Page 23 - A Woman Is No Man

Adam chewed on his food. “We moved to New York in 1976, when I
was sixteen. My parents have visited a couple of times since, but I’ve had to
stay behind and take care of my father’s deli.”

“Have you ever been inside the mosque?”
“Of course. Many, many times. I wanted to be an imam growing up, you
know. A priest. I spent Ramadan sleeping here one summer. I memorized
the entire Qur’an.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“So is that what you do in America? You’re a priest?”

“Oh, no.”
“Then what do you do?”
“I own a deli.”
“But why aren’t you an imam?” Isra asked, emboldened by their first
conversation.
“I couldn’t do that in America.”

“What do you mean?”
“My father needed me to help him run the family business. I had to give
that up.”
“Oh.” Isra paused. “I didn’t expect that.”
“Why not?”
“I just always thought . . .” She stopped, thinking better of it.
“What?”

“I just assumed you’d be free.” He gave her a curious expression. “You
know, because you’re a man.”
Adam said nothing, continuing to stare. Finally he said, “I am free,” and
looked away.
Isra studied Adam for a long time as they finished their sandwiches. She
couldn’t help but think of the way his face had stiffened at the mention of

his childhood dream. His tight smile. She pictured him in the mosque
during Ramadan, leading the maghrib prayer, reciting the Qur’an in a
strong, musical voice. It softened her to picture him working behind a cash
register, counting money, and stocking shelves when he wanted to be
leading prayer in a mosque. And Isra thought for the first time, sitting there
beside him, that perhaps it would not be so hard to love him after all.