by Sabina Khan
“Actually, I was talking about legal immigration. But since you brought it up, these illegals, as you call them, are fleeing from persecution and awful living conditions and they deserve to live in safety just like you. Do you really think anyone would go through what they do if they weren’t desperate to save their families?”
Mr. Adams coughs discreetly. “I think we’re going a little off-topic here,” he says. “Let’s stick to relevant questions.” He looks around the class. “Anyone have questions about the Immigration Acts of 1917 and 1924?”
* * *
After history, I have biology with Nick, which is good because I’m trying hard not to scream. I meet up with him in the hallway outside the classroom.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I lie.
“Are you sure? Because you don’t look like nothing’s wrong.” He scrutinizes my face, his brown eyes dark and intense.
There’s really no point in pretending.
“It’s just Tyler,” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand. “You know what a jerk he is.”
“Do you want me to talk to him? I’ll see him at football practice later.”
I was afraid of this.
“No, Nick,” I say in my firmest voice. “I do not want you to talk to him.”
The thing is, when it comes to me, Nick can be overprotective. Even though I never act like a damsel in distress, Nick has always seen himself as my knight in shining armor. I’ve never needed a knight. I can wield my own damn sword when I need to.
“Whatever you say,” Nick says as we walk into class. “Just promise me you’ll watch out for him.”
I squeeze his elbow to let him know that I love him for always having my back.
* * *
I place the last chair in the circle and survey the setup. Nick, Priya, and I are preparing for our Social Justice Club meeting at the recreation center, where a bunch of us meet with Ms. Talbot, my social studies teacher from two years ago, to discuss current events, most of which are the stuff of nightmares, but it helps us understand them better. But we don’t just sit around talking about things. Ms. Talbot encourages us to contact our representatives, start petitions, and attend rallies too. She wanted to run these meetings at school, but the administration wouldn’t approve it.
Ms. Talbot walks into the room just as we finish setting up the last row of chairs. She’s tall and slender and has this energy about her. The kind that inspires you to do great things. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, and her tortoiseshell glasses make her look more severe than she really is.
“Thank you so much for helping out,” she says as she places a large platter of cookies on the desk. “Help yourselves before the horde arrives,” she adds with a grin.
Ms. Talbot is my hero. There. I said it. I’ve had a massive crush on her ever since I took her social studies class sophomore year, and I’m not even the slightest bit embarrassed to admit it. She’s totally amazing with all her degrees and accolades and the way she’s completely unafraid to say it like it is. Everyone loves her. At least everyone who’s a decent human being.
I know she’s had to deal with a lot of crap from “concerned” parents, which to me is a synonym for “homophobic” parents. She brings her wife, a human rights lawyer, to school events sometimes, and we’ve all seen the looks from some of the parents who huddle around, probably worried that their kids are being indoctrinated by their gaydom.
The other students start filing in, and we begin.
“I see some new faces today, so welcome to all of you,” Ms. Talbot says, looking around the circle. “Why don’t we start by introducing ourselves. Who wants to start?”
A couple of tentative hands go up, and soon everyone is talking, sharing opinions and discussing today’s topic, which is the new “License to Discriminate” law. There are many passionate voices here, and it’s easy to see why we feel that this is a safe space. Ms. Talbot has a way of making everyone comfortable and encourages the free exchange of ideas. We usually break into smaller groups to brainstorm what we can do. I like it when there are new people, and today there are two in my group. Dylan, who I know from biology but who has never come to one of these meetings until today, and a girl I haven’t seen before who told us her name is Chloe. She’s slightly taller than me but just as curvy. Her thick brown hair falls in waves around her shoulders, and a silver angel hanging on a braided black cord rests in the hollow of her throat.
“It’s Chloe, right?” I say to her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before?”
She nods. “It’s my first time here. I saw a post about it on Instagram.”
“What do you think? It’s great, right?”
“Yes, I really like Ms. Talbot,” she says. “I wish we had a teacher like her at Holy Cross.”
I instantly like Chloe, because as far as I’m concerned, anyone who loves Ms. Talbot like I do is cool.
We spend the rest of the meeting talking about an upcoming rally that’s taking place in San Antonio this weekend. It’s to protest the bills that would put LGBTQ people at further risk for discrimination and abuse. Religious freedom groups have been advocating such laws in order to exercise their rights to turn away same-sex couples from their businesses or to refuse to hire trans people for no reason other than their bigoted beliefs.
This is why our group is so important. We hate the way things are and we want to do something about it. Luckily, we have someone like Ms. Talbot to steer us in the right direction.
Chloe stays behind afterward to help put the chairs and tables away.
“I don’t know if my parents will let me go to the rally,” she tells me as we’re putting away the last ones.
“Are you sure? Even if Ms. Talbot talks to them?”
Chloe makes a face. “No way, that’s just going to make it worse.” She slides a table back to its original position. “They don’t even know that I came today. I told them I was going to the library.”
“But why wouldn’t they want you to be involved?” I say. “I thought parents like extracurricular stuff.”
“You haven’t met mine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Their idea of extracurriculars is baking cookies for the church bake sale or singing in the church choir. As long as it’s something to do with the church.” She leans against the table and presses the sides of her head with her fingertips.
I want to comfort her, but I’m not sure what to say. I’m not a religious person. Even though my family is Muslim, it’s more in a cultural way than anything else. I don’t pray regularly, I fast sporadically during Ramadan, and although I love the traditions and everything, I consider myself an agnostic when it comes to matters of faith. Luckily my parents have always encouraged me to question and explore rather than blindly believe and follow. But I know it’s not the same for everyone, Muslim or otherwise.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask tentatively, not wanting to overstep just because she shared something personal.
“Thanks, Zara, but I have to figure this out on my own.” She hesitates, then smiles, which doesn’t really erase the sadness in her eyes. “I’m sorry, you must think I’m really weird, telling you all this when we’ve just met. I’m not usually like this.”
I shake my head. “It’s totally fine. That’s what this whole group is about. We get to talk about stuff that we can’t talk about anywhere else.”
She grabs her bag off the floor and smooths down her skirt. It’s a floral pattern, and she’s paired it with a light pink top. I can’t help noticing that it accentuates the warmth of her brown eyes. I catch myself staring a little too long and quickly look away before she thinks I’m a complete weirdo.
“Anyway … thanks for listening,” she says. She gives me a little wave as she walks out the door.
I get my stuff and walk out to the parking lot to meet up with Nick and Priya. We’re going to Scoopz, the frozen yogurt place where Nick works part-time and gets an employee discount. Priya and
I are going to work on our calculus homework, and that requires large amounts of sugar.
“Who was that you were talking to?” Priya asks while she drives us.
“That was Chloe. She goes to Holy Cross.”
Nick nods. “I hate those guys. We played them last year, and they’re the worst losers.”
“Well, Chloe’s very nice. But it sounds like she’s having problems with her parents.”
“What kind of problems?” Nick asks.
“She said they’re super religious. Like she wasn’t even supposed to be here, so she just lied to them.”
“Is she coming to the rally?” Priya asks.
I shrug. “Not sure. Maybe if she can convince her parents. I feel bad for her.”
“It’s gotta be hard,” Priya says. “My parents were kind of worried that I’d get distracted if I joined up, remember?”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing you’re such a smarty-pants,” I say, grinning at her in the rearview mirror.
Priya wants to be a doctor like her father, but she’s really interested in medical research, so she plans to apply to a combined MD-PhD program after she graduates from college. I’m pretty ambitious myself, but I can’t think quite that far ahead yet.
Once inside Scoopz, we grab a corner table in the back where we can sit for hours without anyone hassling us.
Nick goes into the staff room and reappears wearing an apron and cap. He looks ridiculous—and since this is rare for him, we always make sure to point it out as much as we can when we get a chance.
I top off my raspberry froyo with lots of gummy bears while Priya gets her usual, chocolate mousse.
“You’re such an aunty,” I tease while trying to snag a spoonful. She holds her cup as far away from me as possible.
“I’m sorry you’re still a five-year-old in a seventeen-year-old’s body,” Priya says, trying to wrestle me off. “Why would you ruin a perfectly good froyo with gummies?”
“You take that back, Priya,” I say, waving my spoon around menacingly. Unfortunately, Priya knows all my tricks, and I fail miserably.
“Will you two behave yourselves?” Nick calls out from behind the counter. “There are children here.” I turn to give him the finger, but I make sure the kids in question can’t see it. Their moms, however, do see me, and I dodge their glares, while Nick calmly serves them with a huge grin on his face.
Priya’s wearing her BROWN GIRL MAGIC T-shirt today. It has a picture of a gorgeous, dark-skinned, sari-clad desi girl wearing a bindi as well as a nath, the elaborate nose ring with a gold chain extending all the way to the side of her head, like the ones that Indian brides wear. It’s one of my faves because it always gets a lot of shade from random strangers. Priya and I love judging each and every one of them in return. We’re petty that way. But eventually we pull out our books and do some actual work. I don’t have a lot of time because Ammi’s book club is meeting at our place tonight and I want to be done before that.
* * *
Shireen Khala is the first to arrive.
“Assalaam alaikum, Khala.”
“Walaikum assalaam, Zara, beta.”
She’s wearing a beautiful shalwar kameez, lavender with cream-colored flowers embroidered along the neckline and sleeves. She envelops me in a hug, then looks around furtively.
“Where’s your ammi?” she whispers, handing me a glass container heavy with her delicious kheer. She knows how much I love it.
“She’s in the kitchen,” I whisper back. “Why are we whispering?”
“I haven’t read the book. Your ammi is going to be so annoyed.”
“No, she won’t,” I lie. “Come in and have some chai. Ammi just made some.”
I turn to lead her into the kitchen, but she grabs my arm.
“Wait, Zara, you’ve read the book, hai na?”
“The Kite Runner? Yes, I loved it,” I say, my voice rising from excitement.
“Shhhhh.” Shireen Khala looks around again. Does she think Ammi’s hiding behind the drapes?
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Why don’t you quickly tell me what it’s about? Then—”
Ammi walks out of the kitchen and saves me from the awkwardness.
“Assalaam alaikum, Shireen. Kaisi ho?” Ammi asks.
Shireen is a couple of years younger and addresses my mom in the traditional way as befits an older sister. “Walaikum assalaam, Nilufer Baji.”
After the greetings have been taken care of, Ammi and Shireen Khala adjourn to the living room to have chai while they wait for the others to arrive. I check out the snacks and desserts Ammi has put out on the sideboard. There’s her carrot halwa, cut-up mangoes and pineapple, crispy samosas, some spiced cashews, and Shireen Khala’s kheer. The creamy rice pudding garnished with golden raisins and pistachios is calling to me, so I spoon some into a bowl and take it to my room.
I’m done with most of my homework, so before long, I’m ready to get into bed. As I fall asleep, a thought weighs on me. My presentation in class today has reminded me that I exist in a sort of no-man’s-land. I wasn’t born here, but I don’t remember much of Pakistan and I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I still lived there. But I know how a lot of people here feel about immigrants.
So … where do I belong?
The clouds hang low and cast an ominous shadow over the crowds gathered on opposite sides of the street. I find it sort of befitting because this is not a happy occasion. Our group has driven here to San Antonio to join the counterprotest against Bill 235. Ms. Talbot says if this bill passes it will open the door for many other discriminatory laws against groups that are already marginalized. She says it’s up to us to push back while we still can. We’re all riled up and ready to shout over the angry voices on the other side.
I look at all the people across the street. There are members of a biker gang, various churches, and parent advocacy groups. I wonder who they think they’re advocating for. It puzzles me that they would be so worked up about the personal decisions and choices of other people. They carry signs with hateful messages. TURN TO GOD. HE WILL SAVE YOU, one says. A woman carries one that says, STOP TAINTING OUR CHILDREN. A man shouts into a megaphone, and someone on our side picks hers up and starts shouting into it too. Soon no one can hear what the other side is saying. But the hatred is palpable on both sides. Unsuspecting passersby quickly turn around and go back the way they came when they realize what they’ve stumbled into.
Chloe finishes up her sign and holds it up proudly. JESUS LOVES ALL HIS CHILDREN.
I grin at her. “I’m so glad you made it. We were trying to think of a way to kidnap you if you couldn’t get away.”
“You have no idea how hard it was to convince them,” Chloe says. “Thankfully my grandparents are visiting. Mom and Dad have their hands full.”
Just then a chorus erupts from our side, everyone calling out, “Trans rights are human rights!” We join in as the crowd’s energy rises, and I can’t help feeling lucky that I get to do this. It feels good to shout and drown out the hateful rhetoric coming from the opposite side of the street. It feels good to do something.
* * *
Afterward we all take a stroll along the River Walk and stop to eat dinner. After delicious fish tacos and the best chunky guacamole this side of the Rio Grande, we head back to Corpus. I promised Chloe a ride back to her house, but on impulse we decide to stop at Scoopz for dessert.
It turns out that she’s a huge fan of gummy worms as well, and we share a large bowl of mango sorbet topped with sour gummy worms.
“So, are you planning to tell your parents about SJC anytime soon?” I ask once we’ve settled into a small corner booth. Chloe’s wearing a denim jacket with black shorts and a pink top. It brings out a rosiness in her skin, and I realize that her eyes are really more hazel than brown, the golden flecks more noticeable in the sunlight that illuminates our little corner. The angel pendant she wears glints in the light.
“Zara.”
I realize that I’ve been staring at her like an idiot.
“Sorry … umm, what were you saying?” I wipe my suddenly sweaty palms against my jeans.
“I was saying that I don’t know if I can ever tell them,” she says. “I really need this, you know.”
She looks away quickly before I can see her eyes water, but not fast enough. I feel an incredible urge to reach across the table and hold her hands, but I’m not sure if I should. Then my hands find their way to hers anyway. She looks at me in surprise, tears falling freely now as we just sit there, the frozen yogurt melting in its bowl between us.
“You know, I don’t usually talk about this,” she says after a while. She moves her hands away, but only to grab a napkin and blow her nose.
“It’s okay. You can talk to me.” I play with the plastic spoon, giving her time to compose herself.
“It’s just that it’s so hard to make them understand,” she says. Her eyes are slightly red, the lashes still wet.
“That you want to be part of SJC?”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s just everything.” She takes a deep breath. “I came out to them last year. And it’s been awful.”
“Because of church and stuff?”
She nods. “Mostly that. But it’s also just how they are. They’ve always been strict with me, but I really thought they’d understand what I’m going through.”
“Maybe they need more time?” I don’t know what else to say.
“Maybe. I don’t know,” she says with a sigh. “At least I don’t have to lie anymore. That’s a start, I guess.”
“It sure is. And maybe when you do tell them about SJC they could come to some of the events.”
She gives a little laugh. “I don’t think that’s ever going to happen.”
“You never know,” I say. “Maybe if they see how you’re trying to change things and make the world a better place, they’ll support you.”
