Same time, same place, every day: 6:45 a.m., the 90 bus from Damascus to Shady Grove Metro. For six months, my son has been volunteering in the Health and Human Services mailroom in hopes of a permanent position. This job could enrich his life in unfathomable ways. Jay is developmentally disabled. Last week he was informed he has a full-time position. He tells a fellow rider on the way home. The next morning as he boards, everyone on the bus applauds him. I know it takes more than a village for Jay. It takes a bus, too.
Afortune teller once told me that I would marry a "brown man." A Caucasian Northern Virginian suburban girl, I giggled at the ridiculous prospect. That was before I met a man from Afghanistan. My father, though outwardly polite, says behind closed doors that I am shooting myself in the foot. My European grandmother calls from overseas and unleashes tirades against the ever-increasing immigrant Muslim population in her country. My boyfriend says that when we get married he will probably get disowned. We're ready for our future together in this world. But is this world ready for us?
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