It is November 20, 1977, when Mohammad first gazes at the snowcovered airstrip at JFK International Airport. Anxiety overwhelms him as he stares at the gray sky. He is now two oceans away from his ordinary life in Pakistan. As Mohammad makes his way through immigration and then on to a plane destined for Dallas, Texas, he realizes his life will never be the same again. In a state where cowboy hats and drawls are the way of life, everything seems strange to Mohammad. With the help of his friend Rashid, Mohammad finds work at a factory. Despite his struggles to fit into a new culture, all seems well-until a blonde co-worker catches his eye. Carla is opinionated, independent, and equally as infatuated with Mohammad. But there is only one problem-Carla is Christian. Soon after Mohammad and Carla fall in love, he reveals a secret past; almost immediately, their religious and cultural differences begin to cause a rift in their relationship. Just as Mohammad finally finds love and acceptance, Carla walks away. Now Mohammad must decide whether he is willing to risk his faith, his values, and his family in order to win Carla back.

My Name is Mohammad

By Paul P.

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 Paul P.
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-5073-3

Chapter One

Cold Arrival

Mohammad gazed at the snow covering the airstrip at JFK International Airport. The gray sky on the wet concrete was low and oppressive. It was his first moment in America. He thought there would be some joy in this after all the months of preparation, planning, and saving. Now, however, a knot of dread filled his stomach. "Come," Rashid had said. "Come to America. It is paradise. You will see." So far, all he could see was a mass of people with facial expressions ranging from annoyed to grim.

He followed a line of them pulling coats and baggage along through the terminal. He had never been so far from home. Physically, he was far away—two oceans and several continents from Pakistan. From his first glance at America, it seemed that the cultural distance was even further. Women went about with their heads uncovered. Some wore short dresses and others wore trousers like men. The appearance of so much female flesh startled him. Some of the men wore suits and ties as he had seen in the cities of Pakistan or in magazines. Many of the young people like himself wore blue jeans with wide legs at the bottom. At age twenty-nine, he would have to learn to exist in another world.

He was funneled into long line marked "Immigration." All types of people waited as the line crept slowly forward. Some, like him, were Pakistani, but all of them seemed to be holding back the same indignation. Immigration officers dumped suitcases onto metal tables for review. Each was full of items carefully chosen to make the trip across the ocean, but these things meant nothing to the officers—nor did the people who owned them. The officers barked questions without even looking at the person answering. It was as if they were interviewing talking luggage.

When Mohammad's turn finally arrived, the man squinted at his passport, frowned, and asked without looking up, "What's your name?"

"Mohammad."

"Mo Hot Met?"

"Mohammad."

"Oh, yeah, there it is," said a small-eyed man, peering at Mohammad's name on his passport.

Mohammad endured the further questioning, suddenly warm in his sweater and wool suit. He was medium height for a man, with black hair and warm brown eyes. In his twenty-nine years, he had lived an ordinary life in Pakistan, much as his father and brothers did. Yet he was the only one to rove so far into the unknown. Nothing about this place seemed familiar and he was startled at every turn. Likewise, after feeling so ordinary for his entire life, people now looked on him as an oddity.

When the official stamped his passport at last and released him, he stuffed his clothing back into his suitcase and latched it. He looked at the stamp on his passport: "United States of America. November 20, 1977." Mohammad merged into the flow of a human river. Despite his knowledge of English, the signs confused him. "Terminal." He was in the terminal. Yes. "Concourse B." What could that be? Concourses A and C were a mystery as well. He must get to Rashid—and Rashid was in Dallas. There were gift shops and shops selling foods wrapped in plastic, but where were the planes? All of the people swirling around him seemed to know where they were going, but they could not spare a glance at him. He could not stop them to ask a foolish question, so he found a man standing still. He was a large black man, muscular and in working clothes. Mohammad walked in front of the man and nodded to him respectfully. "Sir, excuse me. I want to go to Dallas. Can you help me get to the other flights?"

The man scowled. "Go, motherfucker." He tossed his head. "Go! Who is stopping you?"

Mohammad backed away and walked briskly down the corridor. He muttered to himself in Urdu, "This sister-fucking human-eater calling me names?"

He slowed his pace when he noticed a Sikh man mildly watching the passing crowd. He approached the man, repeated his polite nod and his question.

"Ah, yes," the man said. He pointed to the doors and told him of a bus that would take him to the right gates. Mohammad followed his directions outside and, sure enough, a blue bus was waiting. He boarded it and, within ten minutes, he approached Gate 27. A woman in a blue uniform and small cap was changing the sign behind her: "Dallas—1:20." Mohammad sank into a chair, relieved.

While he waited, he watched a knot of people waiting for their loved ones to arrive. Some held small children and one held a brightly colored package. Their anticipation grew when the plane landed and taxied up to the gate. A door opened and the passengers filed in, some scanning the crowd with their eyes. Immediately, passengers paired up with their families and friends with smiles and hugs attending each reunion. Some of them are coming home, Mohammad thought, and some have left their homes, journeying to find a heart they have loved from far away. He wondered if any of them, like him, were traveling to a new home in an unknown place.

He dozed fitfully on the flight to Dallas, but after the long flight from Pakistan, it seemed a short time before the plane's wheels bumped to the ground and rolled to a stop. He walked with purpose, following the herd of mostly Americans to the baggage carousel. It was five o'clock. He had given a day to this journey and it was not over yet. When at last his suitcase appeared, he exited the Dallas-Fort Worth terminal to find Rashid leaning against his car at the curb. Rashid was thirty-five years old, six years older than Mohammad was. In his American clothes, he looked different from the Rashid that Mohammad knew, but the smile was still that of his old friend. As Mohammad approached, he opened his arms wide. They laughed and exchanged hugs.

"How was your trip?" Rashid asked.

Mohammad shook his head and groaned. He looked at the car, which seemed old, but quite functional.

Rashid patted the car. "You like it? It is called an Impala."

"You have a good job to pay for this?" Mohammad asked.

Rashid laughed. "It is enough. Be happy, my friend. Work is waiting for you, too. It is all arranged. I will take you there tomorrow." Rashid chatted in the car, telling his friend all about Texas, but he seemed to understand that travel had made Mohammad weary. When they got to Rashid's apartment, Mohammad barely saw it. Rashid directed him to his bed and Mohammad welcomed sleep as Rashid had welcomed him to this strange place.

* * *

Mr. Richardson squinted at the application in front of him. He took a drag from his cigarette, tapped the ash into the ashtray, and set the cigarette down again. He was about fifty and had close-cropped sandy hair. He had his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow. He scratched his head and peered at Mohammad. "What's your name, boy?"

"Mohammad." Mohammad sat at the edge of a hard wooden chair. His short-sleeved white shirt was tucked into a pair of dark blue trousers. He had borrowed a tie from Rashid.

Mr. Richardson squinted at him. "What?"

"My name is Mohammad."

Richardson scratched his head again. He puffed his cigar and then set it in the ashtray. "Dammit. Just write your name down for me on the board so I can pronounce it." He pointed to a chalkboard on the wall facing his desk.

Mohammad stood, walked to a chalkboard, and wrote his name. "Mo ham mad."

"Mo Ham Mad? Damn." Richardson thought for a moment. "Okay, from here on in,...