by Hope Nation- YA Authors Share Personal Moments of Inspiration (retail) (epub)
I still remember when I heard the first person say it.
“Do they not know how to check bags?”
It was a man probably around my dad’s age.
As soon as he said it, a woman nearby said, “Of course they don’t. They don’t even know how to check their watch or show up on time.”
Snickers followed.
A racial slur was thrown our way, meant to be under that man’s breath, with the assumption that “they” wouldn’t understand anyway.
I remember watching my mom close her eyes, tightly. This woman, who’d left her family and everything she knew at the age of twenty-four to study in America. Who’d bucked tradition and married a man from the West. Who had then gone further still and chosen to raise her children in a foreign country.
There’s a word in Korean that I often have a hard time translating. Phonetically, it’s pronounced “chah-muh.” It’s almost like the Korean version of “grin and bear it” or perhaps even “deal with it.”
I stood and watched my mom “chah-muh” these people and their racist jokes.
In that moment, all the power and confidence I hoped my new hair, my new clothes, and my new glasses would grant me vanished like footprints along the shoreline.
Rage took hold of me. My fingers curled into fists.
I wanted to say something. I almost did. I wanted to let those hateful people know that this was not our fault. That we did indeed own watches. That we showed up on time. That we knew how to check our bags.
But mostly I wanted to tell them we weren’t “they” or “those people.”
I said nothing. It bothers me still that I said nothing. I wish this story had a better ending. The kind that inspires people to think outside themselves and their own identities and how they perceive other people in a moment.
The thing I took away most from this situation happened much later in my life. I’d always known that my mom left her family and everything she knew to come here. As a teenager, I often—cruelly—wished she had left more of herself behind. That way I could have my friends over and not have to ask her to speak in English around them, or worry that they might not like the “weird” food she served them for dinner. My desire to assimilate had long arms—arms that often reached outside myself and demanded that the rest of my family pretend to be people they were not.
All so I wouldn’t be perceived as “other” or “those people.” It was a selfish way to think and feel. Though I knew I wasn’t alone in this—my younger brother and younger sister shared my fears—I missed out on many opportunities to light the path for them.
There were so many times I failed them. And failed myself at the same time.
Living in 45’s America often makes me think of my story at the airport and the countless others I have from my lifetime. A lifetime of trying to be more American in North Carolina and trying to be more Korean in Seoul and failing horribly at both as I watch Anne of Green Gables on repeat.
There have been times when I’ve stood up and said something and times when I did as my mother did. “Chah-muh.”
But these experiences have taught me an important lesson.
I am “they.” I am “those people.”
Because we are all Americans. We all came here with awkward stories. We all bore the wrinkles and scars of someone else’s mistakes or situations over which we had no control. Maybe it didn’t happen in my lifetime or yours. But it happened. And every person in this world has felt like they are too much of one thing and not enough of another in any given situation. My story is not unique, especially for a twelve-year-old. I only hope that—one day—I can convey to my own children how wonderful it is to live a life and tell a story unlike any other because it is theirs and theirs alone.
That they are beautiful for their struggles.
I never wore that outfit again. When I saw it, it brought back feelings of fury and inadequacy. Which was sad, because it really was cute. My haircut followed me through the first part of seventh grade. My glasses took me until I was fifteen and allowed to wear contacts.
This past year, someone tried to make my mom feel small and other because of a situation that was entirely not her fault.
I did not “chah-muh” that time.
And I will not “chah-muh” the next time either.
DAVID LEVITHAN LIBBA BRAY ANGIE THOMAS ALLY CONDIE MARIE LU JEFF ZENTNER NICOLA YOON KATE HART GAYLE FORMAN CHRISTINA DIAZ GONZALEZ ATIA ABAWI ALEX LONDON HOWARD BRYANT ALLY CARTER ROMINA GARBER RENÉE AHDIEH AISHA SAEED JENNY TORRES SANCHEZ NIC STONE JULIE MURPHY I. W. GREGORIO JAMES DASHNER JASON REYNOLDS BRENDAN KIELY
AISHA SAEED
The Only One I Can Apologize For
I AM CLUMSY. ASK ANYONE.
When I was six, I bumped into a pyramid construction of toilet paper at my local grocery store. (Turns out they are not the sturdiest of structures.) I was in a cast for six weeks because I tripped on carpet and tumbled onto my teacher. I’ve dropped pots, spilled tea, burned brownies by hitting Broil instead of Bake—you name it. As a result, I have probably said “I’m sorry” approximately 5,345,205 times (give or take a few). Not to brag, but I could probably teach college-level courses on the subject. And I know that although saying sorry is a valuable skill, not all sorrys are the same. Here are a few to avoid at all costs.
Sorry if I hurt your feelings.
Sorry, but you shouldn’t be so sensitive.
As a general rule of thumb, if you’re starting an apology with an if or a but, the best course of action is to take a deep breath and recalibrate, because an apology with qualifications is not a real apology and won’t actually make the person apologized to feel any better or differently. In fact, those kinds of apologies have the tendency to make things worse. For an apology to be sincere and effective, it must come without reservations. No, it will not change what happened, but it tells the person you inconvenienced or hurt or harmed that you understand your actions were not okay. Here’s an example of an apology without reservations, just off the top of my head:
I’m sorry.
See? It’s not too hard. (And bonus points if you follow up and expand on how you feel and figure out how to make things right.)
Although I do believe being able to apologize sincerely and without reservation is an important quality to have, I admit I can go too far sometimes. I’ve apologized to the waiter when asking for a refill for my Diet Coke at a restaurant or for the check. I’ve said sorry to the doctor before I ask a question about my health. I’ve apologized for the thunderstorm when a friend has come into town to go river rafting. (Full disclosure: I do wish the power to control the climate was in my hands, but alas.) Apologizing can feel reflective if you do it enough, so it’s important to remember that although apologizing for things that you actively did to harm, hurt, or inconvenience someone is a good trait, you should be sure to recognize when an apology is not in order. That is not as easy as it sounds.
I am an American Muslim. I know, that admission may feel like a random segue. It is not. Ask anyone who was out of diapers where they were when the attacks of September 11, 2001, happened and most people will remember. I know I do. I remember watching the footage on television and not understanding that what was playing was not the trailer to a movie but reality. I remember staring for a good five minutes as they replayed it, my mind unable to wrap itself around the magnitude of the horror.
I remember the next day. Plodding numbly down the hall at the school where I taught second grade, during my lunch break. A colleague approached me. He pulled my hand into his. He said, “I just want you to know I don’t blame you.” Even now, I remember the confusion. Had my students started a food fight? Did someone stuff up the toilet? I went for my first instinct, to apologize, even though I had no idea what had happened. Then, he continued. “The twin towers falling—I spoke with my wife and we agreed, we’re not mad at you.”
The numbness I felt prickled into dread. A married couple, two teachers whom I had known all year, who smiled and chatted with me in the hallway as I discussed my new engagement and my wedding plans, had sat in their homes after the tragedy of 9/11 and discussed me and whether I was to blame for any of it. That they decided I did not have to shoulder the blame was beside the point; the fact that they had to consider it at all chilled me. I realized in that moment that my life as an American Muslim would be forever changed.
And it was.
I have stood next to my brother who was trying to make his flight back home to Miami only to discover he was put on a no-fly list because of his common name. I stood with my husband in an interrogation room at the airport when we returned from our honeymoon in Paris—he had a beard in his passport photograph and was therefore suspicious. (This is not a guess—we were informed that this was why we were held back for further questioning.) From the anonymous emails and comments in my inbox over the years to the vehicles that slowed down in front of my house until my father pasted a printed-out American flag on our window, everything changed after September 11. Although the married teachers had debated and discussed and ultimately chosen not to blame me for the attacks on 9/11, it appeared not everyone agreed with their assessment. Many believed that just by sharing the same faith, I shared the burden of the guilt and blame as well. And although 9/11 was not the start of people blaming me for the crimes of others—even in high school a teacher had publicly berated me in front of the whole class about what “my people” had done in the Oklahoma City bombing (later it was revealed that Timothy McVeigh, a white man, had committed the domestic terrorist attack)—after 9/11 the uptick of such incidents rose sharply.
As the years unfolded, other tragedies took place upon American soil. Like Sandy Hook, where kids as young as my own children, loved just as dearly, were now gone because of an angry man with a gun. I read in the news about a movie theater terrorized during a Batman screening. So many lives lost—so many that would never be the same again. And I grieved for the lost, and I grieved for their parents and families and loved ones whose lives would never be whole again.
But no one looked at me funny for those tragedies. No one seemed to inquire after me for an apology. In fact, no one looked at any group for an apology for those crimes. When their crimes were reported, their religion or race did not play into the headlines.
But when the person who committed the violence had a Muslim surname, like the Orlando Pulse shooting, suddenly I not only grieved for the lost, but also had to go into defensive mode as I braced for the blame and the looks. Overnight my social media shifted from mentions about books and writing to notifications to “Go back where I came from,” and other things not fit for print. Muslim American friends shared about the bullying their children were facing by other neighborhood children. Friends in hijab, their faith more visible than others, endured the brunt of name-calling and silent glares. All this because a man whom none of us knew, whose atrocity all of us were horrified by and grieved over, identified as Muslim. For this one reason we were once again put in the spotlight and looked at with suspicion. And here’s a funny thing. When people blame me and shame me even when I know full well it’s not my fault—a strange human part of me ends up feeling guilty.
And maybe you do too.
Maybe you see the latest tragedy overseas or in your own country and the person or people shared your faith, or your skin color, and maybe you’re like me. You feel that horror mixed with grief everyone else is feeling, and then you feel a helplessness and growing sense of fear that people are going to blame you.
I understand. I have been there. But as someone who is a professional apologizer, I want you to know this: When a random person or people with Muslim last names commit an atrocity in London, or Turkey, or even in your city, it is not your fault.
Even if the media shows their prayer rugs and you think, I have prayer rugs too. Even if one of them wore a hijab and you think, I wear a hijab too. Even if they say they did it for Islam and you think, I am Muslim too. I’m going to say it again: It is not your fault.
There are people who call themselves Christian and have committed unspeakable harm. They can preach about their Christian values as justification for their hateful actions all they want, but it doesn’t make it so, and it certainly does not mean all Christians are to blame. That same logic applies when someone who identifies as Muslim commits a crime. You are not to blame because they say they share your faith. And you are not to blame because the media or your teacher or your classmates choose to blame you.
Would someone ask you to apologize for the kid in your biology class who ran a red light and crashed into a pole?
Would you expect the authorities to show up at your house because there was a burglary and the suspect lived in your neighborhood?
Of course not. You had nothing to do with it.
And this too is the same thing.
Muslims are not a monolith. We consist of one billion human beings. Each of us is a unique individual, and each of us is accountable for what we as individuals do.
It is not easy to be an American Muslim these days, and I can’t promise you the future will be rosy and wonderful, because as much as I would like to, I don’t know what the future holds. But I do know one thing: You can apologize for the fender bender you got into. You can apologize for the mean words that slipped out when you hadn’t had your morning coffee. But you do not owe anyone an explanation or an apology for the actions of other people who happen to have Muslim surnames. Take that guilt, write it down on a piece of paper, and crumple it. Dispose of it. Yes, people may still blame you. Yes, people may still demand explanations and apologies and condemnation. But that’s on them. It’s not on you. There is plenty of work to do, there are plenty of mistakes you will make, but apologizing or feeling guilt for the crimes of others is not your burden to bear.
Be the best individual you can be. Let others see and hear and know you as a person accountable only for yourself. That and that alone is all you owe anyone.
DAVID LEVITHAN LIBBA BRAY ANGIE THOMAS ALLY CONDIE MARIE LU JEFF ZENTNER NICOLA YOON KATE HART GAYLE FORMAN CHRISTINA DIAZ GONZALEZ ATIA ABAWI ALEX LONDON HOWARD BRYANT ALLY CARTER ROMINA GARBER RENÉE AHDIEH AISHA SAEED JENNY TORRES SANCHEZ NIC STONE JULIE MURPHY I. W. GREGORIO JAMES DASHNER JASON REYNOLDS BRENDAN KIELY
JENNY TORRES SANCHEZ
In the Past
THE EARLIEST MEMORY I HAVE of my father is running away from him. I am about three years old, and the world is tilted at an angle as I peer into my parents’ bedroom and see him half dressed, stumbling around.
Then I am over my mother’s shoulder and she is running. She is pulling my older sister next to us by the hand. I catch glimpses of my sister’s scared face each time we pass an orange streetlight.
I don’t remember what happens next. I don’t remember the next day. But I remember it as the first of similar memories to come.
I spent my whole childhood and adolescence scared of my father. Scared of his voice and the scrape of his cowboy boots on the kitchen floor when he’d come home from work. His presence, the threat of him and what he could do, what I’d seen him do, filled me with anxiety and fear. Every moment of every day was uncertain, every movement I made had to be careful. It was impossible to know what would anger him.
One morning as I sat down for breakfast, he immediately told me to get up and go down to the basement. Because I never dared question him or defy him, I went downstairs. My father loomed behind me.
I knew I’d done something wrong, but I didn’t know what it was or what I should do as we stood in the empty basement and he stared at me with strange, consuming anger. Finally, he told me I’d sat in the wrong chair. I had no idea what he meant. He looked over at an electrical cord on his workbench, and I felt my stomach drop. My mother yelled my name from the top of the stairs and demanded I get up there immediately. I didn’t care
if I might not make it past him, I didn’t care if he might beat me or kill me for trying. I ran.
Nothing more was said about that morning. He didn’t hit me ever, not that day or any day after. But my legs felt weak, like I’d escaped some terrible danger, some irreversible something.
Another time, I was nine when my dad offered to drive me to school. He told my mom not to make my lunch, that we’d stop at the deli on the way and he’d get me a sandwich. He was in a good mood. We parked and I got out from the passenger side, slamming the heavy door hard behind me, right on my finger. The door was locked, but because I was afraid of him, afraid of getting in trouble for doing something stupid and ruining the moment, I didn’t say anything. I jerked my hand harshly from the door and followed my dad into the deli, hiding my hand behind me.
After a while, I felt dizzy. I tried to pay attention to what the guy at the counter was asking me, but I couldn’t make sense of it. My dad finally looked down at me. What’s wrong with you? I slowly lifted my hand, showed him my bloody, mangled finger.
He looked stricken. Worried. He rushed me home, put cartoons on the television, unwrapped my sandwich. He kept checking on me and looked grieved each time he looked my way. For days, I stared at my mangled finger and thought only of my father’s kindness. It’s a wonder I didn’t hurt myself regularly just to get the nice version of him.
This was what my dad was like. I never knew which version of him I would get. Even when he didn’t drink, he was unpredictable. His face could hold anger one moment and tenderness the next. I didn’t know what to make of him. I only knew I was afraid of him. That he was bad. And good. And he was my dad. And this was our life.
