young age, Ismail didn’t have an inner child. Instead he had an inner crone, a wizened sage whose sharp voice had been ringing in his ears for as long as he could remember. She sat cross-legged on a dirt floor in the shack of his heart, chastising him and reciting from the Qur’an she clutched with bony fingers.
Be humble
.
Work hard. Never forget your obligations to God, family, and community
. She cared less for his happiness than for him to be noble and good and prepared for the trials to come. She fretted over all the temptations Ismail faced in the land of plenty; she knew self-indulgence and suffering went hand in hand.
BY MID-DECEMBER, OUR cul-de-sac was lit up like a silent carnival. During our nighttime walks, a plump glowing penguin in green and red ear muffs waved at us from beneath a tree caught in a web of rainbow lights. On our neighbor’s lawn a nutcracker stood stiff and tight-lipped beside a fat Santa in red uniform, his hand raised in a military salute. A reindeer with a coat of flickering white lights grazed on a patch of pebbles. Each evening at dusk, a ten-foot-tall snowman puffed up and rose to preside over the entire cul-de-sac, fat arms raised like a conductor, seams stretched with hot air. Unplugged each morning, he crumpled to the ground, his deflated plastic stretched over the shrubs like shedded skin. Each time I passed his collapsed shell, I felt a surge of recognition. I sympathized with his dramatic mood swings; this season affected me exactly the same way. The closer the holidays came, the more my mailbox and inbox were clogged with competing offers: Christmas Countdown! Shop Now! Free Shipping! It always happened this way: the pressure built and built until finally, deflated and exhausted, I collapsed into paralysis and dread.
A few days before Christmas, I sat on the couch with Ismail after our children were in bed, admiring our tree. We were curled under a heavy cotton afghan in the dim glow of rainbow lights, and he cradled my bare feet in his warm hands. Every single Christmas we had celebrated together, I had failed in my efforts to surprise and delight him with the perfect present. There was the year of the super-hero underwear, which I later found tucked into the bottom of the garbage; the cap I had knit that was too short to cover his ears; the scarf I had made that fell nearly to his knees.
But this year I had finally found the perfect gift for a man who hated clutter but was electrified by music: two tickets to see his favorite rock band. Why had it taken me so long to think of this? The tickets were sealed into a simple envelope and tucked into one of the two velvet stockings hanging on the mantel, upon which I had paid a local tailor to embroider the names Ismail and Aliya. I’d slipped into his tiny shop off the main street of town just before closing time. He was counting cash from the register; he barely looked up as I described to him what I needed. A grunt and a slight nod of the head told me he could do the work. He did not look up until I recited the two names. Then he cocked his head, stared, and slid a paper and pen across the counter for me to write them down.
“What kind of names are those?” he’d mumbled, more to himself then me. When I told him my husband was from North Africa, he seemed to take me in.
“Your husband’s from Africa?”
I nodded.
“Is he African like me or African like Osama bin Laden?”
I took in his mahogany skin and broad nose spreading across his round face. In my mind’s eye I saw bin Laden’s narrow coffee and cream profile beneath a white turban, the lower half of his face hidden in a black beard streaked with gray. I wished for a third option.
“Umm . . . perhaps somewhere smack in the middle?” I’d shrugged my shoulders, and he had laughed and shaken his head.
Now the stockings, labeled in script that curled like ribbon, were bulging with small offerings. The following morning, I knew, I would place Ismail’s
Be humble
.
Work hard. Never forget your obligations to God, family, and community
. She cared less for his happiness than for him to be noble and good and prepared for the trials to come. She fretted over all the temptations Ismail faced in the land of plenty; she knew self-indulgence and suffering went hand in hand.
BY MID-DECEMBER, OUR cul-de-sac was lit up like a silent carnival. During our nighttime walks, a plump glowing penguin in green and red ear muffs waved at us from beneath a tree caught in a web of rainbow lights. On our neighbor’s lawn a nutcracker stood stiff and tight-lipped beside a fat Santa in red uniform, his hand raised in a military salute. A reindeer with a coat of flickering white lights grazed on a patch of pebbles. Each evening at dusk, a ten-foot-tall snowman puffed up and rose to preside over the entire cul-de-sac, fat arms raised like a conductor, seams stretched with hot air. Unplugged each morning, he crumpled to the ground, his deflated plastic stretched over the shrubs like shedded skin. Each time I passed his collapsed shell, I felt a surge of recognition. I sympathized with his dramatic mood swings; this season affected me exactly the same way. The closer the holidays came, the more my mailbox and inbox were clogged with competing offers: Christmas Countdown! Shop Now! Free Shipping! It always happened this way: the pressure built and built until finally, deflated and exhausted, I collapsed into paralysis and dread.
A few days before Christmas, I sat on the couch with Ismail after our children were in bed, admiring our tree. We were curled under a heavy cotton afghan in the dim glow of rainbow lights, and he cradled my bare feet in his warm hands. Every single Christmas we had celebrated together, I had failed in my efforts to surprise and delight him with the perfect present. There was the year of the super-hero underwear, which I later found tucked into the bottom of the garbage; the cap I had knit that was too short to cover his ears; the scarf I had made that fell nearly to his knees.
But this year I had finally found the perfect gift for a man who hated clutter but was electrified by music: two tickets to see his favorite rock band. Why had it taken me so long to think of this? The tickets were sealed into a simple envelope and tucked into one of the two velvet stockings hanging on the mantel, upon which I had paid a local tailor to embroider the names Ismail and Aliya. I’d slipped into his tiny shop off the main street of town just before closing time. He was counting cash from the register; he barely looked up as I described to him what I needed. A grunt and a slight nod of the head told me he could do the work. He did not look up until I recited the two names. Then he cocked his head, stared, and slid a paper and pen across the counter for me to write them down.
“What kind of names are those?” he’d mumbled, more to himself then me. When I told him my husband was from North Africa, he seemed to take me in.
“Your husband’s from Africa?”
I nodded.
“Is he African like me or African like Osama bin Laden?”
I took in his mahogany skin and broad nose spreading across his round face. In my mind’s eye I saw bin Laden’s narrow coffee and cream profile beneath a white turban, the lower half of his face hidden in a black beard streaked with gray. I wished for a third option.
“Umm . . . perhaps somewhere smack in the middle?” I’d shrugged my shoulders, and he had laughed and shaken his head.
Now the stockings, labeled in script that curled like ribbon, were bulging with small offerings. The following morning, I knew, I would place Ismail’s
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