Redeployment(58)

The next morning, I walked into the Special Assistant’s office. He was seated at his desk, fat head sitting placidly on his shoulders, hands folded, his Salvation Army “Toy for Joy” posters and Ansel Adams prints framed on the wall behind him. All this was expected, even a little funny. But across from him, leaning forward and studiedly ignoring my entrance, sat Zara. That hurt. She wasn’t a friend, but I’d thought we had a sort of respect. And I’d never picked her for another thin-skinned golden child, walking through campus like Humpty Dumpty on a tightrope, waiting for a scandalous word to unsteady her balance and shatter her precious identity. Worse, I knew what I’d said to her and how it would play.

The Special Assistant explained that this wasn’t a “formal mediation” because Zara hadn’t lodged a “formal complaint.” He spoke in the soothing tones a mother would use to calm a frightened child, but he ruined it by explaining that, though no punishment was on the table, if our dispute “had to go to the dean of student conduct,” the consequences could be “serious.” He furrowed his brow theatrically to let me know he meant it.

I sat in my seat, across from the Special Assistant, next to Zara. If she ever got suspended, I thought, she’d be fine. She’d go back to Professor Mom and Daddy Esquire for a term, think about what she’d done, and then return to the school they were paying for. If I got suspended, my father would kick me out of the house. Again.

“Now, Waguih,” the Special Assistant said. “Am I pronouncing that correctly? Wa-goo? Wah-geeh?”

“It’s fine,” I said.

The Special Assistant told me how seriously Amherst took threatening statements. Particularly against a group that had faced so much discrimination in recent years.

“You mean Muslims?” I said.

“Yes.”

“She’s been Muslim for like three days,” I said. “I’ve been facing that shit for years.”

He gave me a concerned face, and waved his hand at me to continue. I felt like I was in therapy.

“I’m Arab and I lived in North Carolina for four years,” I said. “At least she gets to choose to be the terrorist.”

“Muslims aren’t terrorists,” she said.

I turned to her, genuinely angry. “That’s not what I’m saying. Listen to what I’m saying.”

“We’re listening,” said the Special Assistant, “but you’re not helping yourself out.”

I looked down at my hands and took a breath. In the Army I’d been a 37F, a specialist in Psychological Operations. If I couldn’t PsyOps my way out of this, I wasn’t worth a damn.

I considered my options: grovel or bite back. My preference has always been the latter. In Iraq, we’d once broadcast the message “Brave terrorists, I am waiting here for the brave terrorists. Come and kill us.” That stuff feels better than lying down and showing your belly.

“In the Army we had a saying,” I said. “Perception is reality. In war, sometimes what matters isn’t what’s actually happening, but what people think is happening. The Southerners think Grant is winning Shiloh, so they break and run when he charges, and so he does, in fact, win. What you are doesn’t always matter. After 9/11 my family got treated as potential terrorists. You get treated as you’re seen. Perception is reality.”

“My perception,” said Zara, “is that you threatened me. And I talked to some of my friends at Noor, and they felt the same.”

“Of course they feel threatened,” I said to the Special Assistant, “I’m a crazy vet, right? But the only mention of violence came from her. When she accused me of murdering Muslims.”

The Special Assistant’s eyes shifted to Zara. She looked at me. In a way, I’d lied. She’d never used the word murder. I didn’t want to give her time to respond.

“I got shot at,” I said. “Kind of a lot. And I saw people, yes, gunned down. Blown up. Pieces of men. Women. Children.” I was laying it on thick. “I helped as I could. I did what’s right. Right by America, anyway. But those aren’t pleasant memories. And for someone to get in your face…” I trailed off, glancing toward the ceiling with a look of anguish.

“I didn’t—,” she began.

“Accuse me of murder?” I said.

“I asked a reasonable question,” she said. “There’s hundreds of thousands dead and…”