Hail Mariam

Chapter 1When I close my eyes, Jesus with the flaming heart—­the one from the portrait hanging above Ava’s bed—­appears in my mind like a hologram. He is life-­size but see-­through.And I know exactly why he’s here.Prophets are too holy to be drawn or represented, but I’d glanced at Jesus’s portrait while we were playing board games on the floor.Okay, more truthfully, I stared at Jesus. I couldn’t help it. His light brown eyes; his long, wavy hair; the beard that parted for the deep cleft in his chin. I had so many questions.How did the people who drew Jesus know what he looked like?Is this a Christian Jesus? Like, if Muslims were allowed to draw pictures of prophets, would they draw Nabi Isa differently?What kinds of thoughts are you allowed to have about a picture of a prophet? Are you supposed to admire them and think they look nice? Or are you supposed to be in awe and sort of scared of them? And is it right to have feelings about the picture? Or is it wrong?Well, apparently it was wrong because this vision of Christian Jesus is here now to warn me.I quickly open my eyes and vow, Ya Allah, I promise I will never look at another image of Nabi Isa again. And then I add on a prayer for forgiveness because I probably need that too.Ya Allah, I’m sorry I convinced Mama to break our no-­sleepover rule for this.Yesterday, I wore Mama down for hours with a very convincing three-­point argument. It was truly some of my best work.
1. Ava’s dad and brother were camping for the weekend, so there wouldn’t be any boys in the house.2. Ava lived up the street, and I could walk home in theunlikely event of an emergency.3. Summer was almost over, and didn’t my parents, who love me, want me to do this one fun thing with my one friend, the only best friend I’ve ever had, before I start at a new school, where I know no one?
But the fun ended as soon as Ava and I stopped playing for the night. I wish Mama had told me that this might happen. I don’t know why I thought it would be fun to follow the rules at Ava’s house—­to eat her mom’s broccoli casserole dinner, and to go to bed when her mom said (which was WAY earlier than when I go to bed at my house, and we weren’t even done making our friendship bracelets for each other), and to sleep on Ava’s hard floor in a hot sleeping bag.
I stare at the strawberry-­shaped alarm clock on Ava’s nightstand and count down the hours until morning. I’m afraid to close my eyes because Jesus is probably still there, waiting for me.So I’m stuck holding my eyes open while Ava snoozes away under the canopy of her comfortable, beautiful bed.I’m stuck in this house that smells more like essential oils than cooking oil.And I’m stuck rehearsing how I’m going to tell Mama that now Ireally can’t go to the middle school she chose for me anymore.Our Lady of Mercy Catholic School is covered in pictures of Jesus.Chapter 2If Mama and Baba weren’t so busy eating their dinner, they’d see me shaking my head at their poor choices.After I got home from the sleepover last week, it didn’t seem smart to say, “Remember how I insisted on bending our family rule? Well, I did something wrong, and it made me see Jesus.”The point was for me to learn a lesson, which I totally did, and it was up to Allah to send Mama her own vision. Because, honestly, I’d already tried to explain very nicely why it was a bad idea to send me to a new school, and all that had gotten me was an angry “khalas” or “yakaffee.”But I guess Allah didn’t send down any signs for Mama, because I’m starting at this new school tomorrow, and she hasn’t announced a change of heart.I push around the rice and marga on my plate. There’s no way I can put any food into my Tummy of a Thousand Butterflies.Why are parents bad at seeing when they’re making their kids’ lives hard?Mama doesn’t understand that kids in America usually have athing that they do outside of school, like sports, art, music, or acting. A kid like me can’t start at a new school and find a lunch group right away. The onlything I’m good at is being good. In our house, that means doing well in school, listening to your teachers, and following your religion.All the things Mama was good at too. She loves telling me how she had to be at the top of her class. In Iraq, that was how you got accepted into medical school right out of high school.That’s why she signed me up for the local K–­8 Catholic school as soon as she heard it was more challenging than the public school. Mama says that school is too easy in America, and learning about a religion, even if it isn’t my own religion, is an added bonus. Mama thinks I’m going to make friends who aren’t allowed the same things I’m not allowed.No crushes. No boys. No immodest clothes.But yes to visions of holy prophets!“Shbeech?” Mama catches my gaze as she reaches for another serving of rice.I wish she wouldn’t jump to asking “What’s the matter with you?” She should say something lovely like “Darling daughter, you seem troubled this evening.”But before I can even answer Mama’s original, rude question, she moves on. Between bites, she adds, “I may be a few minutes late for you tomorrow.”My mouth falls open. I wait for her to say that she’s joking, but her face never breaks into a smile.Late? On my first day?No. No. No.I cannot be left standing alone at a new school while everyone else is getting picked up. It would be one thing if I had a friend to wait with or if I knew the yard duty staff, but at least give me a day!“But tomorrow is my first day.”“And if it is the first day?” Mama flicks her wrist in a way that shows she doesn’t see the problem. “Go read in the library. You’re in sixth grade this year, mashallah. You can wait for us and study.”“Library is a class,” I say. “An adult has to be there to supervise. It’s not a place for kids to hang out.” I’ve told her this a million times.Now Baba takes another helping of rice and says, “Shoofee, this is a new school. Maybe the library there is open, and if it isn’t, there’s no harm in waiting a few minutes.” He gathers his fingers together until their tips are touching, as if to say, “Wait, be patient.”Whenever I complain about getting picked up late, I know I sound selfish because Mama and Baba are both busy doctors. But tomorrow is different.“Mama, I’ll wait the very next day, but can you please be on time for my first day?”“Inshallah,” Mama replies, which Muslim kids know is not only leaving things to God’s will but also a way to avoid giving an answer.“ ‘Inshallah’ yes or ‘inshallah’ no?” I ask.“Don’t overdo it, Baba,” Baba says, calling me by my name for him. “ ‘Inshallah’ means ‘inshallah.’ ”The back of my neck grows hot and prickly. I’m used to Mama treating things that are big deals to me like they’re not that important, but Baba is supposed to defend me.I stare at Baba, waiting for him to feel bad and say more, but he’s focused on gathering each stray grain into the center of his plate. Salma does the opposite. She pushes around her rice, trying to make it look like she’s eaten more.Nobody even cares that Salma’s braids are coming undone because I’m the only one in the house who pays attention to how this family looks. I keep telling Baba to shave his mustache because I’m pretty sure it makes people hear his accent louder. And Mama needs to use more curl cream. Her frizz is not under control.I wish Salma were coming to school with me. Mama listens more when I tell her what I want is for my sister.Salma doesn’t want you to be late tomorrow.Salma is worried, and you’re not even listening to her.Salma shouldn’t be looking at Jesus.But during enrollment season last year, Baba said that there was no point in paying tuition for both of us when Salma could finish at our neighborhood school. Mama agreed and said that learning about another religion in the second grade might be confusing for Salma since she’s seven.Mama didn’t even consider that it could be confusing for me.Mama notices that I’m still not eating. “Mariam, again, what’s the matter with you?” she says.As if there’s one thing!But before I can start listing the reasons, Salma says, “I like staying in aftercare,” in her irresistible, itty-­bitty kid voice. “I drew the whole family today.”Salma dashes over to the fridge and carries over a picture she hung up when she got home, but honestly, this picture isn’t Salma’s best. She drew me like a bunch of sticks with a lazy triangle body. I know she was trying to make me look pretty because Salma’s always telling me how much she loves my clothes, and my curly brown hair, and my big brown eyes. But that’s just little-­sister love because Mama says it’s a real shame that I got Baba’s big nose and his thick dark eyebrows when she was blessed with such a small nose and such little body hair. Apparently, those blessings skipped me and went to Salma.Mama pulls Salma in close and says, “Let me see, let me see,” but I glare at Salma until she realizes she’s crossed me. Her cuteness is a superpower when it comes to Mama and Baba, and Baba is practically beaming when he says to me, “Mashallah, look at your sister. She’s younger than you, but she is using the time while she is waiting to draw such beautiful things.”“Baba, the new school you picked for me doesn’t have an aftercare program for middle schoolers,” I say. “There isn’t anywhere for me to go and draw ‘beautiful things.’ ”“Waiting is the easiest thing,” Baba says, waving away this minor detail. “The harder thing”—­he pauses and raises a finger—­“will be for you to remember to be the best in your class. You will be the only Muslim and Arab in your whole school, and if you are good, then people will think good things about the Arabs and the Muslims.”I look down to hide that I’m rolling my eyes. Even at my old school, I knew that I had to correct my classmates’ and teachers’ bad ideas about Muslims with my excellent example.But I don’t know if I can do that again at this school.“Focus on doing your best,” Baba adds, “and you will see that everything else will be easy-­beasy.” He makes a shooing gesture, like my concerns are a fly to be swatted away.Normally, I’d think it was funny, the way Baba swapped out thep for a b in “easy-­peasy.” But tonight my worries are still there, and I’m the one who feels swatted away.Chapter 3I’m sitting below Jesus.His bony, bloody body is hanging on a large cross centered above the blackboard. I need to look away, but I can barely decipher Sister Geraldine’s schedule, written in bright white chalk and perfect cursive.She points to each item on her list, which helps me follow along, but I never had to read or write anything in cursive at my old school. The connected letters remind me of my online Quran lessons. Reading Arabic is hard enough without having to struggle to read stuff at school.Even though Our Lady of Mercy is in the same town as my old school, I feel like I’ve landed in a different country, with its own writing, customs, and clothing. All the boys wear white polos and navy blue corduroy pants. The girls wear cardigans, white button-­up shirts, and plaid pleated skirts. And I’m chafing, sitting in my stiff new clothes in a classroom that actually has idols.Forbidding idols is probably Islam’s easiest rule to follow, and I can’t believe Mama chose to send me to a school with Jesus on every wall. I should look away. Muslims won’t draw Jesus’s picture because he’s a prophet of God, but Catholics put up statues and pictures of him even though they think he’s the SON OF GOD!I try holding one eye open and the other eye closed, but Sister Geraldine is still at the front of the classroom, and I don’t want her to think that there’s something wrong with my vision. She seems like a no-­nonsense teacher who wouldn’t waste any time sending me to the nurse to have my eyes checked.I close both eyes instead. If Jesus appears to warn me again, I’ll know how serious this situation is.Right away, I see the crucifix from my classroom. I want to open my eyes like I did at Ava’s house, but this time, I decide to speak directly to the image first.Dear Nabi Isa, I know these images of you are not right, but I go to school here now. I’m going to have to look at statues of you sometimes, but I will always say astaghfirullah after.“Mass will be weekly and confession monthly. And, Mariam, dear—­”The moment Sister Geraldine says my name, I whip my eyes open. My entire class is looking at me, and I’m worried my teacher is about to scold me for not paying attention. “You will join us and participate however you feel comfortable—­and, of course, we hope you’ll feel comfortable.”I nod, relieved that I’m not in trouble, but all this attention has made me hot, like someone is blow-­drying my face.If only me being comfortable mattered to my family. Then I’d pack up and go straight home.I’ll take one order of homeschooling, please!Because I don’t know if I should join everyone when they’re singing and reciting prayers to show I respect their religion, or if I should stand with my lips still and my arms at my side to show everyone that I’m a good Muslim who doesn’t do any Catholic things.Going along with everything feels like it could be wrong, like you’re acting as if you belong to this other religion when you don’t. But not going along with things also feels wrong, like you’re trying to show that you don’t approve of how they practice. But maybe that’s also right because you’re showing them where they’re wrong. My teacher last year would have called that a “teaching opportunity.”“And next week,” Sister Geraldine continues, “we’ll be holding our elections for our classroom officers: president, vice president, and secretary. So I’d like you to think about who would do the best job representing the sixth grade in student council. Think of someone responsible, with a strong, clear voice—­and whether that person might even be you.”I perk up at the sound of the words best and president because, wow, wouldn’t that prove to Mama, Baba, and the whole entire school that I’m off to a great start. I don’t know if anyone would vote for the new girl, but the speech part, I can do that. Mama likes to say that Allah gave me a tongue and I’m not afraid to use it.In her fancy handwriting, Sister Geraldine writes, Due tomorrow: one paragraph on what you would do if you were on student council. Please use your best cursive penmanship.“This is a short exercise to give the Holy Spirit a chance to move through you. One theme we’re going to be working on this year is answering God’s call. God is calling us all the time, but are we listening? Are we picking up the phone, or are we saying, ‘Nope, unknown caller,’ and sending Him to voicemail?”Sister Geraldine chuckles at her own joke. It’s different having a teacher who talks about God at school, but I’m too worried about not knowing how to write in cursive to think about any of that yet. I wonder if I can tell her God is calling me to print instead.When it’s almost time for lunch, Sister Geraldine asks for a volunteer to lead us in prayer. Only one hand goes up. It belongs to a tall girl with perfect straight blond hair. “Thank you, Lauren. You may choose what to recite.”Lauren glides to the front of the room with a confidence that makes my heart sink. Of course this school already has a girl like me, the kind who raises her hand, the kind who gets called a teacher’s pet.Which, if you ask me, is a bad name for a good thing. I actually like to think of it as being teacher’s sunshine. I do my part to make my teachers’ days brighter.If I can’t lead prayer at this school, I’m going to have to stand out in other ways. My speech will be my first chance, so it has to be amazing. And if I win, I’ll have done such a good thing. From then on, whenever my classmates hear something bad in the news about Muslims, they’ll know it’s not true because they’ll be thinking of me, Mariam Hassan, CLASS PRESIDENT.Chapter 4The lunch bell rings, and everyone scurries out the door and into the bright afternoon sunlight, loud and chatty. I take slow, small steps. There’s no one waiting for me to grab my lunch from my locker.Outside I scan the playground. Most of the kids are sitting on the field and digging into their lunches. I’ll have to find an empty bench and sit alone, but it wouldn’t be the first time. I ate alone at my old school whenever Ava was absent. Maybe I’ll find a yard duty teacher to talk to, or maybe the school librarian needs volunteers to help put away books.I head over to the row of lockers in the open courtyard outside my classroom and put in the combination I was given, but my locker won’t open.I try again.Still won’t open.Lauren and a girl from our class named Isabella are at their lockers. The thought of walking up to them and asking for help gives me the jitters. Isabella gave me a warm, welcome-­new-­girl smile this morning, but Lauren didn’t even make eye contact. If I don’t ask them, though, I’ll have to find someone else, and at least they’re close by.“Could one of you help me with my combination?” I call out.“Sure,” Lauren says, grabbing her lunch and shutting her locker’s small metal door. “The lockers are old and kind of tricky,” she adds in a take-­charge voice.“So what school did you come from?” she asks before I can thank her for her help.“The public school.”“We get a lot of kids from there, but you’re not Catholic, are you?” Lauren holds out her hand for the Post-­it note with my combination. “Don’t worry, I won’t memorize it.”Isabella nods, as if to tell me that Lauren can be trusted.I pass Lauren the paper and say, “I’m not.”“What church do you go to, then?” Isabella asks, twirling a strand of hair in her long, loose ponytail.I note that Isabella chose the uniform sweatshirt instead of the cardigan, and she wears tennis shoes with ankle socks instead of oxfords with knee-­high socks like Lauren. I’ve got on thick tights with loafers because Mama didn’t want my legs showing. Even though we’re wearing the same uniform, these small differences mean more at this school.“I actually don’t go to church,” I say.“Done,” Lauren declares. “You have to spin it three times to clear the lock.” She passes back the note with my combination and tells me to try again while she’s there to help.As Lauren looks on, she asks, “Are you Jewish? My aunt is married to someone Jewish.”“No, I’m Muslim,” I say, grateful to be staring at my lock and not their reactions. The door slides right open.I imagine Isabella and Lauren will leave now, but they stay in place.“Do you believe in God?” Isabella asks.The question surprises me. “Yes, of course,” I say.I take my lunch and close my locker, and still Isabella continues. “What about Jesus? Do you believe in him?”“Yes, but as a prophet,” I say. “Muslims believe in all the prophets.”“Is that necklace from your religion?” Isabella adds.I run my fingers across my pendant’s familiar ridges and curves and explain, “It says ‘Allah.’ Which means ‘God’ in Arabic. The same God you believe in.”I’m certain this is when they’ll leave for lunch, but they stay in front of my locker for another moment.“Do you want to eat lunch with us?”I almost shout “YES,” but I don’t want to look desperate.I pause to make it look like I’m actually deciding before I say, “Sure.”Right away, the possibility of an entirely different school year opens up in front of me. Maybe I could be more than teacher’s sunshine at this school. Maybe I could be these girls’ friend.A best friend, even.