American Dervish: A Novel

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Book: Read American Dervish: A Novel for Free Online
Authors: Ayad Akhtar
Tags: Fiction, Coming of Age, Family Life, Cultural Heritage
as mothers and sisters and girlfriends in sandals and pastel-colored dresses ate ice cream, boys and their fathers played shirts versus skins in a basketball game everyone talked about for months before it happened. Ever since the second grade, I’d been trying to get Mother to let me go.
    “We don’t go to church, Hayat. We’re not Christians. We have to draw the line somewhere.”
    “It’s not church, Mom. It’s playing games and eating ice cream.”
    “At a church.”
    “Outside. At the school, too.”
    “The sign in front of the church says ‘Lutheran Parish Ice Cream Social.’”
    “Please, Mom.”
    “Hayat. Don’t be difficult.”
    “Pleeaase.”
    “Absolutely not. And that’s final.”
    She never budged. Though one year—at the end of fourth grade—wondering if perhaps she’d been too strict about the whole thing, Mother made a point of driving by the social as it was taking place. When she got home that afternoon, she was in a lather. “Not church, Hayat? Then why are priests walking all over? All eating ice cream like it’s that holy bread of theirs? Hmm? And right in front of a cross with suffering Jesus on it. What an idea!”
    That was that. There was no chance I was ever going to an ice cream social.
    So there I sat in the living room that last Thursday afternoon of fifth grade, still wearing the clothes I’d worn to school that day, moping as I stared at Mina. At some point she looked up and noticed me gazing at her.
    “Hayat?”
    “Hi, Auntie.”
    “Hi, behta. What are you doing?”
    “Nothing much.”
    Her brows crinkled. “What’s going on, Hayat?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Come here, sweetie.”
    I pushed myself to my feet and trudged over to the dining table.
    “What’s wrong?” she asked.
    I didn’t know what to say. Telling her about the social wasn’t going to change anything. So what was the point?
    “You’re not sick, are you?” Mina asked, her hand to my forehead.
    “No,” I said, noticing the book before her. The Tropic of Cancer. The cover showed a large, gray menacing crab. Why is she reading about cancer? “You’re not a doctor, are you, Auntie?” I asked.
    Just then, Mother appeared in the doorway leading to the hall and stairs beyond. “What’s the problem? Hmm? He’s not still complaining about that godforsaken ice cream social, is he?”
    “The godforsaken what?” Mina asked.
    “Ice cream social. Some Christian silliness.”
    “It’s not Christian,” I objected.
    “I said no!” Mother snapped.
    “What’s an ice cream social?” Mina asked.
    “They sell ice cream to raise money for the church,” Mother said with derision.
    “That’s not true. It’s free,” I said.
    Mother shot me a warning look. “Nothing in this country is free. The sign in front says the proceeds go to the parish. Proceeds from what? From free ice cream?” She snickered. “We don’t need to be giving money to Christians.”
    As I saw it, we gave money to Christians every day. At the mall, at the grocery store, at the post office. What was the difference?
    I was about to say as much when Mother lifted her finger and pointed at me. “Hayat, I don’t want to hear another word about that damn social. ”
    Then she turned and walked out.
    Once she was gone, Mina took my hand, tenderly. “You really wanted to go, didn’t you?”
    I nodded. Mina’s tone brought a sore knot to my throat.
    “Hayat, let it out.”
    “Let what out?” I said with a cough.
    “What you’re feeling. If you hold it in, it stays there. If you let it out, that’s the only way it can go away.”
    I didn’t know what she was talking about. Mina leaned in and took me by the shoulders, her gaze piercing me. “Let it hurt, Hayat. Don’t fight it.”
    “Let it hurt?”
    “Don’t fight the pain you’re feeling. Just let it be. Let it be there. Open to it, inside yourself…”
    “Okay,” I said. I held her gaze.
    I could feel the aching in my heart. I stopped resisting it. Almost at

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