“Brownies?” I ask. “I love Fuddrucker brownies.”
“A man after my own heart.”
We rush to the counter and get two brownies. He gets the plain; I get the one with cream cheese frosting.
Sitting and enjoying our brownies—a little too much for Kramer; he keeps humming the whole time he chews—I ask, “What’s your favorite TV show?”
“Streaming or otherwise?”
“Either.”
“Empire.” A bit of brown goo spits from his mouth. He grabs a napkin and masks his “Sorry” as he wipes his mouth. “You watch it?”
“I’ve seen it. That Cookie is something else. Hell on wheels.”
He laughs. “Sure is. I like Jamal. Cute and sings like an angel. I’d tap that any day.”
I ignore that comment, and say, “What about Walking Dead?”
“Yuck. Not while I’m eating. I can’t stand that show. I’ve only seen it when I’ve been forced to watch it. My ex made me watch it. He watched the old episodes on Netflix over and over. I tried to avoid his marathons, but sometimes he’d insist, and I’d be stuck.”
“But it’s so good. A real metaphor for life, if it’s okay to sound like an English teacher.”
“Maybe, but I can’t stand the walkers. They creep me out. And Daryl? He’s so Mr. Macho with his hairy chin, his motorcycle, and his perpetually dirty body that I want to puke every time he’s on the screen.”
Daryl’s my favorite of all. “Well, it takes all kinds to make a world,” I say, “or a TV audience, as the case may be.”
We finish and say our goodbyes. Kramer’s a nice enough guy, but anybody who doesn’t like Walking Dead and Daryl is not for me. I don’t think we’ll be besties, and I know he’s not boyfriend material. I’ll just have to stay horny.
When I get home, I start upstairs.
“How was your date, dear?” Mom’s voice stops me. She’s dusting the hallway table.
“It wasn’t a date, Mom. Just some guy from school. Shaun intro’d us the other day. When the guy called this morning, I didn’t really want to go, but what could I do? I didn’t want to be rude.”
“I’m glad you went. It’s important to make new friends.”
“Right,” I say, and continue upstairs.
I go to my computer and bring it out of sleep mode. I then text Kerem: Skype. One minute?
Instantly he replies, Two. Have to get to the computer.
I impatiently look at the clock in the corner of my PC screen. I’ve already logged in. Two minutes pass.
Magically his beautiful face appears. And the horny feeling returns.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
“Great. I saw you mowing the lawn this morning.”
“You should have come out. Brought the laborer a glass of water so he didn’t pass out from the heat.”
“Mama had me helping her clean the house. Aysel usually helps, but she was meeting Hasan for breakfast.”
“Didn’t she just have dinner with him last night?”
“She’s falling head over heels. Can’t get enough of the guy. Or his grandmother either, I guess.”
“Grandmother? What does she have to do with anything?” I ask.
“In orthodox Islam, dates must always be chaperoned. Even that’s a bit progressive. Poor Hasan at least is getting to choose who he dates. And apparently his family doesn’t consider a coffee or quick lunch a date. So he’s lucky. He could be roped into an arranged marriage.”
“They still do that?”
“Oh, yes. Fairly common, even in this day and age,” he says.
“Even here, in the US?”
“You don’t have to be in Pakistan or Palestine or Saudi Arabia to be a strict Muslim. And strict Muslims follow the old customs. Score one for Hasan that his family is allowing him to pick his bride himself.”
“Bride? Has he already proposed to Aysel?”
“Not yet, but if I know my sister, she’s already hoping. Mama tries to keep her on an even keel. My sister is a hopeless romantic. But enough of this. What you been doing?”
“Went to lunch with Lou Kramer. You know him?”
“Plays tuba in the band, right?”
“That’s him.”
“I don’t know him, know him. But I know who he is. Some say he’s gay.” There’s a hesitancy in his voice, a funny look on his face when he says that word.
“He is,” I answer, and leave it hanging in cyberspace.
“So why is he meeting you?”
It’s right then and there that I decide I can’t keep it from him any longer. It’s not fair for my new best friend not to know. Not in a world where I believe in openness.
“You feel like a walk?”
He doesn’t react to my ignoring his question; his face lights up instead. “Sure. The pond and back?”
“Sidewalk, your side. Ten seconds.”
He’s already waiting, because despite the fact I’d said ten seconds, I realized I needed to pee, and I certainly didn’t want that weighing on me for this maybe monumental revelation.
“Sorry. Nature called,” I say as I cross the street.
We walk, making small talk along the way. He tells me more about Aysel’s dinner date with Hasan. I make a joke about the old crone sitting at the next table, her evil eyes gazing upon them. He likes that and laughs.
We sit on the bench, and the motherfuckers are swimming across the pond. I smile, remembering how Ker had called the swans that.
A moment. I’m leading up to it. This could break our relationship. I have no idea how Muslims feel about it all, and more to the point, how Kerem personally feels about queer sex.
“You asked a question,” I say, starting slow.
“No, I didn’t. Are you crazy? I haven’t said a word since we sat down.” He punches my shoulder to say he’s kidding me.
“Before.”
“Before?”
“You asked, ‘Why is he meeting you?’”
“Kramer? Doesn’t matter. His reasons, your reasons. Not my business.”
“You deserve to know.”
“This sounds ominous.”
“Not really. I just don’t know how you’ll react.” I take a deep breath. “I’m gay.”
He immediately crosses his arms, like he’s had a pain, like he’s protecting his heart.
“You okay?” I ask, concerned.
“No prob.” But something tells me there is a problem.
I plunge into the deep end. “I’ve been out for a long time. Everybody at my old school knew. And nobody cared. At least nobody I cared about cared. But I’m new here, so I’ve been a bit discreet about it.
“Kramer is indeed gay,” I continue. “But we didn’t meet to hook up. At least I didn’t.” I feel guilty, thinking about how I had considered a little afternoon session if we’d both been willing. But that didn’t happen, and I’m glad. “I don’t know what his intentions were, but it didn’t seem he was putting the moves on me. Shaun introduced us the other day. He gave Kramer my number. And I didn’t want to blow him off.”
He cuts his eyes toward me wickedly.
“I said ‘blow him off’ not ‘blow him.’” Kerem laughs, and I know that things are going to be all right. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Ker. I went to lunch with Kramer because I thought it would be good to get to know somebody other than you, you dork.”
“I understand. See what the community outside Islam is like,” he jokes.
“I believe it’s a much bigger community. At least in my world, since you and your family are the only Islamic community I know.”
“We’ll have to do something about that. Maybe I’ll convert you. My father has a ceremonial sword. You’ll kneel before him, and he’ll tap you on the shoulder and dub thee a Muslim of the realm.”
“Uh, I believe that’s how King Arthur makes you a Knight of the Round Table. So how do you convert to Islam?”
“You planning?”
“Give me a break and just answer m
y question.”
“It’s easy. You state, ‘I believe in the one true God, and in his Prophet Muhammad.’ It must be a true and sincere declaration of faith. You can speak only to God, or people can be in attendance. And it must be spoken in Arabic, the language of the Quran.”
Again, his speech takes on that formality. It tells me he’s quite serious about his religion.
Then he adds with a smile, “Let me know when you are ready.”
“Not any time soon, but thanks for asking. But we’ve taken the wrong road that diverged in the woods. I believe we were talking about my being gay. It doesn’t bother you? It’s not against Islamic law?”
He smiles at me. “Bother me? No. Against Islamic law? No. Against Muslim customs? Yes. But like I said, Islam has developed many variations over the years, as people and cultures evolve. Although there is still the idea that marriage is between a man and a woman, many modern Muslims accept homosexuality and allow gays to pray in their mosques.”
“What about your family?”
“Tell you the truth, the subject hasn’t come up.” There’s a catch in his voice. “But I’m sure as loving as Baba and Mama are, they would accept gays. They already love you, and that’s half the battle. But I don’t think there would be a battle.” Again I hear something I can’t identify in his voice.
“So we’re okay with this? You’re okay with this?”
“You can be anything you choose, Gabe.” He stops, pauses. “Wait—it’s not a choice, is it?”
“Nope.”
“Then you can simply be. Now, if you decide to be a Jehovah’s Witness or an ax murderer, there might be a problem. I’ll let you know after I’ve thought about it.”
I laugh at his joke, and he joins in.
We walk silently back home. I’ve given him a lot to think about.
When we reach his house, I say, “Salaam Alaykum,” and he answers “Wa-Alaykum” with what only can be described as love in his eyes.
Chapter 8
Kerem
THIS CAN’T be happening. Gabe is gay. Did Allah send him here just for me? And now, what do I do?
I’m eighteen. I’m a man. I can act on my feelings. I can be who I am. As much as I’ve prayed on it, I know Allah will back me up here.
But Baba and Mama? How will they feel? I told Gabe I thought they’d be okay with it. But I really don’t know.
We don’t live in one of the old countries where the idea of being gay is looked upon with disgust. I don’t know how people in Turkey feel, but I certainly know that in Iran, a gay man can be put to death. Islam and the government are all tangled up in Iran, but over there, that happens in a lot of countries. And even if Islamic law is not civil law, people can have some very strict beliefs. Gay people can be harassed or killed even if it’s not against the law.
At least things are different here. It’s not perfect and gays still have to be cautious, but the law is on our side, mostly. That’s the law. It’s not Baba and Mama.
They taught Aysel, Timur, and me that we must obey all the laws, but they also have standards based on their beliefs, and some of those beliefs are stricter than the government’s. So how do they stand on gay rights? Especially the gay rights of their son?
I shudder to think. Not because I’m afraid they will not love me—their unconditional love for each of their children, Timur included, is proven each and every day. No, I’m simply afraid they will not approve. And then where will I be?
I don’t know how to tell them.
And Gabriel might not even be interested in me in that way. Do I tell him? That I want us to go for it? Is it too soon? Do I want him because I’m sick of waiting? Tired of not knowing what it’s all about? Or do I really like him in that way?
What if he rejects me? I lose a good friend. How awkward would that be, with him living right across the street? Going to my school? Running into him constantly?
Maybe it’s best to just let it lie. Things will work out, inshallah.
How is it possible to say sunset prayers with all this rolling around in my brain? Forgive me, Allah.
Prayers ended, Mama serves the dinner she’d prepared earlier.
We gather at the table, and before you know it, Aysel is babbling. Hasan this, Hasan that.
“Aysel, dearest, eat your dinner,” Mama says. “Let us have a little peace.”
My sister is offended. “Peace? I’ve met the love of my life, and you find it stressful to hear about him?”
“Not about him, love,” Baba says. “It’s just you’re a bit shrill. The family is trying to eat in tranquility. It’s important for the digestion.” He smiles at his cleverness.
“Baba,” Aysel scoffs, “what is all this talk? We’ve never had one of your tranquil”—sarcasm spills from her lips—“meals ever. You and Mama have always encouraged us to share everything.”
I think of the latest news I could share and feel guilty. It’s true that we are a sharing family. But I am keeping quiet on this. At least for now.
Maybe someday.
Timur speaks up. “You just met the guy. It’s impossible to be so much in love already. Have a little dignity, cousin.”
“I think what your cousin is trying to say is that perhaps you are moving too quickly, love,” Mama says.
I refuse to weigh in on this for fear the topic will end abruptly and someone will ask about my day. As long as Aysel is babbling, I don’t have to talk.
I grab another piece of ekmek and stuff Mama’s heavenly bread into my mouth. Before my Aunt Sila, Timur’s mother, passed, she shared her recipe with Mama.
“I am not moving too quickly, Mama. Didn’t you know Baba was the one for you the moment you first laid eyes on him?”
She had her there. We all three know the famous Aram/Maria love story. Baba might joke about how he first saw Mama in a burqa and fell in love instantly, but the last part is true. They passed in a hospital hallway, and as she tells it, sparks flew.
“Your father and I are an exception, love. And it’s not only the moving fast thing. Hasan’s family’s ways are much different from ours. You need to get to know him so you can adjust. It’s romantic right now to embrace their traditions, but will you be able to live with them for the rest of your life? Your father never practiced the strict ways of his family, of your aunt and uncle, may they rest in peace, but I still had adjustments to make our marriage work. My family was not as devout as your baba is. It was hard to change.”
“No one asked you to change, Maria, my most cherished,” Baba adds. “You well know your relationship with Allah is between you and Him, but I kiss the earth that you were willing. It was a blessing to me that you put up with me and my ways. I’m not perfect, and I don’t follow Islam perhaps as perfectly as I should.”
Timur is stuffing his face with food, but I hear him say under his breath, “You surely don’t.”
“But with you by my side and supporting me,” Baba continues, “I feel I have a clearer path to heaven, inshallah.” He leans over and kisses her cheek.
“That’s exactly what I’m trying to say. I feel a connection to Hasan like the one you two have. I would do anything for him.”
“All we’re asking is that you keep your emotions in check and engage your brain,” Mama says. “Give it a bit more time to grow. If a marriage with Hasan is meant to be, we will support you. After all, our teachings tell us that marriage is a sacred bond between a man and a woman, and it is to be sought.”
I almost wince at that statement. Is Mama saying that a marriage between me and Gabe or whatever man I end up with is not sacred?
Baba adds, “And besides, I’m an old man.” Baba is only forty-eight, hardly ancient. “I am eagerly awaiting my grandchildren.” He looks at Timur and me, making sure we know we are included in this statement. “Don’t wait too long, but wait long enough that you truly know your heart’s desire.”
My heart skips, thinking of how I will ever give Baba those grandchildren he is demanding. Will I, as a gay
man, be allowed to adopt? I know some have, but some are not granted that privilege. And being Muslim might be a barrier. Who knows?
I help Mama clean up after the meal. Aysel goes upstairs, waiting for a call from her beloved Hasan. Tim, I assume, goes to his computer, for that is where most of his life is spent.
I’m putting a serving bowl in the dishwasher when Mama says, “Your sister is something else.”
“That she is.”
“I so hope this match she is intent on is the one for her. Allah has always smiled on all my children, even the one I didn’t birth but took to raise, and He will continue to show us the way. If Hasan and his orthodox ways are right for Aysel, Allah will let her know. And who are we to question Allah? He makes us all in infinite varieties, and we must accept all those.”
But what about a gay son? Could you accept that, Mama? Will you feel Allah made me the way I am?
“Aysel certainly has never gone along to get along, Mama. She makes her own path, and we’ve always had to walk it alongside her if we wanted to be with her. This newfound belief in the orthodox ways is just like her. And I don’t think we can chalk it all up to her infatuation with Hasan. She’s too smart for that. I would venture to say, this has been coming on for quite some time. I look back, and I see her transformation into the perfect Muslim wife was begun long before she met Hasan.”
“How so, love?” She hands me a towel and her mother’s crystal bowl. We learned long ago that it was not to be put in the dishwasher.
“It’s hard to pinpoint. Little things. So little that I don’t even remember most of them. But I can tell you one thing: the hijab? She’s been fiddling with that scarf since she was in middle school. I’d pass by her room, and she’d be arranging it on her head oh so perfectly. Then she’d admire herself in the mirror. And from the look on her face, she wasn’t playing around. Not one bit.”
“I never knew that. But I’m not surprised.” She takes the bowl from me and puts it safely away in the cupboard in its special spot.
“If she was doing that, she may have been fantasizing about what an orthodox life might be like. And you and Baba always brought us up to make our own decisions about everything, especially Islam. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times: ‘It’s between you and Allah.’”
You Can't Tell by Looking Page 7
