. Texas is a funny place, you will see." He opened the bottle and took a long drink.
"See what?" Mohammad stopped and looked with astonishment at the bottle in Rashid's hand. "You drink beer?"
Rashid shrugged. "Listen, Mo, he said mad pig because your name has Ham and Mad in it. Ham comes from a pig, so he sees you as `mad pig.' It's a joke."
"A joke? It is a very hateful statement."
Rashid leaned against the doorframe. "There is a lot of hate here, but where is there not? This was not meant to be hateful. If you will just go with the flow, you will see that you are in paradise."
"Paradise?" Mohammad stared at Rashid, wide eyed. "This place of hatred, you call paradise?" He glanced at the beer bottle in Rashid's hand. "Against all that Allah promises—terrible! I do not like this ..." He struggled for a word that summarized the ignorance and crudity he had witnessed: the outright disrespect for his culture. "Discrimination," he said at last.
Rashid sat back down at the table across from Mohammad. He leaned forward and looked his friend in the eye. "Let me tell you something, Mo. We, as Muslims, are the most discriminated-against people in the world—but we are not innocent. Do you remember the incident about Joseph? Did you see him burning the Koran?"
"No. But Ali saw him."
Rashid's sharp eyes cut to Mohammad. "Ali lied—so much. Yet you guys believed him. You did not listen to me ... and burnt Joseph alive!"
Mohammad blinked. He recalled the day of Joseph's death. It was terrible but righteous. An acquaintance of theirs, Joseph, was a Christian, and it seemed natural to him at the time that he would unleash hatred on the Muslim holy book. He did not remember Rashid coming to Joseph's defense. It likely would have been terrible for Rashid if they had noted it. Mohammad processed his memories with the possibility that Ali had not told the truth. At last, he said, "Joseph was not one of us."
Rashid shook his head slowly. "His only sin was he believed in Christianity. Did you try to save an innocent man from a liar's accusation? No."
Mohammad looked down at the table. "He violated the laws of the Koran."
Rashid stood and shoved his chair back under the table. "Shut up a minute. Things have changed. I think ... I think Muslims are not good people. They love to destroy civilization. Here, the laws will not allow someone to be killed for their religion. They protect us. And the people—Texans are good people. So, no more will you talk about discrimination."
* * *
Mohammad worked the line the next night at the factory, surrounded by his shiftmates, at least a dozen black workers and, at his count, nine whites. He was beginning to learn some of their names. Randy, Tom, Gary, and Chris—the white men—had spoken cordially to him in the oddly crude way he had come to associate with Texans. The blacks were more wary, but they too nodded to him and some had introduced themselves: Stanley, Patty, Owen, and Sylvia. They kept themselves separate from the whites, but when the two races had to work together, they seemed to get along well enough.
One of the white women passed him on the way to her post. She smiled. Mohammad nodded, unaccustomed to such a display in behavior from women. She was attractive, though, with blonde hair and smiling green eyes. She was plump, but not overly so. On the line, Mohammad fit a part into a frame and then slid it down to Tom, who added another piece. He was developing a rhythm that allowed him to work faster and that got him approving nods from Tom. He was so engrossed in his work that when the bell rang for a meal break, he was startled. He followed the group to the break room.
He looked to the side of the room where the blacks were seated. Some of them looked at him as he entered, but they tried not to let him see that they looked. All the whites sat at the other table. Mohammad did not know where he belonged.
"Hey, new guy," the one named Randy said from the white table. "Over here." Randy beckoned with an outstretched hand. Mohammad joined them and nodded gratefully. He opened his lunch bag and pulled out a container of rice. Randy frowned at it.
Tom, sitting next to Randy, opened his sandwich. "So, new guy, what's your real name."
"My name is Mohammad," he replied.
Tom looked at him quizzically. "Well, Mad Mo, how do you like it here?" He laughed and gave Mohammad a slap on the back.
The others chuckled. "Good one, Tom," said Gary.
Tom laughed. "Yeah, I know."
"I like it well," Mohammad said, though his response seemed unnecessary, since his name had again become the subject of humor. He looked around at the men and smiled. There did not seem to be any malice in them, but he did not understand their reactions. At the end of the table, the blonde woman shook her head in disgust at Tom and Gary.
The bell summoned them back to work. As they stood up to leave the break room, Mohammad leaned toward Randy. "Who is that woman with the yellow hair?" he asked in a low voice.
Randy's eyes slid in her direction and then back to Mohammad. A sly grin crossed his face. "Ah, Mo! Checking out the ladies!"
Mohammad held his hands in front of him, embarrassed. "Please! Do not speak so loudly."
"It's okay, Mo, you're a man. It's normal. That there is Carla. She's a fine gal if you don't mind hearing her opinion on everything."
A hand clapped Mohammad's shoulder. It was Chris. "Hey, Mo, we're gonna grab some breakfast at McDonald's after the shift. You wanna come?"
Tom continued, "Yeah, Mo. You'll need something more than that rice you eat."
When the shift ended, Mohammad joined the four men at McDonald's. In the small restaurant, no food was visible—only pictures of food. The picture menu was large, covering the wall over the counter. Mohammad stared at it. The menu amazed him. One by one, his co-workers reached the front of the line and made their selections. He had to make a decision before he reached the front. "What would you recommend?" he asked Tom.
"Get a Big Breakfast: eggs, sausage, and pancakes. It's good."
Mohammad nodded. Tom ordered the Big Breakfast along with orange juice and a large coffee. When Mohammad stepped to the counter, a young man in a paper hat looked at him expectantly. Mohammad opened his mouth. "Big ..." He looked back at Tom.
"Breakfast," Tom said.
"I will have a Big Breakfast, please."
Within a minute, his food arrived and he took his tray to the table where his co-workers were munching and laughing. He sat and dipped his fork into the eggs. They were fluffy and delicious. He sliced into the sausage and took a bite. "Mmm."
"That's good, huh, Mo?" Tom asked.
"This is very delicious. You come here every day?"
Randy nodded. "Just about. We have a couple of other joints we check out, too. This is convenient, though."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from My Name is Mohammadby Paul P. Copyright © 2010 by Paul P.. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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