Cultural Event the Choice Miguel

Cultural Event

The Choice

Miguel wipes the sweat from his face and collapses in a heap, the wet grass leaving green streaks on his white, silk shorts. He pours over his soccer cleats and begins picking chunks of mud from between the raised nubs of his prized shoes, the ones he got for his birthday, the ones everyone knows his parents couldn't afford. Miguel's parents don't have enough money to buy him private flute lessons, one-on-one soccer coaching or silk ties like mine do, but Miguel has something that I want even more than a good drop shot and a chance at Harvard Law. Miguel has his freedom.

At least he comes around -- the only friend left from the public school to do so. At first, there were others: Robert the quarterback with ebony skin and a father who sang so well in a local band that he was offered a recording deal; John, the only Anglo, who had a football scholarship, and Maria. There's too much to say about Maria, so I had better say nothing at all. At first, they all still came by in the afternoons, and my mother would make them lemonade and cookies and we would all sit in the den and talk about reality TV or sports, or we'd go outside and kick the ball around. Not anymore.

"Mohammad! Miguel! Dinner!" Each word she says is shrill and choppy, a no-nonsense voice for a no nonsense woman, or at least that's what dad always says. Actually, I don't know anyone who I'd rather as a mother than my mom. She sounds severe, but she's sweet, she's invested, and most of all she wants me to think for myself, maybe even a little bit more than dad does. But the day I came home with two black eyes was the end for her. She didn't cry, yell, or scream. She just clucked at me in her severe way, ordered me upstairs to clean up, and got on the phone. The next day I was the newest student at the mosque high school, a good eleven blocks walk from my house. The public school is only two. I didn't want to go to the mosque school. Actually, most Imams, and my father, would have a hard time even calling me a Muslim. On Sundays, I go to Miguel's Catholic Church of our Lady. I don't think I'm really a Catholic either, but I know I'm more Catholic than Muslim. That is OK with my mom, but not so much with my dad. But he didn't send me to the Mosque school to strengthen my faith. He did it to protect me. I guess I can understand that, but what it really did was loose me all of my friends, including Maria. Now, when I walk past the public school or into the public park, if I dare go, they call my new school a "Madrassa." Even Maria is willing to swear that I am in league with terrorists. Miguel told me that she thinks she was saved by seeing me "for who I really am." But who am I?

"Mohammad," Miguel shouts. "We've got to get inside. Your mama, she'll be angry, no?"

I nod and we start for the house -- first Miguel then me. Before I even hit the front porch, I can smell what my mom has made -- spaghetti and meatballs. Miguel and I exchange glances. We all love this dish more than anything in the world. In fact, when Miguel and I were in elementary school together, I once earned a stern look from the teacher and a high-five from Miguel for shouting with joy as she read "spaghetti" from the lunch menu. But it's not my birthday, nor Miguel's. Neither of us have done extraordinarily well on any tests lately, and soccer season is still a couple of months away. This surprise must be for my father.

When we enter the kitchen, he is already seated at the table, turban neat and suit pressed, the way he always looks for his job downtown at the city court. One thing my father has taught me since I was a little boy is always to look neat and clean, hold my head up high, and walk with purpose, no matter how rich or how poor. He says that this can affect a person's confidence, and it won't hurt if someone is watching them for an advancement at work. I try to follow his advice, but find my body bending too easily to the positions of a soccer player. My father asks Miguel to pardon us while he leads me to the window to pray. Once our noon prayers are done, the four of us sit at the table, and my mother, artfully tucking her veil out of the way while she slurps noodles, says my father has something to discuss with us.

"Son," my father begins in the stiff way he has adopted for talking about serious matters. "I won't be going back to work at the city court."

My mother lowers her eyes and Miguel makes a move to pardon himself.

"No, Miguel, I want you hear for this," my father quickly states, putting a comforting hand on Miguel's arm. "Mohammad, we removed you from the public high school. Do you remember why?"

"Yes, father. It was because some of my classmates called me a terrorist. They gave me two black eyes, and I did not fight back. Under the circumstances, father, I really think they must be excused -- "

"Mohammad, I don't want to argue with you, Son. You are softhearted, a good trait in this world. Today, something similar happened to me. At the courthouse, they told me I could no longer wear my turban. I believe wearing my turban is required by God, just as your mother believes in wearing her veil."

Mother nods, her hand reaching up to touch the familiar cotton of her veil. Miguel shifts uncomfortably, concerned that his, or our, Catholicism should come up. Indeed, it does.

"Son, God has made different requirements of you, it seems. I understand that you have been wearing a cross, going to mass with Miguel on Sundays."

"Yes, father," I begin nervously, "but

"No, Mohammad, I am not here to chastise you or your friend. God makes different requirements of us all. As long as you are being true to him, I am proud of you. Miguel, I want you to know that, if you have introduced my son to God's way for him, I am forever in your debt."