Memories Of Mohamed

I have a lot of memories of Gone With The Wind.

The first time I ever heard its familiar theme song was when it was also the theme song of a local TV program called The Early Show, which--to the best of my recollections--showed a movie each weekday in the afternoon.  I was only about four at the time, but I thought the song was pretty.  There was, to me, something both comforting and unexplainably sad about it.

The first time I ever saw it was when I was almost 16.  My folks and I went with another family from church (Pete & Mary Esther Carter and their daughter, Claudia) to watch it together at The Circle Theatre in Indianapolis.

The other times I've seen it--several since then--have all been on TV.

Thoughts of Gone With The Wind remind me of those times--but they remind me even more of a guy named Mohamed, whom I had the pleasure of knowing back in the latter part of 1976, shortly after I'd started graduate school at Ball State University.

Let me begin at the start of my graduate school experience, which began right around this time 25 years ago.

BSU was on the quarter system then, and this was considered to be the fall quarter, which began in September and ended the week before Thanksgiving (making Thanksgiving week our quarter break).

I had decided to take a single class (one about children's literature) in order to have more of an idea about how much was expected of me in a graduate class.  I had heard that many people took only a class or two at a time because even that was a very demanding workload.  I had also heard people say that you could take three classes at a time without being overwhelmed.

Taking the single class would work to give me an idea of what kind of graduate classload I could personally handle.

Right off, I decided that, come next quarter, I would sign up for three classes, because, loadwise, one class was a definite breeze, and I didn't see a couple more extra classes as overburdening me, either.

Now, I'm speaking here of the ease of the class--unfortunately, I'm not speaking of my Monday nights in purgatory due to a personality clash between the professor and me.

If not for how nice my classmates were to me and how enjoyable I found the material, it wouldn't have been purgatory where I spent my Monday nights--it would have been in the bowels of hell!

This was an instructor who was (where I was concerned, anyway) Impossible_To_Please.

I think she was prejudiced against students who went right from college graduation into getting a Masters' Degree.  In her opinion, we should have had some teaching experience under our belts before taking her class.

Of course, I wasn't necessarily taking this class towards classroom teaching, as I had decided I wanted to be a fulltime writer and use my teaching knowledge in more casual ways and/or at a college-level.

She asked us what our favorite children's stories were.  When I answered Heidi--which had always been a favorite of mine that I'd read every version of that I could get my hands on as I was growing up--she gave me a dirty look.

She gave the class an assignment to visit the children's library on campus and see what they had to offer in the way of books.  We would then discuss these books in upcoming classes.

Another thing she wanted us to do was to read some articles about children's education and literature from select journals and give class reports on them.  In order to pass the class, you had to give three reports.

I'll condense some of the abuse I went through in this class in order to shorten this story somewhat to say that there was no pleasing this woman!

One of the writers I discovered and enjoyed right off was Judy Blume, and I interviewed her over the phone by placing the earpiece of the phone in my folks' bedroom over the built-in mike of a tape-recorder while conducting the interview from the phone in my bedroom.

Mark had rigged my portable stereo (which didn't come with its own tape-player) so I could play the tapes through it.  Somehow, though, when I put it together in the classroom, I couldn't get the sound to project through the speakers.

My dad had gone with me to help me carry all of this stuff upstairs to where the class was being held.  He then left, and I carried the things into the classroom--managing to drop one of the speakers on the floor.  The instructor gave me a scornful look.

I had wanted to make such a great impression with this presentation.  First, I talked about my own feelings about the books I'd read by this author.  After that, I passed out donut holes and turned on the tape.

Since it didn't come through the speakers, I had to turn the volume on the cassette player all the way up to even make it audible.  I told the rest of the class that they were just going to have to listen extra carefully.

In spite of the Murphey's Law situation, they seemed to enjoy the presentation.

In fact, near the end of the quarter, a sweet, middle-aged schoolteacher who had originally come to the States from Germany mentioned how much she had enjoyed my presentation on Judy Blume and how much she had learned.  This she had done in answer to the instructor's question of "What did you most enjoy about this class?"

However, the night of the presentation, the instructor had acted like it was no great shakes and that I should have asked Judy Blume more questions.

It began to dawn on me at that point that I could have brought in President Ford and all of the Congressmen and Senators to have them play the roles--in full costume--of their favorite storybook characters, and this instructor would still find fault with it.

Then, there were those three oral reports I was supposed to give on the journal articles.  Time was a wasting, and she had only called on me to give one of those reports.

In late October or early November, I went to class again.  The teacher called on one person after another to give reports.  Then, she quit for the evening and went on with the next part of her class.

Suddenly, I felt as if I would throw up if I didn't get out of there.

I gathered my things, mumbled something like, "Sorry, but I just can't stay in here any longer!" and made my exit.

The cool, crisp air of the autumn night felt refreshing after being in the classroom that had become so hot and stuffy.

I knew I needed to ask someone's advice, but I wanted to walk around and clear my head first.

When I walked through the common area of a near-by residence hall, I saw that they were doing a fundraiser for something by having interested parties being able to put the people of their choosing in jail (a human-sized cage right there in the lounge).

For a moment, I was tempted to have them go after my instructor and cancel the rest of her class for the night--and I WOULD have, too, if I felt I could get away with it.  But I knew she would probably suspect me, and my graduate school opportunity would go bye-bye.

I ended up in the snack area of Bracken Library where I saw a table with several men who looked mature enough to be graduate students. I asked them if they were and they told me yes.

After that, I asked for their advice: My instructor and I weren't getting along for some reason, and I needed some help--but I didn't want to do anything that might cause her to lose her job, as she seemed like a good professor for the most part, and this was just a personality clash that might even be my fault in some ways. I was mostly concerned that I might end up failing in the class due to her refusal to allow me to make all of my oral reports.

These men--who had come over here from The Middle East to study--were all very sweet and reassuring.

One of them, Jassir, told me that I wasn't the first one that something like this had happened to, and that nobody got fired or in trouble over it. He advised me to get in touch with my advisor and tell him of the problem.

I thanked him and said I'd do that right now and would let all of them know what happened, if they were still there. They reassured me that they'd still be there.

My advisor was a kind and understanding person, and he told me what the men had told me--that this wasn't uncommon and that complaining certainly wouldn't get my instructor in trouble, because she was tenured.

It was now up to me whether or not I wanted to drop the class or take the risk of getting a lower grade than what I might like. I said that, since the class was almost over, I would give her one more chance to allow me to make my presentation before deciding to drop it, as--even if it only earned a C for me (hopefully, nothing worse)--it would add credits towards completing my degree.

After that, I went back to the table to tell the guys what had happened, after which we sat around and talked a little longer, and I asked them questions about their homelands and vice-versa. Omar, who was from Saudi Arabia, told me that he had some tapestry and other things from his homeland decorating his apartment, and I was welcome to drop by sometime and visit. I told him that I'd take him up on that.

The next day, I went to my instructor's office and explained my reasons for leaving the night before. "Are you trying to flunk me or something!?! If you aren't, I want you to let me do my last two presentations in the next two classes!"

She acted flustered, apologized, and told me that she would do so. I thanked her and left.

The last day of class was used to do a final--an essay re: a question given to us when we entered that evening. I can't remember what the question was, but I put my heart into answering it.

I was also really dressed up that night, as a student from the speech and drama department who was serving as stage manager was going to allow me backstage to meet Peter Nero, who was performing there that evening.

Though I have no desire to ever again wear a style even close to the three-inch, chunky heels I was wearing that night (I eventually gave them away to a friend sixteen years later when she wanted to look really nice for meeting this guy she'd been writing and phoning), I feel nostalgic for the body that not only allowed me to get around gracefully while wearing such a shoe (though I usually wore dress shoes, sandals, boots, and sneakers with much lower heels and saved these for very special occasions).

Even so, I still have hopes of once more wearing the dress I was wearing that night: a size-nine, street-length number that was navy-blue with sections that were paisley print and was trimmed in navy-blue lace. It's still hanging in my bedroom closet at my folks' place waiting for someday.

After I turned in my paper, I headed to the back door of Emens Auditorium where this guy met me, telling me that I was in luck, because the concert was still going on, and I was welcome to come in and hear the final few minutes of it on-the-house!

I stood to one side of the stage taking in the marvelous, easy-on-the-eyes pianist whom I'd first seen on The Ed Sullivan Show when I was in fifth or sixth grade and thought he was the stuff.

After the concert was over, I got to go up on stage and meet Peter and his back-up musicians, having them to sign the back of a photo showing my entire kindergarten class, our teacher (Mrs. Lee), and our principal (Mr. Rauner).

There was a reason for this. Mr. Rauner was now barely conscious and in intensive care at Methodist Hospital in Indianapolis after suffering a severe stroke.

He had only been my principal for that one year (as my folks had driven me into town so I could attend kindergarten, which wasn't, at that time, offered in the country. Would you believe that the name of the school where I went to kindergarten was 29th Street School!?!), but I'd thought the world of him.

As you might have imagined, I was sent on several business visits to his office during my time in kindergarten.

One time, I arrived in his office of my own free will, and he asked me, "What kind of trouble are you in THIS time, young lady?"

I told him I wasn't in any sort of trouble--that I just wanted to come down and visit him. He got a kick out of that and would later tell my folks that it was indeed rare when a student came to the principal's office just to pay a friendly visit.

Over seventeen years later, I'd been going to his bedside and talking to him about kindergarten days, hoping to get a response from him. Now, I couldn't wait to tell him that I'd had my kindergarten picture signed by Peter Nero and his back-up musicians!

Sadly, Mr. Rauner never came to--but I still believe he was aware that his "young lady" had, once more, been coming to visit him when I wasn't in trouble.

That is, not in trouble, if you don't count the impossible instructor--but I was now through with her class and had managed, somehow, to escape from there with a C.

After I'd gotten everyone's autograph and talked for awhile, I went to where my dad was waiting to pick me up. I asked him if he had time to take Omar up on his invitation, and he did. This was, after all, definitely a time to celebrate, my not only having completed my first graduate school class, but, also, getting to meet Peter Nero.

It just so happened that Omar was out that night, but his roomie, Mohamed, was there and welcomed us both enthusiastically. He played some Arabic music for us on the stereo and showed us the beautiful wall-hangings and other furnishings they had brought over here with them. We were impressed.

Mohamed also took me aside and told me that he liked "thees album."

"You DO!?! Why the songs on there are nasty!" I informed him.

He told me that they weren't--that they were beautiful.

Somehow, he didn't convince me that this album by Donna Summer that featured different takes of her controversial Love To Love You Baby was anything but obscene.

He never played it for me that evening--but he would later.

Gone With The Wind was going to be aired that week as a miniseries, and Mohamed told me how he and Omar had never seen it before and were anxious to watch it.

We discussed the possibility of getting together for a visit sometime during Christmas break, and I invited them both to my birthday party, which would be coming up in less than a month.

As it turned out, they both had other plans for that day, but I told them that I'd bring them some cake. Mohamed suggested that I bring it to the library the next day, as he would be there studying. So I did.

We talked for quite some time and became very close. He was soon a regular fixture at our place, telling us about his homeland and how he loved to go fishing with his brother. He had been a middle school social studies teacher before he came over here and had chosen to further his education in our country in order to become an even better one.

Here are some special things I remember about the time that Mohamed and I spent together.

His student ID listed his birthday as December 25. Omar's birthday was listed as December 24. I found it to be intriguing that these two Moslem men had been born on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.

Mohamed would explain to me later that those really weren't their birthdays--that they had an entirely different calendar that they went by in their homeland--but that they had just chosen those, because they were dates easy to remember for Americans.

But Mohamed called me up one day and asked me, "Do you swing?"

It turned out what he meant was, "Do you sew?" He needed some new shirts, and he had such a slight body that, here in America, he had only been able to find shirts his size in the little boys' department of stores.

I told him that I'd done some sewing, but I wasn't good enough to make shirts for him, though, if needed, I might be able to alter some for him--or, better yet, put him in touch with my multi-talented friend, Jane.

He asked me if I would mind accompanying him to Sears at The Muncie Mall to see what they had and give my opinion on it.

We were actually able to find a bunch of shirts for little boys that looked mature enough to be worn by graduate students. I asked him if he could do okay on his own from that point on, and he said he could.

"Then, I'm going on down to Hickory Farms, and I'd like for you to meet me there when you're done."

For anyone who doesn't know, Hickory Farms is a place that specializes in different kinds of cheeses, crackers, smoked sausages, and other treats. One of the really cool things about going there is how they have a huge number of opportunities to sample different things. Some of these samples are left here and there on counters. Others are offered to customers by friendly, enthusiastically clerks bearing trays of them.

When I arrived there, I told the clerks that there would be a guy from Saudi Arabia arriving soon whose birthday was right on Christmas Day--"so be sure to wish him an early Happy Birthday!"

When he arrived, we walked around the shop together, and the clerks were all saying things like "Merry Christmas--and Happy Birthday, Mohamed!"

"Wha-Wha-Wha. . ." Mohamed was not only too amazed to speak, but he was also too shocked to figure out why everybody was wishing him a Happy Birthday!

We had a wonderful time there and left laughing.

I asked him if he'd enjoyed himself, and he told me that he had. "But why they all weesh me Happy Bursday?"

Then, it dawned on him, and he gave me a lot of big hugs and started calling me a "leetle monkey" over and over.

We drove towards Anderson. As we drove along Highway 32, he pointed out some Christmas lights that he especially liked that included a huge star. Even though he was Moslem, he was really enjoying looking at all of the beautiful lights, he told me.

When he left that night, he told me that he would call me just as soon as he got back to his apartment. I was surprised when his call came so soon after he'd left. He explained to me that he didn't want me to worry too long about whether or not he had made it home okay, so he had driven "etty."

I scolded him for that, telling him to never pull anything like that again, because that would worry me even more.

Men and their excuses to drive like Mario Andretti!!!

He told me that he'd like to play something on the Donna Summer album for me, adding again that it wasn't nasty but beautiful.

He played Love To Love You Baby and sang along--and really sounded as if he were as aroused as she was. This really turned me on. Of course, I knew that Mohamed (a studmuffin bearing a close resemblance to Tony Orlando) wasn't Mr. Right-For-Me, because both geography and religious convictions worked against us. But I still took his emotions as a compliment!

While this isn't a song that I'm going to have on my stereo while entertaining guests, I changed my mind about its being totally nasty and worthless and went out and bought the single of the song.

When I think of Mohamed, I think of all of those memories I've mentioned, plus others, such as how he came over a couple of days after Christmas to watch the Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin movie called Who's minding the store? and how we sat there on the sofa hugging each other and laughing so hard our sides almost split open.

I wondered during those times--and I believe he did, too--why the rest of the world couldn't have been more like us and had gotten along.

Which brings me back to Gone With The Wind.

I'm assuming that most of us (here in the USA, anyway) have seen this classic at least once.

But things have changed since the last time we saw it--drastically!!!

Next time you watch it, go back to when it was to have taken place, and, in many ways, you will find what has happened resembles, in many ways, what has happened to us from September 11 on.

There was a time in the Deep South that could have been seen as before and after.

Just as we were aware of terrorists and all of the damage they could do, the people back then were aware that they could be involved in a war. But it was mostly just talk.

And they went on having their balls and lawn parties on their beautiful estates--and they kept on dreaming of the future.

In a very memorable scene near the first of the movie, Scarlett O'Hara and her dad were having a heart-to-heart talk as they stood out in a field on their plantation.

Scarlett was naturally upset when she found out that Ashley Wilkes (for whom she had set her cap) had asked Melanie Hamilton to marry him. How could he prefer a plain Jane like Melanie to her with her great beauty and sparkling personality!?!

Her dad reminded her that there was actually something she loved even more than Ashley, and that was Tara, their plantation.

During this tender, comforting conversation between father and daughter, the sun set and the twilight arrived, silhouetting them and a tree while the familiar Tara Theme built up to a climatic crescendo.

As the war dragged on, once-beautiful plantations were completely destroyed and/or left in ruins, and they life the people of The South had enjoyed was now in the past. People wondered if things would ever be the same again.

But there were very determined people--Scarlett being one of them--who swore she would come close to selling her very soul to bring things back better than ever one of these days!

This was the war when Atlanta, Georgia--which had been a kind of trade center--was set on fire.

Most of the casualties during this tragic war against other countrymen were our soldiers, but civilians weren't exempt, either. There were so many dead and wounded that buildings that had once been used for more pleasant purposes were turned into hospitals and morgues.

In the aftermath of the war, people began to rebuild. Though they tried to avoid having to do so, several of them had to pay for help from the North in getting this done. These Northerners--who became known as Carpetbaggers--charged ridiculously-high prices to do the work. Some of the Southerners decided it might be in their best interests to go to work for them.

This is something like the price-gouging that went on at some filling stations right after The World Trade Center was hit last week.

Most people, though, tried to be as helpful to each other as possible.

In time, things were rebuilt--including Atlanta and Tara.

Today, our Star-Spangled Banner waves proudly throughout the South.

There are some who also choose to fly The Confederate Flag--which I think is perfectly all right as long as it's done in a way that shows a part of their heritage as opposed to doing so with racist motives--but it plays second-fiddle to the flag that binds us all together!!!

Northerners and Southerners visit each others' states on a regular basis and are friendly with each other. Without knowing our history, it's hard to believe that we were ever engaged in a civil war.

It's hard to believe a lot of things about our country these days.

One of the countries we fought against in both world wars was Germany--yet, it was a native of Germany who stood up for me when I was being put through hell by that instructor.

We joined World War II after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on a Sunday morning right after Thanksgiving and not long before Christmas--and we eventually got Japan back with bombs that killed soldiers and civilians (children, too!) indiscriminately.

Yet, we're friends with the Japanese today--and one of my graduate school instructors whom I got along famously with was a Japanese man who came here not knowing a word of English but learned to speak and understand it through watching TV.

Then, there are those British people! They were the cause of both The Revolutionary War and The War Of 1812--during which Francis Scott Key wrote those beautiful words that move us to tears to this very day.

Not only that, but it's been rumored that they might have been responsible for spreading propaganda that would get our northern and southern parts going at each other--with the idea of "divide and conquer."

Yet, last week over in Britain, their royal orchestra did a moving version of Our National Anthem while people in that country proudly waved American flags with tears streaming down their cheeks.

Mark Twain once wrote about how, during The Civil War, he and some of his friends had decided to officially become a chapter of The United States Army so that they could stick it to "the enemy."

Things were really pretty uneventful at first--just like a camping trip, only they were wearing uniforms.

FINALLY! A member of the enemy came walking in their direction, and they all began shooting him full of holes and feeling pretty heroic.

After he was dead, they decided if there were anything of value on this "evil" person and went over to roll him.

They found themselves staring down at a man in their age-group--someone who, other than wearing a different uniform, didn't look any different than they did. When they went through his personal effects, they learned that he was a loving and much-loved husband and Daddy.

Just as has been true of 9-11 over and over again, there was a family out there whose loved one wouldn't be coming home.

Mark Twain and his troops decided right then and there that they just weren't cut out for this kind of experience. But they had already been registered as part of the U.S. Army and would be executed for being deserters if they hung around after hanging up their guns and uniforms.

So they decided to go out West until such a time when they might receive a Presidential pardon or something.

I've been thinking a lot about how Mohamed and Omar were so anxious to watch Gone With The Wind.

There are many reasons why this might be.

For one thing, it's entertainment.

For them, it also would be educational.

It might have even been seen as something to do while in the USA--the same as we might want to be sure to visit Buckingham Palace while in England and The Eiffel Tower while in France.

But I can't help but wonder if there were an even more personal reason for wanting to watch this movie.

There are a number of civil wars in their homeland and surrounding countries that affect them. Perhaps, watching this gave them hope that the day would someday come when, like US, differences could all be laid aside--or, at least, have it decided that they really weren't worth killing each other over.

Please join me in prayer (or, for those who don't pray, positive thoughts) for world peace!