Love, Hate and Other Filters(40)

It’s selfish and horrible, but in this terrible moment, all I want is to be a plain old American teenager. Who can simply mourn without fear. Who doesn’t share last names with a suicide bomber. Who goes to dances and can talk to her parents about anything and can walk around without always being anxious. And who isn’t a presumed terrorist first and an American second.



I sleep deeply, without dreams, but when I wake up, I feel like I haven’t rested at all. There is a dull ache in the marrow of my bones.

I trudge down the stairs for breakfast, trying to stomp out the self-hate and the doubt. I do not want to go to school.

“I made pancakes,” my mom says, lifting a lid from a plate on the table. “They’re still warm.” Her face shows her hope that food will snap me out my mood. But it’s not a mood. It’s my life.

“Oh. Uh … I’m not hungry,” I say, trying to sound as diplomatic as possible.

“But you have to eat,” she pleads.

She looks so crushed, I plop down in the chair and consent to eat one pancake.

“Are you okay, beta?” my mom asks, never able to provide silence when I need it.

“I’m fine, why?” Even my syllables sound worn out.

“Your face looks so … tired.”

“I apologize for offending your aesthetic sensibilities. Maybe I should’ve put makeup on before coming down to breakfast.”

“No reason to take it that way, Maya.” My father’s voice edges into impatience. “We’re worried about you.”

“Sorry I’m not Miss Mary Sunshine, but a so-called Muslim sociopath attacked us. Again. If these jerks hate America so much, why don’t they stay in their own countries? He killed little kids.” My voice breaks. “I don’t understand that kind of hate.”

“It’s a terrible tragedy. It’s a sin. 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?” My hands shake.

My father picks up where my mother leaves off. “These terrorists are the antithesis of Islam. They’re not Muslim. Violence has no place in religion, and the terrorists are responsible for their own crimes, not the religion and not us.”

“Then why is there so much fighting in the Middle East, and why are so many suicide bombers Muslim?”

“Terrorism has no religion. Think about Dylann Roof and that church in Charleston or the attack at the Sikh gurdwara in Wisconsin. Terrorists have their own ideology. Who knows what hatred compels them? They’re desperate and unthinking and ignorant followers—”

I interrupt my mother. “Too bad none of that matters. We all get painted like we’re un-American and terrorist sympathizers, no matter how loudly we condemn terrorism and say it’s un-Islamic. It’s guilt by association.”

“Yes, beta. But our friends, the community, they know we are good people.” My father explains what I already know, but in my rage against the bomber, I can’t hold onto the truth of what he says.

“There is going to be a prayer at the mosque tonight for the victims of the bombing. We’ll also be doing a fund-raiser. We want you to come,” my mom says. “We will leave at seven.”

“You barely make me go to the mosque, except for religious holidays or weddings.”

My father’s face falls as he looks at my mom. “Maybe we should have been going more as a family and teaching you more.”

“Oh, please. Don’t get all regretful because of this. I can’t deal with it.” I hear my own voice oozing sarcasm and anger. Shame and guilt pummel me, but my anger is real, too. I rise from my seat. “I have to get ready. Violet’s going to be here any second.”

“Maya.” The earlier tender tone in my mom’s voice dissipates. “Enough of these sarcastic remarks. You can go to the mosque and pray for the poor people who lost their lives. You will go. That’s final.”

“Fine. I’ll play the devout daughter for you.”

“Maya,” my father yells, but I ignore him. If I don’t leave now, I’ll say things much worse than I already have. I take the stairs two at a time to get to my room.

My bedroom door bangs shut. I grab the lamp from my desk and pull back my arm, ready to slam it into my reflection in the mirror so they can both shatter into a million pieces.

I stop myself. Like everything else in my life right now, the act is pointless.



The parking lot pulses with students who mill around, catching up. I’m sure they’re talking about the terrorist. The Muslim terrorist.

As I step out of Violet’s car, I see Phil. He’s at his car, talking to his friend Tom—the one who’s pushing for the perfect post–high school future at Eastern with Megan and Lisa—and a couple other teammates. Phil’s in profile and half-hidden by one of his friends, but I see Tom laughing.

Then Tom sees me.

I wonder what it feels like to be so unaffected that you can laugh even when horrible things are happening. Tom points his chin in my direction and mutters to Phil, who turns his head and waves. I hold up my hand in half-hearted response. I don’t know why I bother. My lips pull down at the corners. Those three texts I got in French class were the last I’ve heard from Phil.