I was running late, and I hate being late to the mosque. Walking in, I found the entrance surrounded with shoes: that is one of the consequences of being late. I always found it tough making my way through the maze of shoes; but today I didn’t care. I broke the unwritten rule, slipped off my sandals near the door and stepped on everyone’s shoes. First the cold marble floor stung my feet, and then my naked feet had to endure the needlelike strands of the sweat stained carpet. As I made my way into one of the rows of mismatched mosque goers I got dirty looks for being late. When you’re tardy everyone knows about it. I found a spot between a slim African-American and a big boned Pakistani man. The African-American kept to himself, while the Pakistani’s shoulders kept bumping into mine, no respect for personal space.
I tried to get into the zone, but the preacher’s raspy voice was enticing my headache to stay for just a bit more. My patience for this weekly ritual was beginning to run out. I tried closing my eyes so that I could appreciate the act of worship, but the preacher’s incessant barking stopped me from soaking up the spirituality of the moment. There was nothing to soak up. The place was dry. The walls were a deathly shade of beige, and thirst attacked me every time I looked at them. I was parched, but finally I reached my spiritual zone. Just as I was getting comfortable, my nose got assaulted by the overbearing scent of day old socks. Why do I even bother I thought to myself.
Before I knew it, my negativity blocked out the atrocious smell, the preacher’s doglike performance, and the sand colored walls. As I was rejoicing in my own negativity, completely forgetting the positive state of mind one must maintain in a place of worship, I heard an Angel…O.K maybe that was an exaggeration, but a young boy began the call to prayer, and his voice was godsent. His tongue seduced the microphone and his melody poured out of the speakers. I didn’t hear a preacher who must’ve been a dog in a previous life; I heard the soulful voice of a young boy brimming with faith. I was in awe, but it seemed as if I was the only one. Everyone was getting up to take their robot-like positions behind the Imam, and I just sat on the floor cross-legged. I was in a mixed state, one of admiration of the boy’s gentle voice, and the other in awe of everyone’s carefree attitude; it became habit for the mosque goers that they no longer appreciated the serene aspect of worship. I was jolted back to reality by a terrific act of rudeness by the same Pakistani man who couldn’t keep his shoulders in place. He grabbed me by my shoulders and put so much effort into frowning, that even the creases in his forehead looked disappointed in me; his lips curled, and he said in a disgusted tone, “daydreaming on God’s time? Get up and pray!” I purposely made my shoulders brush against his, broke the robotic line and set my sight on the exit door.
I remembered why I usually avoided this place in the first place. Not even the angelic voice was a saving grace. I was determined to leave. I gave the worshippers my back, headed for the exit, and then I faced the same obstacle that I had to deal with earlier. Those damned shoes! Determination wasn’t enough. I wasn’t about to break that unwritten rule twice in one day. What would God say? Aside from the fact that shoes keep the ghastly and close to gassy smells from escaping, I can’t help but feel offended when I take off my shoes. Muslims believe every place of worship is God’s home, well a polite host would ask me in a pleasant manner to slip off my shoes; God doesn’t ask, but still we submit. I view shoes in any mosque as an act of submission, which I’m not too fond of. I could walk into the mosque with my shoes, but that’s like playing chicken with God and I’ve been told God always wins. So as mundane as it may appear, I found myself a chair and decided to watch the believers pray. I never really paid attention to a prayer before; I never looked at all the details. What struck me as funny was how randomness was the only pattern here. It was like a department store: all shapes, colors and sizes were to be found. The tall, short, chubby, black, white, brown, crippled, kids, all stood in their lines: well, not all stood. The crippled had to sit. What freaked me out is how robotic everyone came off. Their movements were synchronized. The kid with the ripped up jeans fidgeted in his place. Even though he seemed he was about to burst from all that energy, he stayed in the line. The big boned Pakistani’s shoulders bobbed up and down, as if standing was the most exercise he got all week, but he pushed himself to stay in line. The Imam dipped forward, and the crowd mimicked his every movement; seeing synchronized movements with so many people was odd. As I was looking at the various characters hoping to spot on oddity, I noticed there was a pattern. They might all look different and share diverse backgrounds, but they all had the XY chromosome and faith in common. Heads all of a sudden turned right, and the thunderous tone of united voices boomed, Al Salamu Alaikum Wa Rahmtu Allah, and then heads turned to the left and voices chanted in unison once again. That ended the prayer, and everybody got up quickly in order to get to their cars and avoid being stuck in parking lot traffic. However, no one was going anywhere at record breaking speeds. Those damned shoes were in the way.
Song on my mind: Rick James - Superfreak
