Ramadan Blues

The thing about Ramadan in NY is that almost every mosque represents a different part of the world. I found a watermelon themed jainamaz from the Bengali man with the incense rack that always makes me embarrassed, mostly unsure if the bearded vendors notice that they sell fragrances titled "lick me all over" and "touch me here" right under the "patti labelle" shelf. I guess she's wholesome enough for all of us.
The Syrian and Egyptian hanouts share my loyalties when it comes to "canned fooul" and expired halal cheese.
I once frequented the Burkina Faso-ian market but I've converted over to Kosher meat from Trader Joe's because I can't be bothered to skin my own chickens (and to think I ever imagined I could marry a Moroccan). It was fun speaking French though. They were all so nice to me. They invited me to their country.
I'm invited.
As is the way, the only place I could find to belong was the place no one belongs. The "University" Islam scene is somewhat of an enigma. Complete with flourescent lights to spotlight the sins we commit pre-lunch break, the Islamic center is housed in the basement cafeteria of a church on 6th Avenue. The community is something of a collision between the Pakistani Student's Association and the Palestinian Student's Association, and somehow I can't pass for either. (Something about my nose not being pointy enough. Both nations of the pointy nose...) I fled to Columbia where I correctly predicted that most of the kids at Iftar dinner weren't even Muslim, and was met by a special presentation of the Nakshabandi Turkish Sufis. The Taraweh was more of a workout than a spiritual reflection but I think I just need to get the hang of all that up-and-down. Even I hated pilates on the first day. This is like pilates + God. In any case I will go back next week and see if I can be inspired.
Which as I recall, seemed to happen through various means, several times daily, in Tangier.
I'm not moping, I'm just saying.

SIMON SAID, PT. 2

DAD TAKES OUT HIS FRUSTRATION OVER HIS TRANSPARENT WIFE ON SIMON, SENDING HIM TO A VOCATIONAL SCHOOL WHERE HE APPRENTICES UNDER "A REAL MAN."
SIMON DOESNT MIND BECAUSE IT'S NICE CONVERSATION AND A CALM ATMOSPHERE.
SIMON'S SHADOW TAGS ALONG FOR THE RIDE.


TO SIMON'S DELIGHT, THE COMMUNAL SHOWER HAS NO CURTAIN, AND HE IS FINALLY ABLE TO SEE WHAT HE WAS MISSING.


THE SCHOOL FINALLY NOTICES THERE ARE TWO SIMONS. THE DEAN CONFRONTS THEM BOTH WITH A SINGLE PHOTOGRAPH OF THE REAL SIMON. SIMON'S SHADOW BETRAYS HIMSELF BY TEARING THE PHOTOGRAPH IN RAGE, WHILE THE REAL SIMON REMAINS SILENT.



COINCIDENTALLY, A PRETTY BAD "ACCIDENT" IN THE KITCHEN IRREPARABLY DAMAGES SIMON'S "HAMMERING HAND," CAUSING HIM TO RUN AWAY FROM SCHOOL LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT.

WITHOUT SIMON TO DRAG HIM DOWN, SIMON'S SHADOW EASILY BECOMES THE COOL KID.


NO ONE KNOWS WHAT BECAME OF HIM AFTER THAT FATEFUL DAY OF NOBLY GIVING UP HIS IDENTITY TO HIS MUCH MORE CAPABLE AND SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE SHADOW, ALTHOUGH THE INTRODUCTION OF A NEW SPECIES OF FISH-BIRD TO THE STREETS OF TANGIER MAKES US WONDER...


SIMON'S SHADOW CONTINUES TO BATTLE HIS VISIBILITY ISSUES IN A FIGHT AGAINST TIME.

SIMON SAID, PT. I

SIMON SAID LIVES IN A PRETTY NORMAL HOME FOR THE MOST PART, WITH A VIOLENT FATHER AND A MOTHER WHO IS HARDLY THERE.


WHEN LONELY SIMON MAKES HIS SHADOW HIS "TOP FRIEND" ON MYSPACE, DAD GETS WORRIED.


DAD TAKES IT OUT ON MOM, WHILE SIMON HIDES WITH HIS SHADOW BEHIND THE COUCH. WHILE BACK THERE, HE NOTICED A LAMPSHADE THAT WOULD MAKE A CUTE DRESS.


SIMON TAKES TO THE MACHINE WHILE IN CHARACTER AS "SIMONA" -
NO ONE FINDS OUT.


CONFUSED AND ALONE, SIMON(A) EVENTUALLY GETS INTO DRUGS. HE MAKES A CASUAL RUN FOR IT AS HIS "FRIENDS" ARE HAULED IN FOR DEALING.

HE MADE A CLEAN BREAK FROM THAT SITUATION, BUT HAVING FORGOT TO WASH OFF HIS MAKEUP, HIS FATHER GETS ANGRY ANYWAY.

FATHER ONCE AGAIN TAKES IT OUT ON MOM, WHO HAS RECENTLY STARTED TO DISAPPEAR FROM HIS LIFE, AS SIMON'S SHADOW IS BECOMING MORE AND MORE REAL.


SIMON WRITES, DIRECTS, AND STARS IN A MOVING ONE-MAN-SHOW ABOUT SELF-REPRESENTATION IN WHICH HE TAP DANCES ON FLOWERS.
FATHER WALKS IN AS HE IS PERFORMING ON STAGE AND LEAVES BEFORE THE SHOW IS OVER, BUT NOT BEFORE SIMON SPOTTED THE LOOK OF DISGUST ON HIS FATHER'S FACE AFTER SEEING HIS SON PRANCE AROUND IN NEXT-TO-NOTHING.



IT REMINDS SIMON'S FATHER OF WHEN HE WAS A BOY. ALL HE WANTED IN THE WORLD WAS TO BECOME A BEEKEEPER LIKE CRAZY UNCLE "IB." BUT HIS FATHER BEAT IT OUT OF HIM, THE SAME WAY HE WOULD BEAT THIS OUT OF SIMON.

WHEN SIMON RETURNS FROM HIS ONE-MAN CAST PARTY, FATHER FORCES HIM TO KILL BEES AS PUNISHMENT AND SECRETLY WEEPS AFTERWARDS, SEEING THEM ALL BLOODY AND STUCK TO THE WALL LIKE THAT.
SIMON WISHES HE COULD USE SOME SORT OF KILLING-SPRAY, ALSO HATING TO SEE THEM ALL BLOODY AND STUCK TO THE WALL LIKE THAT.
MOTHER SENSES THIS AND ALTHOUGH NOW COMPLETELY TRANSLUCENT EXCEPT FOR THE HANDS, SPRAYS THE INSECTS WHILE DAD'S NOT LOOKING.


SIMON REALIZED HIS MOTHER DOES LOVE HIM EVEN THOUGH SHE'S NOT ALL THERE, AND SPEEDILY WORKS THROUGH ALL THOSE MOM ISSUES.

THINGS ARE LOOKING UP...

FAR ROCKAWAY

"I'm a smoker as you can see. I have to apologize. I really shouldn't be smoking."

The middle aged woman with the awkwardly arranged gray bun in her hair started to fidget with pieces of her kitchen.

"Here c'mon we'll try it right here." She left the room to find cloth and thread so I could test out the machine.

"As you can see, it's brand new!" she yelled from the next room, unnecessary in such a small apartment.

"You can just unplug the vacuum cleaner to get that thing going!"

In searching for the vacuum cleaner plug, I surveyed the kitchen, a hodgepodge of colorful dishes and imported goods from India. There were some posters indicative of her religious persuasion, having converted from Judaism to Sikhism, which I already knew because she told me in the car as part of the explanation for why she moved from the upper west side to Far Rockaway.
I can't remember how it fit into her story or why she felt she needed me to approve of her life choices.

"Not a big deal," I said. "Some of us live here, some of us live there." It sounded vaguely like something she might say. Safe choice of words.

"...but it was all we could afford at the time and you know even with this crazy economy I'm still paying less for this apartment than I was over in Manhattan."

Looking around the apartment, it wasn't hard to understand why, although she had made it cozy with oversized cats for insulation and paisley bedsheets nailed to the walls like tapestries.

"Here we go. I use this just to clean things up sometimes, no big deal if there are a few stitches in it."

She handed me a white, blood-stained handkerchief.
I waited for her to explain that it was actually ketchup but she didn’t, and I was too impatient to leave to insist on a less cryptic scrap of cloth.

The machine itself did seem brand new, without so much as a fingerprint on it. It was more of less like the one I share with my mother in Buffalo, so I knew how to thread it. I slid the non-bloody side of the cloth under the presser foot as the woman explained to me that her mother could “sew like a horse.”
I told her my mother could sew like a seamstress.
She replied, “Well, yeah, my mother was a seamstress.” I backed down.

“But I just don’t have the knack for it. Or maybe the time, or space, or…” I listened and added appropriate comments and questions where they fit. She asked me to repeat everything I said. I would switch to a tone someone might use to read a children's book, to encourage her to reply to my questions with something relevant to the topic. Sometimes it worked.

Her head was almost resting on my shoulder. My right shoe searched for the plastic pedal and was greeted by the sound an elephant makes when it bleeds.

“What the…” The woman eyed the machine with a furrowed brow. “Try it again try it again.”

I re-threaded both top and bottom and tried maneuvering the bloody cloth once more, but no-budge.

The next ten minutes consisted of her saying “now, what the…” in different tones and at various speeds. She would probably also be really good at reading children’s books.

Eventually she gave in. Speaking slowly, “you know, I re-mem-ber having this problem once before. I think it’s why I gave up on my sewing!” She let out a hearty laugh. I even more slowly suggested that I leave. She suggested we continue looking at the machine saying “now what the…” and so we did. It was her house I had to follow the rules.

“The thing is (I tried to use all of my favorite phrases to keep me entertained), the teeth aren’t rising up to the cloth. See how it’s buried? It’s supposed to rise up to meet the foot and nudge the cloth forward. Instead the needle is just sewing in the same spot over and over. Nothing is moving forward.”
I quietly enjoyed the metaphor and wondered to which of us it was relevant as she switched her repetitions to “awww Iiiii seee.” I hummed in agreement after each time until I felt it was encouraging her to keep saying it.

Once our song was done she insisted we best be getting to the station.
“Well, at least you don’t have to walk!”
“Yeah, thanks for driving me.”
“You know, it actually all worked out for the best I think because I never would have known what was wrong!”
“Yeah.” I tried not to think about the two hour subway ride ahead of me as we both climbed through the passenger door of her sea-green Buick.
“Can you believe this only cost me $300?”
“Wow.” Actually I couldn’t. It was an okay looking car. My favorite color. Same color as my ipod. Which also cost $300.
“Same price as a sewing machine,” I offered, and wondered if it was inappropriate.
“I know! And it drives, to boot.”
“To where?”
“…to boot.”

We passed an African-American couple on the street, and here she found an opportunity to share her expertise about Far Rockaway. “You know, the Blacks are actually very friendly here. The Spanish, no, but the Blacks, oh yes. Very ‘yes ma’am no ma’am.’ I can’t say anything about the Jews though!” Then muttered something. She laughed because I was supposed to know what she meant.

At Mott St. she thanked me again as I tripped out of the old Buick. “May you have… the best life. The best of life.” She was moving her head back and forth and enunciating her words like it was a poem.
I smiled. “Oh, thanks. Good luck with the machine.”
She sort of winced as I mentioned it- the thorny issue tainting our otherwise pleasant relationship- and winced again as a crowd of teenagers called out to me as I entered the station. “Sugarbuuuutt!”