The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

I hear a lot of Muslim bashing these days. Get a ton of e-mail that’s basically hate mail. The Muslims are all terrorists, the Muslims are all bent on world domination, the Muslims are all Christian haters and they’re not to be trusted. I didn’t live during World War 2 but I bet the Japanese were reviled exactly like this. We eventually interned them in prison camps, took away their property and lately we’ve belatedly apologized. Judging by my e-mails, history wasn’t a favorite subject for the Muslim bashers.

I had a very good Iranian friend back in the years Iran held our embassy hostage. When he married Diana, he neglected to reserve a honeymoon suite somewhere so I gave him my shack and its big brass bed as a Plan B. Course he had to drive from Seattle to the South End, but for the two newlyweds that night, no big deal. Probably the first and last Iranian honeymoon down here.

We were at a bucket-of-blood tavern in Seattle and Gomorrah one night quaffing a few pints when a gentleman in a wheelchair parked in front of Hassan and asked — demanded, really — where he was from. A couple of ne-er-do-well buddies stood behind our handicapped inquisitor. I prayed silently Hassan would say Turkey or Whackistan or anywhere other than Iran, but Hassan, who was one of the most open, honest people I ever met, told him he was Iranian.

Swell. Great. The next imagined scene filled my Cinemascope brain like a drive-in theater or a drive by shooting. Or both. “Whoa,” I interjected. “Me and my friends here, we’re having a quiet little drink. We’re not looking for trouble. But if you are, let’s stop right now.”

One of the wheelchair guy’s pals said, “I don’t care much for Iranians, you want to know.” I said really, I didn’t. He said we’re talking to the Iranian guy, man. I said, no, you’re talking to me now — he answered your question, that’s enough. We’re not looking for a bigger party.

The bartender tuned in to our circle of growing agitation. At some point he called the man in the chair’s name, shook his head in warning and that seemed to defuse the situation. When I went for refills he suggested we move along. I considered it good advice.

These days it doesn’t much matter if you’re Iranian or Syrian or Smackistani, folks here need someone to scapegoat. I imagine lending comfort and bed to a Muslim honeymooner, well … let’s keep this between just us. No point in riling the natives any further.

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