The Month of Famine

It was six am on a cold winter morning and my eyelids did not wish to depart from their sealed state. I am awoken by my father and reluctantly peel myself out of my warm cocoon while the nights’ dreams of being a Michael Jackson back up dancer still lingered in my mind. Another calendar year had passed and with this new moon began, Ramadan.

Ramadan was the holiest of months for my family. It’s a time to reflect and make those participating sympathetic with the suffering of others by fasting. It's a time when one must fast everyday for that month from sunrise to sunset. The winter months were kinder, but the summer months were brutal as the sun would set close to 8pm. For me, it was the month of famine.

My father would wake me up before sunrise in order to eat and curb the hunger that awaited us. We would eat in silence half awake as I contemplated how fate could be so cruel. At times I would make a sandwich and bring it back to bed thinking that I would attempt one final bite before the sun would breach. Like most children, however, I would fall back asleep and eventually wake up with either pita bread hanging out of my mouth or pastrami in my hair. I would roll out of bed disappointed as my opportunity for sustenance had passed with the rising sun. This is what vampires must feel like I would think to myself. I had ten hours left.

Time would move like viscous molasses ever resistant to progression. A symphonic turbulence was orchestrated in my stomach watching classmates pull out one fruit roll up after the next. My throat felt dry and cracked as my swollen tongue would seek for a merciful quench. Nine and a half more hours. School Haiku assignments would turn out something like this:

Cannot eat today

I want my pepperoni

Life is so unfair

While brushing my teeth in the morning I would stealthy allow a few trickles of water down my throat hoping that perchance the Almighty would be too busy looking for Salman Rushdie to notice my treason. I knew that if there were a heaven I was definitely going to be there, I was just going to be in the back. It never occurred to me that God took this seriously enough to deny me entry into paradise, especially when I knew there were much worse offenders.

Over the years, I would just lie to my parents and eat lightly throughout the day in order to feign starvation. During supper I would eat all in my path and more to prove my dedication. They were completely unaware of my mutiny. I’m surprised that they never noticed that as each person typically loses weight during this month I became more robust.

It’s one thing to grow up in a culture where everyone is participating in solidarity, however, it’s torture to go to school and watch friends open their golden lunch boxes full of hostess products only to sit and stare.

According to my parents, who had a direct line, I was informed God saw this discipline as extra credit. It wasn’t received well when I asked if I could use this benefit as an advance towards next year...

What are your thoughts on cultural assimilation? What has been your experience?