September 11, 2011
Last week I was invited to a circumcision party. That's a new one. I've been to weddings and birthdays and "Giving-the-Girl-to-Her-Fiancée's-Family parties" but somehow I made it a full year without an invite to a circumcision party. Of course, I accepted.
The party started at 8PM, and an outside source told me circumcisions happen at 5PM in the Muslim tradition. When I saw the four-year-old running around playing with his friends as they popped balloons at 7:30PM, I thought "Oh, that went well. Maybe they took care of his business a few weeks ago and are just now able to celebrate."
I was naive.
Poor Diaz disappeared for a while around the 9 o'clock hour before the DJ announced that it was time to meet the man of the hour. In came Diaz, perched on a palate being carried on two men's shoulders like Cleopatra. He was in his full Kazakh dress: a beautiful white sequined linen shirt with a matching jacket and trousers, and a white fur hat, which drooped down just enough to shadow, but by no means hide, the steady stream of tears this pitiable boy was sobbing. Sure enough, he had just been taken into the back room to become a real Muslim man.
I felt so… I don't know. I stood there clapping to welcome him, like the other fifty or so partygoers, and I didn't know if I wanted to cry for him or if I was proud of him. That little boy just became a man… and I got to be there for the transformation, oddly enough.
Never expected that from my Peace Corps experience.
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