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...

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."

"Than you, sir," Miguel adds solemnly.

"Mohammad," father continues, "what happened today made me realize some things. First, it hurt me that in this nation where we came so many years ago for freedom has seemingly turned on us. First, you are given black eyes. Next, I am forced from work. Second, I realize that it is time for you to make your own decisions. Being in the mosque school may shield you from some of the pain, but it will not shield you forever. I want you to make your own decision. You may continue at the mosque; you may go back to public high school; or you may choose to attend the Catholic school where Miguel's mother teaches. The choice is yours."

"Father," I begin, stunned.

"Son, you have made me proud. We cannot change how the country sees us right now. We know that we are not terrorists. We know that if either of our faiths allowed us to hate, we would hate these terrorists. But we also know that, to survive, we mustn't have fear. So, have no fear, and make your choice."

Miguel and I glance at one another. Then, he looks down at our untouched food.

"Hey," Miguel laughs, "I think this is a decision you need to make with a belly full of pasta."

We all laugh, enjoying the fact that the four of us can eat a simple meal together, without hate.