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By Root 755 0

a community? If so, why did my fidelity to this faith, to the edicts of Islam, my perpetual presence at every Friday sermon and Eid prayer and observance of Ramadan, not grant me nearness to the female members of the faith? Why, in a case of egregious torture, were the Muslims I was most curious about the ones that were kept furthest away? Allah: I didn’t want to violate them—I simply wanted to eliminate the chasm of anonymity that existed between us. I wanted to know them. To greet them. To get a name and to give my name. Wasn’t the need for names divinely encoded? Wasn’t it the case in the Quran that the first thing Allah taught Adam was the “names of things.” Yet among Muslims of mixed gender this need wasn’t just unfulfilled; it was considered the handiwork of Iblis, the devil.

In that moment it became apparent to me that if I was going to be able to live life how I wanted, I had to get the hell out of Allahbama.

To do that I had to become someone else.

6

I jumped out of my beat-up Ford Ranger with its sawed-off muffler and faded Confederate flag stickers, entered our cottage-style house perched on one of Alabama’s many creeks, and prepared myself for my revolt. For many months I had been going by another name outside of the house, and now I was going to tell my parents that I planned to make the change formal in the legal system. It was my way of becoming who I was.

Everyone was home. Ammi had just returned from her classes at the university, where she had recently enrolled to study psychology, and was unfastening the safety pin on her pink hijab. Pops was in his green scrubs, getting ready for the night shift at the hospital. Flim was in the corner of the living room playing “Age of Empires” over the Internet (the computer having long since been returned to the living room). In the backyard, our new golden retriever, Rocky ul Islam Balboa, was barking at the neighbor kids bouncing on their trampoline on the other side of our brown picket fence.

“Why would you ever want to change your name?” Ammi said after I made my announcement.

“It’s a horrible name.”

“Abir ul Islam is a horrible name?” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes. A beer ul Islam is! Seven years in America people have been making fun of it.”

“Like how?”

“Bud. Budweiser. Bud Light. Coors. Coors Light. Zima. Corona. Michelob. Rolling Rock. I’ve been called every major alcoholic beverage there is. Even fictional ones. Did you know people call me Duff Beer, like from The Simpsons? I know the names of as many beers as there are names of Allah!”

Ammi slapped me on the shoulder. “Astaghfirullah! Don’t you compare God to alcohol! Can’t you just tell people that your name is Abir ul Islam, emphasis on Islam, and that in your religion alcohol is forbidden?”

“Yes, I’ll do just that,” I said snidely. “Then the rednecks at school will want to have interfaith dialogue when they call me names!”

“Don’t call them rednecks,” Pops chided. “This state is our home now; we’re rednecks too. Although our necks are more brownish-red.”

“Fine. Freaks. Happy?”

“Don’t say freaks either,” Ammi interjected. “It’s a bad word.”

“Jesus Christ, you people!” I said, exasperated.

“Don’t say Jesus Christ!” Ammi and Pops exclaimed in alarmed unison. “We don’t believe that Jesus is God.”

“Can we get back to the subject, please?” I said, having had enough of this religious turn.

“Yes, we can. Look,” Pops said, taking on his most reasonable tone, “isn’t this the Bible Belt? People take religion seriously here. If you just explain it to them—”

“I shouldn’t have to explain my name,” I said. “Just forget it. You people are too set in your ways.”

“I can’t believe you don’t want to represent Islam,” Ammi said, looking hurt.

“Why does everything have to do with Islam?”

“Because we’re Muslims!” she said. “Muslims in a non-Muslim country.”

“Before we even landed in America,” Pops said, pride resonating in his voice, “we resolved not to give up Islam. Don’t you remember the story of the naked woman in Holland?”

Oh, I remembered. When we were flying to America, we’d had a layover