Love, Hate and Other Filters(63)
“Forgave you for running away?”
“Forgave me for taking care of you.”
“She told you to leave the house.”
“But she didn’t say it was goodbye. Trust me, I know my sister. And trust yourself, you’re braver than you know.”
I don’t feel brave at all. I feel scared. No camera. No filter. Just my life, totally unscripted.
Michigan Public Radio, WDBN Dearborn
We’re joining the funeral service of Kamal Aziz, one of the victims of the suicide bombing in Springfield. Originally mistakenly identified as the bomber, Mr. Aziz is being laid to rest by well over a thousand community members of all faiths here in Dearborn, Michigan. Now we take you live to the eulogy delivered by Michigan’s first Arab-American senator:
On a beautiful spring day, Kamal Aziz went to take an oath to support and defend our Constitution and this nation, to follow in the footsteps of so many immigrants who came before him whose work and vision have stitched together the fine fabric of our country. From his volunteer work at a youth basketball league here in Dearborn to his goal of becoming a doctor and bringing quality medical care to poor neighborhoods, Kamal embodied the very best of America.
Tragically, his dream was cut short by an act of hate. It falls to us to pick up the mantle, to live by Kamal’s example and ensure that his life is not forgotten and that his death was not in vain. We must build bridges, conquer hate with love, and meet intolerance with a renewed commitment to education and open-mindedness. From many, we are one.
“So you’re disowned for going to college?” Violet hoists herself into the hammock in her yard while I take a seat on a wrought-iron bench under the shade of a maple.
“For going away to college,” I correct.
“And you’re kicked out of the house?”
“I believe that falls under the terms of disownment.”
“You can stay here,” Violet offers.
Violet’s house never smells like onions. I noticed that right away when I first came over freshman year. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Violet or her dad use the stove. Maybe that’s why Violet loves my mom’s cooking so much. There are no tchotchkes, either. And the bare minimum of furniture.
But Violet’s room is the exact opposite of the rest of her house—a beautiful mess of strewn clothes and starry lights and a tangle of chargers under her desk. Often there’s a plate of pizza crusts or a half-eaten carrot sticking out of a bowl of hummus. Basically a germophobe’s nightmare, but somehow cozy and welcoming, too.
“My aunt said I could stay with her. Anyway, don’t you have to ask your dad first?”
“He’ll be cool with it. We have the space, and it’s only a couple months. My dad’s going to be in Switzerland for most of July, and when he’s home, he’s constantly at the lab—he’ll barely notice the difference. I mean you’re here all the time, anyway.”
“Seriously? That would be amazing. Like a summer-long slumber party. Also, it might be easier to see Phil …” I give Violet a little grin, the kind she used to give me before this all happened, when she flirted with everyone.
“Super easy, especially since he’s on his way here now.”
“You did not.”
“He texted because he was worried that it was going to be World War Three at your house, and I might have mentioned that you were coming over and that it would be okay if he came by …”
I don’t need to tell Violet I’m happy Phil’s coming over. The emoji heart eyes popping out of my head say it all.
“Look at you. A couple months ago, you could barely imagine talking to Phil, and now you’re planning on summering with him after macking, half-naked, in a secret cabin in the woods. I’m so proud.” Violet dabs away fake tears.
“Ha, ha. So glad to meet with your approval.”
I hear a car pulling up in the driveway. I hear a door slam. I hold my breath.
“We’re in the back,” Violet yells. She leaps out of the hammock and whispers, “I feel a sudden compulsion to do homework.” Giving me a hair toss and a wink, she hurries into the house.
My pulse quickens, my hands get clammy, my body hums in anticipation. Phil turns the corner of the house. And he’s his beautiful, dimpled self again. The dark circles are fading away, and his smile, the real one, reaches his eyes once more. And that makes me happy.
“Hi. How’s it going?” Phil asks, his hands pushed down into his jean pockets. He glances around, puzzled, looking for Violet, then smiles at me. I beam back, curling my fingers around the edge of the bench, trying to prevent myself from leaping into his arms.
“Hey.” I’m still smiling, showing off every one of my child-of-dentists well-aligned teeth. I flush a deep red, self-conscious of my joyful lightheadedness. I scoot over to make some room for him on the bench.
“Sorry about your parents.” Phil clasps my hand. I act casual, but cartoon birds tweet around our heads, encircling us with garlands of paper hearts.
“I guess I expected it, but it’s still unreal, you know? My aunt tells me they’ll get over it eventually. But I don’t know—I’ve never seen their faces like that.”
Phil leans over to kiss me. His lips are as pillowy as I’d remembered. He kisses the top of my head. “Your hair smells so … so … clean.”