So I’m coming home from church via a Los Angeles MTA Bus Sunday because the brakes on my hoopty are gone. In LA, using the Metro is perceived to be only for the “underclass” and it’s a shame too because if more used public transportation there would be more money to expand it.
I’d give up my vehicle if the public transportation were like that in East Coast cities. Maybe.
Anyway, I’m on the one of the accordion-style busses, sitting in the seats located in the “accordion.” (As far as I can tell, all of LA’s MTA busses are of this style.) The seats right next to and further to the front of the bus than the accordion seats are roughly a foot above them. And on this day, seated in such seats right next to me are two young Muslim men. They’re medium brown–skinned--around the same complexion as the youngest of my American sisters and as the two young Hispanic men sitting across from me—and, at first, the only way that I can tell that they are Muslim is that they are both wearing the little white knit caps similar to a yarmulke. (Any assistance as to what that type of cap is called is welcome.)
At first I barely notice the men. Being bored makes me nuts, so I carry a book everywhere I go in order to fill the times of expected or incidental waiting. On this day I happened to have two books, one being a Bible, of course. But I was reading the other one, a thick hardback from the library.
Then, something one of the young Muslims did caught my attention. He was wearing a thick leather jacket and he hugged himself for a long time with his hands hidden. (It was one of those warm days that occur during LA winters, around 75 degrees Fahrenheit.) I began to silently pray.
In the Name of Allah the Most Beneficent the Most MercifulI nearly got up and jumped out of the window of a moving bus. Instead I opened up my Bible to Matthew 21:21.
All praise is due to Allah the Maker of Worlds.
Jesus replied, "I tell you the truth, if you have faith and do not doubt, not only can you do what was done to the fig tree, but also you can say to this mountain, 'Go, throw yourself into the sea,' and it will be done.I wasn’t up for withering fig trees that day. All I asked was that the guy not be a jihadi or if he was, to not be at “work” on that day. But of course I acknowledged that “God’s will be done.”
Just then a shapely young black girl walked done the aisle in front of us. The Muslim guy and the two Hispanic guys were staring at her with open mouths. I relaxed a bit because surely he wouldn’t want to blow up the pretty girl, right? (Okay, I understand that that does happen a lot sometimes, but cut me a break; I was grasping at straws.)
Then the Muslim decided to try out his Spanish on the other men. One cannot grow up in LA and not understand at least the rudiments of the language. And, in this case, even though the Spanish was accented, I understood every word.
I heard those n*gger b*tches are hot in bed.I was angry now instead of afraid. Then I remembered the other book that I was carrying—the large hardback. I closed it so that the Muslim would be able to read the book’s emphasized subtitle should he look down over my shoulder. He noticed the subtitle--and the photos--as soon as I closed the book because I saw him do a double-take.
The book was this one.
Please contribute to my brake fund.