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I’ve been at the airport in Chicago for less than an hour. Obviously, it’s 9/11. I’ve been to this airport many times. Since here this morning, I’ve walked around all over, in search of breakfast. And I’m stunned by the glaring absence of any Muslim-looking or visibly-Muslim (1)
people here.
And so, boy, am I—with my brown, bearded, brawny self—the object of potent stares of death, from every direction, which I have never experienced here.
At the airport right now are mostly white folk, which is rare at this airport. And, although they are the (2)
And so, boy, am I—with my brown, bearded, brawny self—the object of potent stares of death, from every direction, which I have never experienced here.
At the airport right now are mostly white folk, which is rare at this airport. And, although they are the (2)
predominant purveyors of these bad looks—marked by long, sustained, eye-contact, even after I look away—I’m also receiving such glares from other people-of-color (black folk and Asian folk).
How mighty of a unifying force it is, xenophobia. For such-minded PoC, 9/11 expanded (3)
How mighty of a unifying force it is, xenophobia. For such-minded PoC, 9/11 expanded (3)
the circle of “in-crowd” to now include them as members of the elite club who can point at the foreign, the unbelonging, the alien, and say “Finally! I am part of the ‘us’, and now it is YOU, not I, who bears the mark of the ‘enemy’.” I’m tempted to say aloud to them, (4)
“unity, y’all doin’ it wrong!” And yet, I know better. For, I know that I am accorded no space beyond the shrunkenness into which these looks have induced me.
Before any of my “observers” take notice of me, their eyes are casually about, taking in the ordinary sights, (5)
Before any of my “observers” take notice of me, their eyes are casually about, taking in the ordinary sights, (5)
going on with their routine business. Then, their eyes and posture become fixed and fixated upon me, unflinching, unmoving, as though the term “disgust” could be physically projected from their thoughts directly onto the brown canvass that is my “scary” body.
It’s a look (6)
It’s a look (6)
that I, and others who inhabit bodies like mine, in America, have become masterfully astute at recognizing and interpreting. It communicates “you don’t belong here”, “you’re a threat”, “you’re not one of us”, “you are being surveilled”, or worse. And yet, they do not know (7)
that I, too, in this “scary” brown body of mine, feel the fright, horror, pain, and trauma of 9/11, when my FELLOW Americans perished needlessly. And yet, on this day, I am not allowed to be a “fellow” of America. I am only the “sand-nigger” and assumed “terrorist” of (8)
America, especially on this day.
How I wish these people knew the unspeakable depth at which I too suffered on 9/11, and how I too mourn among them. But my suffering, my mourning must necessarily be fragmented, fractured, distracted by the hyper vigilance of (9)
How I wish these people knew the unspeakable depth at which I too suffered on 9/11, and how I too mourn among them. But my suffering, my mourning must necessarily be fragmented, fractured, distracted by the hyper vigilance of (9)
self-preservation and ‘stereotype threat’ —through no choice or doing of my own—but from the duality of being victim both to the hijackers on 9/11 and to the racism of my “fellow” Americans.
(10)
(10)
Dear America, if only you could gaze upon me to intuitively, without instruction or correction, see in me your most faithful, truest son.
End.
End.
