There's two types of people in this world. There are those that get it and those that do not. Barbers are among the latter. Over my 19 years and 11 months on this planet, I think I must have (relatively) willingly consented to someone else attacking my head with sharp, often buzzing, objects a couple hundred times. Pretty much every time, I walk out with my fresh new haircut thinking the barbers just don't get it. I'm fairly convinced that the small talk—the kind of small talk that no one really listens to but the rules of politeness compel you to engage in—they make doesn't start with when they start talking about your favorite place to eat. By the way, this place always seems to be their favorite place too somehow. But back to the small talk, I'm convinced it starts with when they ask how you want your hair cut. Regardless of what your answer to that question is, they are going to go Edward Scissor Hands on you and do whatever they feel like. And, you're still supposed to tip. That's why the counter is always right in the middle of the lobby, so everyone who is bored out of their mind can find a trinket of solace in watching you pay for your haircut while also being on the brink of subjecting you to the walk of shame if you walk out without tipping.
Naturally, today was the same. Got a haircut. Wanted to subject someone to some "galla ghoont"-ing a few times—I'm not going to translate that for legal reasons. If anyone chooses to translate it as "wringing someone's neck," I'm going to claim that the kinder, and more loving, esoteric meaning was lost in translation. Now, this was all because school was starting the next day and I figured it would be bad if the mess I was during finals week came back to school looking even messier. I mean, what would the guy that I buy my double cheeseburgers from every Friday think? What kind of impression would that leave? I shudder to even imagine.
So, after a trek down the Yolo Causeway, I got to Davis. After a summer of watching this place look like as dead as a liquidation sale at a discount furniture store after all the good stuff is gone, this little village was finally showing some signs of life. Walking onto campus, I was happy to see some familiar faces—the weird kid from Bio Lab, the kid who asked stupid questions during Comparative Literature discussion, and that one guy that everyone except for me knows. Eventually, I ran into one actual friend, then a few others, and, afterwards, I even got a couple more hi's and hello's from a few more. Almost effortlessly, I was slowly easing back into the world I had become so comfortable in.
I got my books, browsed through the school-branded clothing section, and finally got my receipt highlighted with a marker on the way out which somehow means I didn't steal anything. Moving on, I checked out the new coffee house—yup, still under construction after another opening date had been delayed. And then, what caught my attention was a new sign next to the "under construction" sign. It was little poster reminding students to go get their new ID cards made on the second floor. I figured that it being the day before school starts, it might be a good idea to get this chore out of the way. Plus, it gave me an excuse to push off walking across campus to turn in paperwork at the Dean's office for another day.
So, I stood in line, admired the beauty of inefficient bureaucracy, and got my picture taken.
As we were told to wait outside for our new cards to get printed, I remembered that as freshmen when we got our first set of UCD ID cards, we didn't have to wait in long lines and even got the final product before we left the air conditioned room. Apparently, they didn't like me as much after two years. After a long twenty minutes, a guy walked out with a stack of ID cards that was so tall that it looked like a half gallon milk bottle after after someone ripped the labeling stickers off but before anyone drank the luscious white stuff inside—I'm not sure if or why this situation would actually ever actually occur, but lets not get caught up in the details. Slowly, this guy walked out of the air conditioned room and into the sun lit patio where all of us patiently—using the term loosely—waited. As he was emulating his favorite poker dealer routine from one of those ESPN2 shows, I saw my card about 2 cards away from the bottom. Great, my excitement of finally getting out of here was squashed by realizing I was going to have to wait for all the creme de la creme to be called; I was going to have to wait for that entire stack of ID's to be cleared off before it was my turn.
Julia got her card. Javier got his card. Sumeet and Christina got their cards. Oh my God, this guy was taking way too long to pass out these cards.
Ming Ying got a card and then Kurt did too. This was getting really boring. The guy would slowly call out each name, pronouncing each syllable clearly. Upon hearing their name, each person would walk up to him slowly with that particularly eager smile that exists only on the face of someone in anticipation of a pleasant surprise. They would then offer an obliging "thanks" upon receiving the gift of getting to finally check out your own smile on a piece of plastic. And in return, they would receive a courtesy "you're welcome" and smile back.
A few more people got their cards and eventually, the stack was dwindling. Only a few left. I was finally going to get my card.
"Mohammed Khan."
Standing a couple yards away from the the only two people that were still waiting alongside with me, a quick mental calculation concluded that neither of these girls looks liked a "Mohammed." I took another look around. Nope, no one was walking up from behind me. Mr. Card Distributor wasn't looking past me for "Mohammed," he was looking at me.
Eyes locked in, he smugly repeated, "Mohammed?"
Taken aghast, I realized this guy was calling me by a name so popular that the millions of mens identifying themselves by it make it amongst the most popular names in the world. Millions of men amongst whom I was not. My name was not Mohammed. My ID card did not say Mohammed. My first name, my last name, or even my last nonexistent middle did not even start with an "M." Why would he call me Mohammed? He didn't have to struggle to pronounce my name or even bother to take a look at it again after I didn't come sprinting at the end of this marathon of card collecting. He looked at it once; he saw Mohammed.
Did I look like a Mohammed? Was it the baggy basketball shorts or the weathered UC Davis lanyard? Was it the Volcom flip flops that screamed, "I'm from California but I'm not hipster enough to have Hollister flip flops"? Or maybe it was the rolled up sleeves on my shirt?
Was it the melanin in my skin or the thin beard that lined my face? Wait, what does a Mohamed even look like? Maybe his new favorite news channel or website held the answer to that question. Was this guy looking solely at my picture and calling me "Mohammed?"
I was pissed. This was ridiculous. He had no right. I was going to walk up to him and let him know my name was not Mohamed, that my card did not say Mohamed, and that he needed to check himself or else--the proverbial "or else" not the kind of "or else" that is followed by some kind of actual act. I'd be loud. I'd make a scene if need be. I wasn't going to take this crap from this guy. I'd seen enough discrimination in the news; I wasn't going to be some push over.
And, then I decided against it. My conscience came to life. Making a scene was going to be of no use. Yelling and screaming at this guy was not going to help anyone. I just needed to get my card and get to lunch. I was starving. So, that was what I did. I walked up to him with a withered scowl on my face that held back my lips from opening. Grabbed my card and left. Without exchanging a word, keeping my patience. It was better than fighting over this.
As I was driving away from campus, it dawned on me. I had made a mistake. I had gone about the situation in a manner that brought me shame, ignominy, and regret. I did not live up to the principles I thought I held. Upon hearing the name "Mohammed" and finding myself disoriented in a fog of confusion and emotions, I choose to make a decision that reflected my own frustrations in having to wait for an unnecessarily long time. And in this state, I chose to forgo the kindness and appreciation that I had seen in the many examples before me, regardless of whether it was out of propriety or true appreciation. I made a snap judgement about having been labeled a certain way in this circumstance and decided my mind reading capabilities to be adequate grounds for a conviction. Maybe, that guy just managed to mentally add in a few letters to my name and miss a couple of the other letters. Who knows? I thought I did earlier but now I realized I really didn't. And even if this guy was the big bad wolf I had imagined him to be, was there any better way to deal with him then to shower him with kindness in return? Would any other reaction do as much to gainsay any expectation he had of the guy who's picture he had looked at? Honestly, I'm not quite sure. Hindsight is supposed to be 20/20 but I'm not quite sure what I would in the same situation again. Maybe I'd kindly explain to him that he totally replaced my name with a more stereotypical one upon looking at my picture ID or maybe I'd just ignore it as an honest mistake.
Thinking ahead though, I think the lesson I did learn was one that it does pay to stop and think about something before you get too worked up over it. Sometimes that red light needs to appear very early on to prevent you from making rash decisions while other times it needs to come later on as a tool to harbor reevaluation, reflection, and growth. That red light, that stopping point, provide an opportunity to look over to the other side of the road and see another perspective of the same story. The reknown writer, Peter Drucker, once advised:
Follow effective action with quiet reflection. From the quiet reflection will come even more effective action.
As many of us begin a new school year, it is imperative that we remember to take the time to stop every once in a while to make sure our reflection affects our actions to a degree that they become effective actions. We must stop and look over the steering wheel at what we find ourselves moving towards and prepare for it. We must stop and look outside the window at where we find ourselves to be and decide if it is best for us. We must stop and look in the mirror at who we find ourselves to be and decide if we are happy with who we see. Most importantly, sometimes we just need to stop and remind ourselves to "drive slow"...homie.
And if you don't, it won't be long before you are out of gas and being held hostage by the sluggardly gas pump as you slap your knee over the irony of a sign that says "STOP" at the one place on the block that is filled with people who have no choice but to stop.
