The Journey Within: Part 3

Posted on September 7, 2009
Filed Under Daily, Journey | 27 Comments

I tossed a load of laundry into the washing machine, and finally got a chance to put away all the clothes that were lifelessly tossed around my dorm room. We just had six consecutive days of lacrosse practice in preparations for a tournament in North Carolina that was coming up next weekend. I was exhausted by the hectic week that had been filled with team meetings, and long hours on the field — and though the aching muscles in my body were plenty, my complaints were few.

My sophomore year of college had just started, but the year already presented me with a mountain of personal struggles. It wouldn’t be until much later that I would learn that – that mountain was only one in a long range of battles I would fight over the next two years – and not all of them would end with me standing victorious.

But the only time that life was forgotten was when I was on the field.
I loved every minute of sprinting across that painted grass, under those lights, sweating in that salty Virginia Beach air. The sport, and my teammates, had become a safe haven for me, and for those two hours each day, every sin was cleansed, every problem found a solution, and every aching heart was consoled.

Thanks to NCAA rules, even our unique (to say the least) coach had to give us a day off. There was no practicing seven days a week in college sports, and the extra time I had was going to be dedicated to picking up around the room, and maybe even catching an episode of “Oprah.”

As I was folding a few shirts, and tossing them into my closet, the phone rang.
A single ring meant it was an on-campus call, a double ring meant off-campus.

Double ring.

I picked up.

“Hello?”

It was my mom.

We chatted for a few minutes, and then she told me that her childhood best friend who lived in New England with her husband and three children invited my mom over for Thanksgiving.

It was already October, and the year was flying.

“You remember them, right?” she asked. “They came to visit us in Germany in ’96.”

“Yeah, I remember them,” I said.

Like most of our parents’ close friends, my sister and I referred to this family as our “aunt,” “uncle,” and “cousins,” something that is commonly done in many cultures even if there is no immediate family relation.

“I got along with the one in the middle really well,” I said. “Remember we played basketball in the driveway, and made his little brother hold a bucket over the garage?”

I laughed.

“Wasn’t he really into WWF, too?” I continued. “I’m forgetting their kids’ names.”

“Oh yeah. You guys did play a lot as kids,” my mom said, and then refreshed my memory with names, and ages. “Well, they’ve invited me to Connecticut for the week of Thanksgiving. I don’t have school, and since you and Uzma are going to be on break too, I thought we could all go together.”

“I’m in,” I said. “Oh, but what about dad?”

Our family tradition had always been that we did Thanksgiving at my dad’s eldest sister’s house. It was a great time of the year for all of us because Turkey Day is a national holiday, which meant no one had to work, or go to school. It was the perfect excuse for all the cousins to fly/drive to one state where we’d eat great food, enjoy wonderful company, and get to catch up with all the busy bees in the family.
But now that my parents were divorced Thanksgiving was almost like picking sides.

“Well,” my mom said. “Ask dad if it’s okay, but it would be nice if you guys came. Also, I was thinking we’ll go to India this year. We’ll go in December, and stay for the New Year.”

“I would love that!” I said. “I can’t believe it’s almost 2003!”

“Oh, before I forget,” my mom said. “If you decide to come to Connecticut, pack appropriately.”

“Is it really cold there?” I asked.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “I mean, pack appropriate clothes.”

“What does that mean?” I said.

“I know how you guys dress sometimes. This family is particular about things like that. I don’t want you to make anyone feel uncomfortable.”

“I do dress appropriately.”

“Sabrina,” she paused. “Just be mindful of what you wear while we’re there.”

“Alright, alright.”

“Okay, good luck with your finals, and I’ll see you soon, God willing” she said. “I love you.”

“Bye,” I said. “Love you too.”

I called my dad and told him about the Thanksgiving swap, assuring him that I’d be back in the D.C. Metro area next year to be with him and his family. Luckily, he gave the OK, and not the kind that makes you feel bad.

I hung up the phone and stood in front of the mirror for a few minutes examining my reflection.
I dress appropriately, I mumbled to myself.
I tossed the last of my clothes into my closet, this time uninterested in folding them, and went down the hall to see what my hall mates were up to.

***

Uzma and I traveled together, and arrived at Bradley International Airport a few days before Thanksgiving. I was clad in a pair of dark-washed jeans from American Eagle, and a long-sleeve, fitted white shirt from Abercrombie that was covered in tiny flowers with buttons down the front. I intentionally didn’t wear any makeup, and pulled my hair up into a casual knot, and used a small claw to hold it in place.
Moments later, my aunt arrived to pick us up with her youngest son in tow.

She jumped from the car to give us hugs, and quickly ordered her son to grab our luggage.

She was so tiny. Tinier than I remember. But then again, it had been nearly seven years since I had seen her, or her family. She had on a pair of jeans, and a long sweater that hit her mid-shin. A black scarf was neatly wrapped over her head, across her chest, and hung behind one of her shoulders, and I examined it more closely.
It was raw silk, and it was perched into a perfect U over her forehead – not a single hair could be seen. Small pins with gems hugged the sides of her head, and a slightly larger, more dainty clip with teeth adorned the back of her scarf.

I checked my reflection in the car window to make sure the shirt I had chosen to wear would be deemed appropriate by my mom whom I would see shortly. I snapped the top few buttons of my shirt closed just in case, and started to take my suitcase to the trunk.

“No, no, it’s okay,” she said. “Yousi will take them. Get in! It’s so good to see you both! I’m so thrilled you were able to make it. Mom is here, and now you girls! It’s been so long.”

We chit chatted about the usual on the 20-minute drive back to their place; school, sports, future plans.
When we arrived at the house, it was fairly quiet. My uncle was at work, and I’m pretty sure their grandmother was out of town. Their eldest daughter who decided to spend her life studying Islam was studying abroad this semester in Syria, though she went to college close by, and lived about 30 minutes from home. Yousuf took our bags upstairs, and my aunt told us her other son was at work, but would probably be home around 10 p.m.

I remembered their house from our last visit. I walked around the kitchen looking at family photos. Their daughter wore a scarf on her head just like her mom, and the little boy I used to play with wasn’t a little boy anymore. He looked different in the photos – he had facial hair, and in some of the pictures he was in a basketball uniform, which didn’t surprise me.

I was certain Uzma and I would have limited interaction with the boys, after all, their family seemed to be really religious. They prayed together in an area of their house which they converted from a foyer to a mini-mosque. Everyday after the evening prayer at sunset, they sat down and talked about something religious from a stack of books they had, for about 20 minutes.

It was nice, but something I had never been exposed to.

My aunt set dinner on the table around 8:30 p.m., and a few minutes later my uncle came home from work. After dinner, we sat around the table enjoying eachother’s company – mostly my mom and aunt shared their own private moments of hysterical laughter remembering running barefoot on rooftops in India, sleeping outside under the stars, and playing pranks on their friends and cousins.

Their dad was more quiet. He had a bright face that sometimes looked like it was glowing. I had never seen a man with such a large beard, but there was something so special about it. It was distinguished, but not elderly, and well groomed, but not perfect like those cotton balls you glue on Santa in Art class.

A moment of silence fell over the group, and my uncle started to talk. His topic of choice was one that was surprisingly interesting to me. He talked about God, who He was, and His angels, and I was mesmerized by his every word.  I had never heard anything like this before — well, maybe at some point we learned something like this in Sunday School, but that was probably the day I was too busy xerox copying my bare “back side” when the teacher asked us to get her copies of the test we were going to take.

True story.

Although there were five of us at the table, I felt like I was the only one my uncle was talking to. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He had such a powerful way of speaking, yet so gentle, just slightly above a whisper. He was talking about religion, disguised in something that caught my attention. He made me feel like his equal, like he wanted to share a beautiful secret with me that no one else knew. I felt a lightness in my body, and I could actually feel my chest expand. It was the most calming feeling I had ever known, and when he stopped talking, I was left hungry for more.

Looking back now, I realize that his words were sort of like hands that prepare the soil before you plant flowers. All you see is dirt, but you’ve created an environment in which seedlings can rest, be nurtured and grow. Without my knowledge, his words about the meaning, and beauty of Islam found a place in my heart. And though they lay dormant for many months, a seed had been planted, and the path of my entire life was about to change.

***

We heard a beep, and then a door open. We turned around, and their son walked into the kitchen dressed in his work uniform; a black polo, and khaki pants.
He greeted everyone with the Islamic greeting of peace, and my mom got up to give him a hug.

I elbowed my sister.

“He’s cute,” I whispered.

“Shut up,” she said through clenched teeth, a smile plastered on her face.

The next morning, Uzma and I got reacquainted with the two boys, this time as adults. To our surprise, they were “normal,” and we hit it off immediately.The four of us spent the whole week together playing Ping Pong, and hanging out in the weight room. We sat around in the kitchen late after dinner talking about movies and music, eating junk food, and laughing until we were blue in the face.

The night before we were to head back to D.C., and then back to school, the four of us decided to rent Tim Burton’s “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” We put the movie in, but before we knew it, Uzma and Yousuf, each sprawled out on their own sofa, had fallen fast asleep, and it was just me and my childhood friend from the mezzanine.

He shut the movie off, but neither of us went to bed. He sat on the ground, five feet from me, and leaned against a leather chair. He was wearing a Timberland sweatshirt that was an unusual shade of yellow, but complemented his fair skin. He didn’t have that glow the way his dad did, but he had something that I had never seen before in any man my age. His eyes were brown, like the color of chocolate, and there was something in them –  depth, and sincerity.

For the next seven and a half hours, we sat in the living room and talked. We reminisced a little bit about our childhood friendship during those sporadic meetings our families would have when we were kids – playing on the swing set in my backyard, teaming up to preform magic tricks for the other siblings, our parents buckling us together in the front seat of the car when there was no more space to sit. But mostly we talked about what life was like now for both of us. There was something about the way he spoke that made me feel like he wanted to catch me up on the parts of his life I missed over the last seven years, yet somehow, it was almost as if we had never been apart.

It wasn’t until the call to prayer before sunrise sounded, that we realized how long we had been sitting in the living room. As a crisp November chill found its way into the house, I remember thinking that talking to him was like being on the lacrosse field.

No matter how tired I got, I could have stayed there forever.

***

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