“Absolutely not!” he declared, vehemently.

I was taken aback by his outburst. Virtually nothing provokes my husband, with the exception of the Tea Party and right-wing talking heads.

It was almost 11 P.M. on Sunday, and Scott had just come home from flying three round-trip legs from Santa Barbara to San Carlos. Both Erica and Ashley were supportive of my idea and I assumed Scott would be, too.

I wanted to invite a Muslim family to join us for Thanksgiving. I was stunned that he was dismissing it with such fervor – so uncharacteristic of him.

“Honey,” he explained, “Our kitchen is going to be torn apart. We’re not having anyone over for Thanksgiving.”

He was right, of course. We had a contractor scheduled to start a remodel project a week from tomorrow and our kitchen island needed to be demolished before then. I was relieved that he wasn’t opposed to the concept, but rather to my timing. Scott is both principal chef as well as the demolition crew, and – obviously – much more realistic than I.

I’d been ruminating all through the weekend after watching coverage of the terror in Paris. As bad as that was, I was even more horrified at the hysteria and xenophobia that gripped our country as a result. Predictably, Republican candidates whipped things into a frenzy with the bombastic Donald Trump boasting of, “…bombing the shit out of ‘em,” and Dr. Ben Carson compared some refugees to “rabid dogs.” And governors by the dozens were lining up to declare, “There will be no refugees welcome in my state.”

Facebook was abuzz with fear and phobia.

“Has the world gone completely and utterly mad?, I asked myself. What has happened to our humanity, to our sense of compassion and fairness?

And I wonder, have any of these xenophobes ever traveled? Have they ever met a Muslim person? I’d love some credible research firm to do a survey to test the correlation between xenophobia (fear of foreigners) to having had (or not had) any international travel experience. Although the percentage of Americans holding passports has climbed exponentially in recent years, it’s still only 38%. And I think it’s safe to assume that a small fraction of passport holders have had any kind of face-to-face interaction with a Muslim. So, as unreasonable is the hysteria, it’s easy to see how the hardening of the attitudes proliferates in this country.

I suppose I was lucky. I was a wide-eyed, fresh-faced, impressionable twenty-something when I had an opportunity to meet a wide variety of people of weird faith traditions, customs and cultures during my round-the-world journey of 35 years ago. I remember my first Muslim-spotting . . . . .

::

It is 1979. I’m 24 years old. Traveling solo in Asia. Six months ago my carefully calculated plans to travel with my friend had gone awry. I had to choose – continue on alone or go home? I had decided to go it alone.

I’ve never done anything by myself. But solo travel is easier and more rewarding than I ever could have predicted.

So here I am, all alone, on a bone-jarring local bus in Karwar in southeastern India. This bus journey will take longer than the train recommended in my Lonely Planet guidebook, but it’s much cheaper. Outside the scratched and dirty window, it’s a forbidding, scrubby landscape, unlike any place I’ve ever seen. Vultures tear at the bleached carcass of a once-holy cow. Waves of heat reflect off the roadway. It’s hotter than hell.

Most buses in India have passengers hanging from the doorways and clinging to the roofs. Not here. My bus is nearly empty. Far in the distance, I see a speck of black by the roadside. As we approach, someone is flagging the driver to stop. The aging bus grinds to a halt. The door opens. She steps on board.

I am mesmerized. She is covered head to toe in a heavy black burka. Even her eyes are obscured by a screen. I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve never even heard of such a thing. She takes a seat a couple of rows ahead of me. I can’t take my eyes off her.

I sweat through my thin cotton blouse and floral skirt – sticking to the grimy vinyl seat.

“Isn’t she hot?”

I flash back to the green plaid Catholic school uniform I had to wear year-round at St. Stephens. How I hated that scratchy wool when it was hot. And how I hated wearing bulky leggings to keep my legs warm when it was freezing cold.

“What’s up with this girl?” I can’t tell for sure but I think she’s about my age. “Does she like wearing that thing? Does she have to wear it all the time? Isn’t she hot?”

Since I’ve been traveling solo, I’m accustomed to being stared at. Now I stare. I’m consumed with questions I can’t ask.

She glances back toward me. I wonder if she’s as curious about me as I am about her. I wish I had the guts to go sit next to her. But I’m not that bold. Not that brave. I stick to my seat.

My curiosity is relentless. “What does she do? Where does she live? What is her life like? Why is she out on this desolate highway all by herself? Is she married? Does she envy me? ISN’T SHE HOT?!”

She catches me staring.

A few more miles down the road she speaks to the driver, who begins to slow down. As she gets up from her seat, she glances my way. It’s impossible to see behind the screen that veils her eyes, but I imagine her smiling. I smile back. The bus creaks to a stop and she gets off.

::

It was a moment in time more than 35 years ago, but I’ve never forgotten our wordless connection. Two young women from opposite worlds on opposite aisles of a bus. I wonder if she has any recollection of that day, seeing a white girl in a pink cotton shirt, traveling alone on her desolate bus route? I wonder where her path took her? I wonder if she’s had a hard life? I’d bet her skin is younger-looking than mine.

And now, sitting with my laptop perched on my knees in front of the fireplace in my cozy living room in Thousand Oaks, I’m overwhelmed with a desire to do something about the rabid racism and anti-Muslim sentiment that rages in every media outlet in this country. I’ve traveled to many Muslim countries (Morocco, Turkey, Malaysia, Egypt, Jordan) and have had nothing but warm, gracious receptions from everyone I’ve met. And I realize, to my regret, that I do not have any personal friendships with Muslims in the U.S. I don’t have any understanding of what it’s like to be an American Muslim. Especially now.

And that’s the evolution of my idea to extend American hospitality to a Muslim family for Thanksgiving.

Okay, okay – so he’s correct that it’s not a good idea right now. But still, this kitchen renovation is presenting an opportunity to do some outreach – something to contribute – some way to connect. I research a little more and find that the Moose Lodge in Camarillo is serving Thanksgiving dinner to anyone who needs a place to go. That is what we will do as a family this Thanksgiving.

Service with a smile at the Moose

I was pleased to learn that the organizers of the dinner at the Moose serve with china and cutlery (no paper or plastic) and that volunteers are encouraged to sit and enjoy dinner with those they serve.

There is no “them.” It’s all us.

Happy Thanksgiving all!