Muslims in Texas

Our retirement home is a friendly place. During our weekly “Happy Hour”, several of us sat around a little table eating barbecued chicken wings. Some were drinking beer and wine, which made them even more convivial than usual.

After the usual joking and teasing, somehow the talk became serious. Someone mentioned the war in Iraq and Afghanistan. Next to me was a former judge with flowing white hair whose bulky body was wedged in an electric wheel chair. He said something about our men fighting “to protect our freedom.”

I was drinking Dr. Pepper, but I don’t need alcohol to loosen my tongue. I am not one of those shy Texas “ladies” who never voice an opinion. I said, “This war is a tragic mistake. We can never win this war. I wish the President would bring all our boys home before any more are killed or maimed.”

“Better we fight them over there rather than fight them here,” the judge said, setting his beer glass down on the table. .

I’ve heard that nonsense before. I said, “They never planned to invade us.”

“There are seven million Muslims in this country,” the judge insisted. “Everyone of them wants to kill you.”

“That’s not true,” I said.

I don’t know if he believed that. Or was he simply goading me into a good argument? When we left, we agreed that we’d had better conversation than the usual talk about each other’s latest trip to the doctor. Old people go to doctors all the time.

A few days later I went to the vascular clinic to find out why the vein in my upper arm could not be used for dialysis. The last time I was there, a Texas doctor tortured me by probing in my arm without using any pain killer. I vowed never to back But my surgeon told me I had to go for an angiogram or he couldn’t fix my arm.

For months now I’ve been having my blood pulled in and out of the dialysiser through a catheter in my chest. My kidney doctor says if I stopped dialysis for a week I would die. The catheter does not work as well as a graft in my arm. A good reason for getting the arm fixed.

The nurse assured me, “You’ll see a different doctor this time.” I put on the hospital gown and lay down on the gurney. In came a big, burley man with a dark face and a ferocious black beard. Bluntly, I asked him where he came from.

“Bangladesh,” he said.

“Muslim?”
“Yes.”
“Your parents were from Bangladesh?” I said. “Were you born in this country?”
“I was born in Bangladsh,” he said, examining my arm. .
“You must have come very young,” I said. “Your English is perfect.”

(Actually, he spoke better English than most Texans.)

I was wheeled into the operating room, where the big, black doctor apologized for the slight pain he caused when inserting the small catheter into my vein. After taking x-ray pictures and an ultrasound, he determined what the surgeon must do. He was gentle, courteous, and, pointing to various areas on the pictures, carefully explained everything to me.

This Muslim did not try to kill me. Causing as little pain as possible, he did a procedure which will enable me to go on living.