Two Muslims (Part Two)

Readers may remember my rant against a “religious” Muslim, who in the name of Islam was going to kill his 15-year old daughter for the sin of writing a boy’s name in her notebook.

Three hours after writing the post we’re in a cab, John and Jeanne and I. The driver is clearly an Arab, and—let’s assume—Muslim.

The first thing he says?

“Wow, Ma’am, that’s a wonderful button you’re wearing! I love it!”

“Oh, you mean the one of Big Bird?” asks Jeanne.

“Yeah, it popped right out at me—even before I stopped! Love it—it’s terrific!”

And so we meet our second Muslim.

Who doesn’t lack for words, nor opinions. In fact, he’s on a par with Puerto Rican volubility—and that’s high in the nineties on the standard scale.

“My daughter just loves Obama—she calls him ‘Barrack.’ And the other day, she told me, ‘Daddy, why does your belly stick out and Barrack’s doesn’t? You’re never gonna get to be president with your belly sticking out!’”

Jeanne inquires—how many kids does he have?

Two girls—12 and 5.

And he wants to know—where can he get that Big Bird pin?

The pin is round, has Big Bird smack in the middle. Above—“Save Big Bird.” Below—“Vote Obama!”

“I was almost going to give him mine,” says Jeanne later, “but I have a collection of pins going back decades, and this one is special.”

That’s when she remembers—the Obama campaign committee is striking camp at Broadway and 93d. So she proposes that he stop, she’ll get out, grab one, and we can be on our way.

“God bless you, Ma’am!”

So we do, picking up one for me as well.

Well, the cabbie is ecstatic with the gift; he can barely wait to get home and give it to his daughter.

We go on to talk politics.

“You know, it’s incredible to me that the first thing the Republicans are saying is that they’ll do everything possible to prevent Obama from doing ANYTHING! I mean, aren’t they elected to lead, to make compromises, to make the country a better place? Isn’t that what we pay them for?”

A cab? Nah—we’re in the Democratic National Convention, with the cabbie the keynote speaker!

“And you know, what I like about Obama is that he’s all about the next generation, about improving the schools, about making a world that’s better for all, about seeing your kids go places that you couldn’t get to!”

Balloons are dropping!

“People come into my cab who are Republican, I tell them ‘hey, that’s OK! We’re all American, we’re all working for the same goal, and even though we may disagree, that’s great! That’s what makes us strong! That’s what unites us, our ability to listen, criticize, compromise, and respect each other! That’s the American way!’”

Confetti!

“I see my kids learning things I never knew and I know that their world is going to better than mine!”

And the spotlights pan the backseat!

Fearing that at any moment the Stars and Stripes Forever would fill the taxi, I asked about the gasoline situation. The governor has imposed rationing, and so you can only get gas every other day, depending on the last number of your license plate.

And yeah—that applies to cab drivers, as well.

‘What,’ I think, ‘that’s completely outrageous! Gas is the lifeblood of this guy’s business!”

The guy responds—he was in a line from 7 to 11PM to get a tank of gas.

Right—but what about tomorrow? Will a tank of gas last him?

“It’s a hard life,” remarks Jeanne. “Most cabbies gotta make 200 bucks a day, just to pay rent, expenses, gas….  So a lot of them have partners, who can work the extra shift.”

I’m thinking something different. I’m thinking of two parents, two fathers. And three girls. One father is somewhere in Pakistan, planning—perhaps—a ritual killing of his daughter in America.

The other father is on the streets of Manhattan, driving for hours on end, thrilled that a stranger—now a friend!—would stop and buy him a campaign button.

Two fathers, both Muslim.

One has gone forward—physically, to another country; spiritually, to another reality.

The other is locked into his past.

We should have a word, I think.

“Two fathers, both Muslim,” I wrote four paragraphs up.

A word for a father who is, and who is not.

The wrong grass

In about twenty-four hours, I will be standing—and likely sweating—in a cardboard box, marking my ballot. I’ll fold the ballot, and drop it in a cardboard box. My finger will have been checked to assure that it hasn’t been dipped in ink. The polls will close, and members of all political parties will count by hand the ballots. They will all sign off on the vote.

Here’s the good news—we have elections as clean as mountain spring water.

Here’s the bad news. My cousin in Norway voted for president by absentee ballot.

I cannot.

Nor can some one million American citizens who reside in Puerto Rico.

Nothing to do with being Puerto Rican—Raf could vote in Florida and Wisconsin when he lived there. But—so goes the rationale—since Puerto Rico doesn’t pay federal taxes, we don’t get to vote in federal elections.

Goes a little beyond that. It seems that we are not protected by the entire constitution.

Seems a bit Orwellian, doesn’t it? Some of us are more equal than others….

What we can do, however, is shed blood for our country. And we have consistently, since the First World War. It was startling to me, when I first realized the nature of the scheme.

Our political and ruling classes trade the blood of poor Puerto Ricans for American greenbacks, many of which go into their pockets.

This is a level of cynicism I didn’t expect.

Nor is it a trivial question.

Remember W.?

You wouldn’t, if we had voted in 2000.

And now we got a guy running for president who doesn’t believe in global warming, despite the fact that it’s not just been studied but is now being lived. Try getting to the bottom of Manhattan by subway.

Oh, and it’s been a week since the storm.

We got a guy and a party that would turn back time about half a century on women’s rights and gay rights. We got a guy whose grandfather was a polygamist and who pretty much thinks the same way gramps did.

Nancy votes, Marc doesn’t.

Well, well—no one reads a blog to hear a rant. So here’s the good news.

Bamboo!

It turns out that bamboo creates the same degree of fanaticism as the UFO guys and the JFK conspiracy freaks. 

Friends, we’ve been growing the wrong kind of grass!

Our lawns are ecological disasters. We turn the lakes green due to the fertilizers we have to put on the lawns. They require enormous amounts of water. You can’t eat it.

Bamboo, on the other hand, consumes pollution. It can grow anywhere except in deserts. You can eat it. It can grow, in optimal conditions, three feet a day! And it can be used in construction, as a food for chickens (the leaves) and most importantly, for fuel.

Africa is losing a lot of forest—people are cutting trees for fuel. Bamboo, on the other hand, makes a decent charcoal, and grows back quickly. Trees, once cut, are gone.

I think it’s a tremendous idea.

Now—why can’t I vote?