Meeting Muhammad

Day after day at work, I noticed him, sitting at one of the many scattered tables placed between the indoor pool area and the basketball court — watching, perusing, assessing. At least, that’s what he seemed to be doing.

It was late September, 2002. Our country had just marked the first anniversary of 9/11's horrors, I’d just marked my second year of working at the Alpharetta, Ga. YMCA.

I wasn’t sure how I’d ended up here, in one of the more traditionally homogeneous white areas north of Atlanta, just as many must have wondered after arriving from all over the world in far north Atlanta following the 1996 Olympics. My co-workers at this Y included women from Brazil, Beijing, Libya, India…as well as Tennessee and Georgia.

As a teacher of over fifty pre-schoolers, I was trained to notice when men sat alone and watched, but this man was different. He barely noticed the children. He noticed me, he noticed other teachers, instructors — he seemed to be looking for someone.

With my protective wariness slightly relaxed, I began to notice details: his European brogues, his meticulously trimmed beard. If he’d suddenly hopped up and begun a rapid-fire comedy routine, I would’ve thought he was Robin Williams, but there was an air of earnestness, of seriousness, that precluded that fantasy.

I vaguely wondered, ‘what is this guy up to?’ No one dressed nicely at the Y. No American male I knew sat that still, wore such a formal air, noticed every detail of their surroundings, and yet did not notice the ubiquitous nubile young women. He seemed to avoid their glances. He turned fully away if they walked by too closely.

This satisfied my second concern about him, and having my daily classes of three and four year olds as permanent crowd around me, my mind— and the hordes of chattering children and I— moved on…

A couple of weeks later, as I sat alone and nibbled at my lunch, reading my book as shield against the level of noise and activity around me, a shadow crossed over. I looked up to see this same man standing over me, intent gaze on his face.

“My name is Muhammad. I think you are an American who would talk with me….”

Our eyes met for a moment longer than usual. More than with most people who’ve just met, maybe, information passed between us silently — we each recognized a fellow traveler.

A different feeling altogether than tourist.

I smiled briefly. “Would you like to sit down?” I offered.

And our conversations began.

I became one representative American for Muhammad, as I was one of the few who would talk with him.

He was heartbroken.

He had come to America after a lifelong desire. He had grown up hearing about the Kennedys, had become fascinated by them as a young boy. He had read everything he could while growing up, about John-John and Caroline especially, the entire clan as peripheral interest. It seemed after a few conversations that he had America and the Kennedys’ lifestyle firmly mixed and entrenched in his mind — that was his idea of America, and he wanted to be there. He hoped to find those Kennedys of his mind, or people like them, when he arrived in our country.

He was looking for those who would embrace him in America, and have him join in on a spontaneous game of football.

Finally, as an adult in his thirties, he had seen the Atlanta Olympics televised in his native Turkey, and decided this was the time. He would go to America. Atlanta was the place where he would arrive.

Each day I worked that autumn, he would be there, waiting. As if he needed me. I think he did need me, as he was ostracized most places he went. He’d found a little corner of America where even I was an outsider. I, who had grown up in Atlanta — but not in this area.

I wasn’t part of this Old South: of horse and farm, of savvy business owners, savvy property owners, who’d bought and sold horses and land for generations, married amongst themselves for generations… of mid-day Sunday dinners, often with Pastor invited over, of extended clans who all lived within miles of each other and who didn’t trust anyone from outside.

Not even a snub-nosed, hazel-eyed, white woman like me.

Even I carried the taint of the Other. I could drum up the requisite accent and I could schmooze, Southern-style….but for these southerners, the Other reeks from anyone who has not been born and bred and raised on their particular style of decor, worship and judgment.

And here we both were, Muhammad and I.

I became the sounding board for his crushed illusions:

“Why is it so cold here? The people, why are they so cold?”

“How do I find my way here? I spent everything to come here, I gave up everything. Now I have nowhere else to go. I did not find what I thought. Why?”

“Where is the America I heard about, dreamed about? Where can I go and find a place for me?”

And the most plaintive refrain, “What do I do now?”

The trouble was, I had no answers. Where could he go? Where would he find his place? Although I knew several Muslim women at work, they all had family, they weren’t Turkish. They weren’t remotely interested or even curious about Muhammad.

“Why isn’t he married?” was the only question they asked.

“He should be married.”

As we chatted over the next few weeks, as he questioned and sighed, my mind streamed with a ticker-tape of all the different areas of this country I have rested my head in, of all of the different ways I’ve not quite fit in—no matter where I’ve been— even with the Passes I have that have allowed me to travel under the radar and live anywhere I’ve wanted, in any state in our country.

Let’s face it, all three Passes: White, Straight, Christian— are the only passes for entry in far too many areas of our country. Without all three, forget it, in some areas. Even now.

How does a guy like Muhammad find his way?

At some point, I feebly suggested that this is a huge country with many cultures, and many more sub-cultures. I offered up New York, New England, Chicago…San Francisco. I knew I wasn’t offering much knowledge of those areas, he could see that in my eyes — I wasn’t that familiar with any of those places. But by this point we’d chatted for many weeks, and the point had become our chat.

We’d become friends.

My mother’s first stroke changed everything.

I never went back to the Y after that day I learned of my mother’s stroke, I was needed elsewhere. I didn’t say good-bye to my co-workers or Muhammad. Worst of all, I didn’t say good-bye to the children. That stills aches.

I wonder about Muhammad — even now.

I think of him most days: a quick thought, a briefly flung prayer. I hope he took my advice and kept looking for a place to rest easy in America—I’m concerned that he didn’t look, that he gave up. Or worse, he has been looking all along and still hasn’t found that place, or he has grown embittered. I hope not.

I like to picture him smiling and running, still in his carefully pressed European suitcoat, new tennis shoes on his feet, head turned to look over his shoulder as his arms reach up, that perfectly spiraling football blocking the sunlight as it sails overhead, his hands reaching out to grab the ball….

I know he was looking for the America of his dreams — can’t I dream too?

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~ photo courtesy of chachaandspoons.com ~