Last week I shared what the experts are saying about my novel, as well as the lovely foreword by a former Muslim named Sister Amani. This week I'd like to give you a sneak peek at the first scene of the novel. Of course, once the digital version goes live on amazon (tentatively this Friday) you should be able to read a much longer sample of the book there!
But for now...Dance from Deep Within
Chapter 1
Four years’ worth of anticipation gathered in her chest. A pounding
she must quiet before stepping through that doorway. It’s
just a door. Layla Al-Rai glanced at the handle, and then back to
her Old Dominion University schedule to review it yet
again. English 101 MWF 10:00 a.m. Batten Arts 205.
Yes, this was the place. She had circled the hallway several times to
be punctual but not early. It’s just a door, she told
herself more firmly this time. And the people beyond it were just
students, like her. She could barely believe she was standing
here—that her Middle Eastern mother had relented at long last. But
years of patient persistence won her over.
Allah willing, her parents might even let her stay long enough to
finish the engineering degree she dreamed of before insisting Layla
marry. Surely stranger things had happened. She was only twenty-two
years old. She should be enjoying her youth. And maybe she’d
finally make friends with some regular Americans. Growing up in the
Islamic section of Detroit had made it all too easy to stay immersed
in her Muslim bubble.
If only her best friend Fatima were here, the day would be complete.
She and Fatima had dreamed of this moment together, imagined choosing
classes and buying textbooks. But for her devout Saudi Arabian
neighbor, college could never be more than a bittersweet fantasy. For
Fatima’s sake, she determined to enjoy the experience all the more
and to e-mail her every last detail.
Layla straightened her spine and smoothed her red knit mini-dress
over her modest black leggings and long-sleeved shirt. Reaching up,
she adjusted her silky veil. The elegant crimson fabric draped about
her head, covering her hair and neck but leaving her face exposed for
all to see. She took a deep breath and attempted to relax her
features into a casual expression. Then she willed her feet to move
forward. Time to step into a new experience.
Entering the classroom, the pounding in her chest quickened. But she
would not let the dingy walls and faint smell of mold dampen her
spirits. Instead she focused upon the windows across the back
displaying a bright golden sun, blue sky, and swaying green leaves.
As she gathered her courage and scanned the room for empty seats, she
noticed that most of the hyperactive freshmen looked like they had
mistaken the class for a keg party. But she spied one blond woman in
the corner, her nose buried in a novel, quietly waiting for the
lesson to begin. Almost the same image that met Layla every time she
entered Fatima’s bedroom. The sight comforted her, and she headed
in that direction.
She drew stares as she crossed the room and hid deeper in the folds
of her veil. In general, Americans were politically correct enough to
be respectful of, although curious about, a Muslim female in their
midst. But she’d learned the hard way that a few sick guys harbored
twisted fantasies involving veiled women. Her uncle blamed the evil
porn sites of the “infidels,” but Layla chose not to use that
close-minded term.
As she reached the desk in the back, the novel-wielding student
looked up with a warm smile.
Layla smiled back. “Is this seat taken?”
“No, please.” She pointed to the chair, and Layla lowered herself
into it.
The blond returned to her book, but when a flying paper airplane came
sailing onto her desk, she picked it up and smashed it, shooting a
sassy grin to the perpetrators. Layla wished she could be so
confident around men.
“Ugh,” she said to Layla. “It’s like going back to high
school. Maybe worse. Probably wasn’t such a bright idea to take
eight years off before starting college.”
“Me too. Well, only four, but it’s been awhile.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine. I’m Allie.” She tossed the
smashed plane to Layla. “Cute outfit.”
If Layla’s old-fashioned auntie had her way this morning, Layla
would have left the house camouflaged from head to toe in an ugly
gray overcoat. She grinned. With Auntie, she
had to pick her battles, but this one had been so worth it. The red
mini-dress ensemble was a success!
She tipped the crumpled paper in salute. “Thanks. I’m Layla.”
Placing the unusual gift on her desk for additional courage, she
turned her attention to organizing her notebooks and supplies. She
needed this class to go well and give her strength to face the rest
of the week.
The instructor entered the classroom and situated himself at the ‘70s
style teacher’s desk. The middle-aged professor with his wool suit
jacket and wire-rimmed glasses fit the role so perfectly, he could
have walked straight out of her television set. He pulled a stack of
papers from his briefcase and began a weaving journey about the room.
Layla examined Allie as the teacher handed out syllabi. The young
woman’s hair was pulled atop her head in a casual bun with tendrils
escaping. Her slim lavender T-shirt flattered her slender, graceful
figure and blue-eyed, blond coloring. The creamy tank top worn
underneath gave the shirt a more modest cut.
Looking closer, she attempted to decipher the words on Allie’s
T-shirt. It was difficult from her angle until Allie shifted. Your
beauty should not come from outward appearance…it should be that of
your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit. ~
I Peter 3:3-4.
Some sort of scripture? Christian, Layla guessed from the cross-like
symbol substituting for the “T” on the logo. The verse resonated
with her, and she loved the surrounding drawing of a young woman’s
face half concealed by a tumble of modern art swirls in place of her
hair. But Layla’s mind struggled to connect the sentiment to the
brash girls from the Christian community in Lebanon.
The professor began the morning by introducing himself as Professor
Robinson and giving the basic guidelines for the class. Then
something in his demeanor altered. “This year I’ve decided to use
a central theme for our writing assignments: Unity in Diversity.”
He pushed up his glasses and crossed his arms over his chest. “A
favorite poem of mine by Harlem Renaissance author Langston Hughes
begins, ‘I too, sing America.’ He goes on to explain that while
he is the darker brother sent to the kitchen when company comes,
someday things would change. ‘They’ll see how beautiful I am and
be ashamed,’ he says, ‘I, too, am America.’”
The brief quote stirred Layla with hope, but with confusion as well.
She too was America—sort of—not quite. Her passport claimed she
was a U.S. citizen. But what did that really mean? A part of her
longed to feel more connected to this land of her birth.
“This is the power of literature. It allows us to see the beauty in
people around us. Gives us glimpses into their minds and their souls.
Our readings will come from various societies and focus on
multiculturalism. It seems like we have a nice mix of students here.”
The professor gestured to the room.
Layla took in the faces staring back at him: mostly Caucasian, but
interspersed with Asian, Hispanic, and African-American. Before
moving here she’d been assured that, thanks to the local Navy
bases, the Hampton Roads area had a better ethnic balance than the
rest of Virginia. Although, Layla still appeared to be the only
Islamic student in the bunch. Her nervous excitement reared again.
What if she couldn’t do it? Couldn’t click with these people?
Couldn’t connect?
“But let’s think further than skin deep about what defines our
‘cultures,’” continued the professor. “The surfer and the
jock, the artist and the businessman, the Christian and the atheist,
the New Yorker and the Alabaman. In a moment I’m going to give you
all a chance to mingle. I want you to find two to three students who
in some way come from a different culture than your own. Ideally, you
will find both similarities and differences. These students will
become your diversity group for the semester, so choose wisely.”
This was precisely what Layla desired, a chance to broaden her
perspective. She tingled at the thought. But could she really do it?
And what might it cost her if she did?
The professor turned on the overhead projector and pointed with his
pen to a list of essays, creative writing exercises, and a final
research paper. “Take a moment to glance over the assignments and
then begin looking for your group members.” He put the cap back on
the pen. “Remember, the purpose of this project is to see past
people’s exteriors and get a peek at who they are deep within. I’ll
be around to help.”
Oh, the class sounded too amazing to be true. Layla bit her lip to
hold back a rare squeal and proceeded to skim the syllabus. Each
lesson was designed to explore the beliefs of others. Their
personalities. Their cultures. Contrasting viewpoints. The research
paper tackled the subject of one aspect of your culture you would
like to change. Her mind brimmed with ideas already.
As Layla reached the end of the list, the boy in front of her turned
around and leered. “I’d sure be happy to get a peek at who you
are deep inside, gorgeous.”
Layla recoiled. Her anticipation about the assignment fled, and her
fingers began to tremble. Barely into her first class, and already
her auntie’s worst fears were coming true. She had no idea how to
handle such an uncouth male. What had she gotten herself into?
“Back off, scumbag. Layla’s my partner.”
Layla breathed a sigh of relief as Allie claimed her hand and held it
firm in her own.
Allie whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”
Layla’s shaking subsided. Why couldn’t she think of responses
like Allie just delivered? But even if she could, would she dare
speak so boldly to a man? Probably not. This was foreign territory
for sure. More so than she had ever imagined.
The girls pushed their chairs together. Allie beckoned to another
twenty-something woman who had arrived mid-lecture and slid into the
desk closest to the door.
The young lady mirrored Layla’s relief as she came to join them.
She appeared the Bohemian type in her Birkenstock sandals, raggedy
pants, and loose tunic shirt with the strap of her patchwork bag
cutting diagonally across the outfit. Her café-au-lait skin
contrasted attractively with the ivory cotton of her hand-woven top.
A tuft of golden-brown corkscrew curls framed her face.
Layla couldn’t contain a welcoming grin. This girl would be fun to
get to know. So different than anyone she had met before.
“Hi, I’m Rain,” she said as she pulled up a third desk beside
them. She settled in, eagerly leaning forward as Allie and Layla
introduced themselves.
Allie peered at Rain. “You don’t have a boyfriend with
dreadlocks, do you?”
Layla gasped at Allie’s audacity. Did she intend the comment to be
derogatory? Hopefully Rain would not be offended. Layla so wanted
this project to go well. Her college dreams flashed before her eyes,
in peril already.
“Hey.” Rain wagged her finger at Allie. “I thought we were
moving beyond our stereotypes.”
Allie smiled. “I saw you with him at McDonalds last night. You
guys make an adorable couple. I remember because I was surprised that
you ordered meat. Now that, I confess, was stereotypical. Hamburgers
don’t fit my image of the whole Bohemian vibe.”
Rain laughed, and Layla restrained her sigh of relief.
“We lived on the streets for years,” Rain said. “We worked and
ate in a lot of soup kitchens. You don’t get to be picky.”
Streets, soup kitchens? Layla never dreamed of enduring such horrors.
Compassion welled in her heart, a pleasant respite from the tension
of the morning. “Harum habibti.” The whispered Arabic
phrase of sympathy escaped Layla’s mouth before she could stop it.
“You poor thing. That’s terrible.”
Rain placed a warm hand on Layla’s. “No. We were just
experiencing the plight of the homeless. Raising our social
consciousness. Stuff like that. I’m writing a book about it. That’s
why I’m here. To study writing. Virginia was the last place we
established residency. Couldn’t resist those in-state tuition
rates.”
“That’s what drew me back too.” Allie nodded. “I’m here for
dance and business. What about you, Layla?”
“Engineering,” she said. “Well, I guess the three of us will
have no problem proving our case for a culturally diverse group.”
So much so that Layla’s head threatened to explode on the spot. She
tried to be open-minded, really she did, but this was almost too much
to take in at once.
Rain glanced around the small circle. “So we’ve got our Middle
Eastern Muslim. Classic white chick. Let me guess. Anglo-Saxon
Protestant?” Her fingers swirled about expressively as she spoke.
“Then there’s me. Bi-racial, tree-hugging, social-activist raised
by aging flower children. I guess my heritage is a little harder to
pin down.”
Allie raised an eyebrow. “Since you seem to have us all figured
out, do you mind if I ask about your religion?”
“Hmm, my mother went through her pagan Wicca phase,” Rain said.
“It didn’t really stick, though. I’m a spiritual person, but I
find religion restrictive. I suppose I would describe my faith
as…imaginative.”
“Interesting.” Layla wrote that down, although she had no idea
what it meant. She might as well buckle up her seat belt and try to
enjoy the assignment. She was in for quite a ride with this group.
