I Have a Muslim Friend

Being politically correct is apparently a hot-button issue these days, and it chaps my shapely thighs to say so, but I’ve had to change my ways in order to avoid standing out negatively – like standing out in a thunderstorm holding my solid metal weather vane in the shape of the Millennium Falcon. I no longer call women dames and am trying to eliminate inter-office flirting, as per my third court-ordered gender sensitivity training; I no longer chastise my children with an old pair of steel-toed work boots that I have dubbed “das boots”; and no longer can I ignore the fact that my group of friends is about as culturally diverse as a Nickel-back concert in Edmonton.

So, in an effort to diversify my social portfolio, I called up an old high school acquaintance of mine who I knew to be a practicing Muslim. I did realize beforehand, however, that Muslims in North America are viewed with a certain degree of caution, or perhaps even hostility. In fact, if what I see in the media is any indication, I should really watch my step.

I called my old friend from a payphone (which are increasingly hard to find in suburban areas, as it turns out) and we arranged to meet at a local library as I had a large number of late fees from signing out all of their Where’s Waldo? books and keeping them for nearly ten months.

I must again stress that I was extremely aware that the librarians may look upon my friend with a degree of panic, so I went out of my way to notify them that everything was safe. “We do not have a bomb,” I said to the librarian. Imagine my surprise when, instead of looking relieved, as she should have, she was struck with a look of what I can only describe as confused, enraged panic.

After explaining at length to a police officer that I was not being sarcastic in my declaration, I decided that my afternoon with my old friend was bordering on disaster and thus needed a shot in the arm. We headed next to a coffee shop, and I was mindful not to point out the fact that we did not have explosives, even if it was taking a risk. However, I thought for certain that once they saw that I accompanied a Muslim, there would be some form of unrest. To avoid this, I insisted that we both wear bandanas covering our faces as we went up to the cashier.

This, again, resulted in failure.

The events that transpired led me to one undeniable conclusion: every alarmist thing I had seen and heard in the media were true.

In an odd twist of events, my old chum decided it was best to distance himself from me (probably doing the noble thing). Meanwhile, I suppose I should try to assemble a less controversial group of friends. Back to the drawing board!

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