Chapter 10

SCHOOL

5th of Safar 1424

(April 7, 2003)

Maryam never expected it, but on one calm spring afternoon, she was called into the school by Mustafa’s teacher, Evelyn Smith, a tall and quite attractive African-American woman who commanded her first grade students with an authority and knowing. The school itself on Amsterdam Avenue appeared at the end of a long driveway. Next to the school’s gothic buildings stood a magnificent cathedral extending a full city block. Wide gray steps led to its august doors. The structure of dark stone and stained glass gave the campus a strong sense of God, but not a God for the few, but a God for the many, as any soul, rich or poor, humble or arrogant, could wander within this gigantic cathedral and kneel in front of its multiple alters and speak to God within its cool, dark interior.

Maryam had an initial impulse to enter the cathedral. She had been praying in Arabic each and every day, even at the appointed hours, but this magnificent cathedral seemed so grand that she could not avoid that impulse, as though the cathedral pulled into its grasp the devout and the holy from all walks of life, perhaps even the lonely Muslim who had forgotten “Allah” through his or her travels.

She met Evelyn Smith at lunchtime as the first graders flocked to the cafeteria. The two women met in the first grade classroom, books and papers piled on the floor. A long poster of the alphabet hung above the blackboard. Lilliputian tables and chairs were in disarray. Evelyn Smith extended her hand, and Maryam clasped it.

“I’m glad you came on such short notice,” said Evelyn.

“No problem at all,” said Maryam while eyeing some of the art work done by the students.

“I called you to discuss Mustafa and how he’s doing with us.”

“That’s what I expected. Please continue.”

From her desk she pulled a small folder filled with Mustafa’s old homework and test scores.

“Here at our school we periodically administer diagnostic tests which tell us of a student’s progress. Unfortunately Mustafa’s scores fell way below average, especially in reading comprehension. He shows some promise in mathematics, but on a whole Mustafa’s test scores fell way below average. Such a trend has been continuing. We test the students every four months.”

“But he’s only in the first grade. He will improve.”

“Yes, and that’s precisely the reason for our notifying you now. Besides the test scores, there have been additional behavioral problems.”

“Like what?”

“Well, he seems to have a great difficulty paying attention. Whenever we set out a task for the entire class, Mustafa always starts well behind his peers, because he’s looking out the window or staring at a spot on the wall or talking to his classmates. Usually he stares at another classmate, and I have to speak verbally in order to break him out of that spell. He only does things when he’s told to do so, never on his own initiative, and this is my greatest concern. My concerns, however, are many. He gets along well with his peers, but with the girls in the class he doesn’t get along so well. He has the strange habit of walking up to them and kissing them, either on the cheek or mostly on the mouth. As you can see in the corner we have added to our classroom a collection of water toys. When Mustafa goes there with his class partner, he ends up splashing his partner with the cold water. I’ve told him not to splash his peers, but he insists on doing so, whether I tell him or not. So the problems are mainly two-fold: first, his test scores need drastic improvement. He’s falling way below average despite our efforts to re-test him. Second, his behavior with other students. While he’s not exactly the rebellious type, he does create distractions for most of his classmates. I’ve told him over and over again not to kiss the girls, but he keeps on doing it. I’m concerned his problems might be caused by what’s happening at home. Can you tell me anything about his home life?”

“I encourage Mustafa to do his homework, and I see to it that he completes it every night.”

“Do you help him with it, because his homework grades are also quite low.”

“I don’t really check it. I just make sure he completes it. Besides that he watches a lot of television.”

“You should break him out of that habit right away. You should encourage him to read books. There are many children’s books out there. Perhaps you should go to the bookshop with him and pick out a few. That would certainly help. With these test scores, however, we cannot continue to teach him. This is not an ultimatum. I’m talking realistically. The school will no longer be able to teach him.”

“I see,” said Maryam before swallowing. “I’ll help him. I’d like to continue with the school...”

“In order to do so, we need to see drastic improvement.”

“When’s the next testing period?”

“Right before school lets out for the summer. I would recommend summer school, but right now his future with us is so uncertain.”

The spring breeze welcomed Maryam as she left the school building. She planned a course of action to remedy his behavior. She picked up Mustafa at the end of the day. He wore a blue blazer with a patch of the school’s insignia ironed to its breast.

“Mustafa, what’s going wrong with school? I had a word with your teacher. She says you’re not behaving.”

Mustafa only smiled.

“This is not something to laugh about, Mustafa. From now on there will be no more television. The television teaches you to do crazy things like kiss the other girls. Look at me. Look at me. No more scribbling on the walls. No more television. Only books and more books. And Arabic lessons. Yes, you must learn your prayers. Are you listening?”

Mustafa nodded.

“Good.”

They walked to their apartment in the thriving sunshine, and above them the pigeons crouched upon the edge of rooftops and darted from ledge to ledge.

Mustafa and his mother walked hand-in-hand for some time, and Maryam ruminated on how she would discipline the boy. The teacher debunked all she had known in the six years of living with him. She could see only so far and knew no matter how far he traveled, no matter the texture of his fate, she would always be with him, holding him, nurturing him, sheltering him with a maternal passion.

Passion comes to us is different ways. It filters through the haze of an afternoon sun casting its light between branches. It accompanies a melody in the throes of uncertainty. It speaks to us in the soft unbrokenness of a mother’s voice calling for her son in the middle of the night. Maryam had found such a passion, but a passion which haunts and never heals, a passion which thrives on a desperate paranoia for her son’s well-being.

As the days continued beyond Mustafa’s first grade year, Maryam grounded him to the small apartment. Mustafa had made friends at his new public school, but Maryam refused to let him be influenced and nurtured by anyone other than herself. When the boy wanted to go outside, she kept him inside. Everywhere Maryam went, the boy had to follow, regardless how banal the errand. Over the years something drastic had changed Maryam. Or was it she who changed while everything around her remained unchanged? Was it the crime in the streets which kept her in doors, her son within earshot? Or was it the wind and the snow turning the upper Manhattan streets into an icebox which captured not her heart but her brain? When one looks at a child and his mother walking the streets of a lonely city built upon the spirit of prolonged isolation, one would usually smile and glance above and know, through some ungodly intuition, that things were right in the world. One would never scratch the surface of that relationship. The onlooker would only smile at the image of this mother and son holding hands, but would never notice the child pulling away.

She collected checks regularly from Vasilla. She prayed five times a day. When she was not praying, she read the Qu’ran. When she grew weary of reading, she thumbed her worry beads. After walking her son to the public school, she waited in the apartment, pacing and longing for him to return. She saw nothing beyond her son. Such was her passion. A twisted passion, a passion changed into a selfish obsession. She would never let her son die of heart failure or hepatitis. And when Mustafa failed to sit and take, like medicine, his nightly dose of Arabic, she slapped him, and Mustafa fought back, slapping her. Her nails pierced his fleshy arms. His spit flew into her face. The shouting could be heard in every room of the apartment building.

They mostly fought at the doorway. Mustafa would try to leave the apartment, most likely to visit with friends whom he knew from the local school. She would stand in front of the doorway. Mustafa would pull her by the arms. He would shout and scream obscenities, and Maryam would smack him hard. Mustafa never retreated. He never hit her with closed fists, as he had seen on the television screen. He did not hurt her physically. His true aim was to remove her from his path and frolick into the night.

After the yelling and wrestling at a door bolted with every conceivable lock, Mustafa shed tears. Nevertheless, Maryam remained ironclad in her will never to let Mustafa out of her sight. Her passion never abated. The fighting occurred almost every night. And while Mustafa’s strength left him, Maryam in her high-pitched tones would criticize him in a continuous rant. This caused Mustafa to yell at her again, which prompted another bout, her nails gripping his flesh, her palms striking his face and head. It was always Mustafa who cried in his bed and dreamt of a way to escape.

When Maryam met with Vasilla on the first of every month, she hid the bruises and scratches on her arms by wearing long-sleeved blouses, even on the hottest days.

“I think Mustafa needs a pyschiatrist,” said an older Maryam sipping her tea.

“Why on earth would he need a psychiatrist?” asked Vasilla worriedly.

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