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I wouldn’t admit this to anyone, not even Hina; I can barely even think it when I’m alone, but there are moments when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I’m happily surprised at the reflection—it’s me but not me. I can see the shiny black hair that falls below my shoulders, the woman’s body that looks good in a fitted sweater and tight jeans. Plus I can see I’ve been upping my lipstick game.
“I wish getting a Big Mac was still my biggest concern when I pass through customs these days,” Kareem mutters. “What is it, fries?” I joke. “More like hoping I don’t get chosen for the special Secondary Security Screening lottery.”
Amber steps forward with one hand on her jutting right hip as Violet and I approach my locker. She stares down at me. “You know what I think?” she begins. “That your parents shouldn’t have given you a stripper name?” Violet responds.
A terrorist attack. Another tragedy. Is there no end? Is this how life will always be? I want to know more, but there is one piece of information I absolutely hope I don’t hear. I whisper a prayer to the universe. “Please, please let everyone be okay. Please don’t let it be a Muslim.” I know I’m not the only one hoping for this. I know millions of American Muslims—both religious and secular—are echoing these very same words at this very same moment. I know I’m not a very good Muslim, but I hope my prayers are heard. Prayers for the dead and wounded. Prayers for ourselves. Prayers for peace,
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“It’s a terrible tragedy. It’s a sin. You know the Quran says that whoever takes a life of an innocent, it’s as if he has killed all of mankind—” “And if anyone saves a life, it’s as if he’s saved all of mankind. I know. But how is that supposed to change anything? How are we supposed to change anything?”
From our beginning as a nation, we have admitted to our country and to citizenship immigrants from the diverse lands of the world. We had faith that thereby we would best serve ourselves and mankind.1 1 Judge Abraham Lincoln Marovitz, Nov. 17, 1994 US Naturalization Oath Ceremony
An old framed photo on my mother’s bureau pops into my mind: My parents standing on a tour boat against white rails, close but not touching. The Statue of Liberty in the background. My mother is graceful and thin with a sari draped over one shoulder and pulled modestly like a shawl around her back. My father, bushy haired and smiling, squints in the sun. The hopes and ambitions they must’ve had, newly married and in love. How impossible it would’ve been for those two young people to envision where their lives would lead them. I want to walk into the picture, take their hands, and say that
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During the years I lived there, on the anniversary of 9/11, I would stare out of my big picture window at the two bright shafts of light beaming up to the heavens. Toward those we lost. Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, brothers and sisters, friends, lovers, wealthy and working class, old and young. Americans. Tourists. Those who chose to make this place their home; those born here. Muslim and Jew. Christian and Hindu. Buddhist and Atheist. Every race. Every creed. All of them, human beings.
In recent times we’ve seen hate emerge out of dark corners, torches blazing in the night. We’ve witnessed so-called leaders not merely casually accept cruelty, but engender it. Worse, we’ve seen horrific violence. But all around us, we’ve seen people rise up, not merely against the forces of hate, but for equality and justice. Bigotry may run through the American grain, but so too does resistance. We know the world we are fighting for. And for those who bear the brunt of hate because of the color of their skin, or the sound of their name, or the scarf on their head, or the person they love;
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