Mrs. Hakim looked around the circle that her students had formed. They were an interesting mix. She thought they were a good representation of the student body at Storm River High School. They were a diverse group from different walks of life and she thought their different backgrounds would make their writing even better. She wanted them to share stories with each other so they could learn from one another. She valued their diversity and hoped Writers on the Storm could help them see the world through each other’s eyes. She felt as though Cornelia’s crime was hanging over them like a dark cloud. She wanted to get everything out in the open so they could get past it.
“Alright, Writers. I’d like you to take out a pen and piece of paper. We’re going to try some free writing. Do not put your name on your paper. I do not want to know who is writing what. This is just a writing exercise,” she said, looking around at all of the eyes staring back at her. “I would like you to brainstorm,” she continued, cautiously searching for the right words.
“I would like you to write down every racist word you can think of in your mind.”
There was silence. The group looked at Mrs. Hakim as if she had two heads. “Remember, Writers, in this group there are ‘no holds barred,’ as they say. Just write down every name you have ever been called because of your race. Write down every word you have heard others say. Write down things you have seen on television and in the movies. Anything that comes to mind, write it down. Write down anything you have said or written yourself. Remember your name is not on the paper, so be honest.” Cornelia could have sworn that Mrs. Hakim glanced her way when she said this.
Mrs. Hakim could see Ralph’s hand rise slowly into the air. “Yes, Ralph?” she asked.
“Mrs. Hakim, I’m not comfortable with this exercise,” he said, honestly.
“Ralph, I know writing these words down on paper is going to be uncomfortable. That’s part of the exercise. Do you know why writing these words makes you feel uncomfortable?” Ralph shook his head and Mrs. Hakim continued. “Because they have power over you. And these words only have power because we give them power. By writing these words down, we are taking away some of that power. By discussing them intelligently, we are taking away even more of their power. If you take away enough power from these words, all that is left is prejudice. And prejudice is nothing more than ignorance. And ignorance is not irreversible. Do you understand?”
Ralph reluctantly nodded his head and picked up his pen, but he did not write. “Just write the first word that comes to your mind. Anything you’ve seen or heard.” Ralph looked at Mrs. Hakim in disbelief, but he slowly began to write. As he made the first stroke on his paper, he stared at Cornelia. She could feel his eyes look straight through her into her soul. Cornelia didn’t like the whole idea of this exercise. She sat for a moment, watching all the other pens scratch on their papers. Admeta was writing furiously as if she was trying to murder her paper with her pen. Cornelia felt very self conscious and looked down at her own blank paper. She knew the words that she should write first, but she couldn’t bring herself to write them down. It was too mean, too cruel to repeat. She had written those words in a moment of anger a few weeks earlier but she couldn’t bring herself to do it now.
Cornelia had gone to the school a few weeks ago, knowing she was going to write on the wall, but she had no idea what she was going to write. It wasn’t until she was standing there, spray paint in hand, that she decided what to write. She wanted to write the worst thing she could write. The thing that would sting Mrs. Hakim the most. She searched for the words that would hurt her worst of all. And she found them. Two little words. Nasty words. Hurtful words. Disgusting words. A rush of heat once again poured over Cornelia. She felt guilty about what she had written. There was no way she could bring herself to write it again.
Cornelia thought about what Mrs. Hakim had said. “Just write down every name you have ever been called because of your race.” Cornelia wrote down the word “honkey.” She almost laughed out loud . She had never been called a honkey herself, but she knew it was a derogatory term for white people. She thought it was one of the funniest words she’d ever heard. She didn’t think it held much power. “Cracker,” was the next word Cornelia wrote, but it too sounded too funny to be hurtful. “Whitey,” she continued. That sounded funny too. Her mother had actually had an uncle named Whitey. His real name was Charles, but everyone just called him Whitey. Cornelia had no idea why. He died before she was born.
Then Cornelia wrote the words, “Snow White.” That was actually something someone called her once. An African-American girl at Cornelia’s junior high didn’t like the fact that Cornelia jumped ahead of her in the lunch line, even though, as Cornelia pointed out, she was only getting a Coke. “You must be trippin’, Snow White,” the girl said to her. Of course, Cornelia couldn’t be sure if that was even a racist comment. Perhaps the girl was just referring to the color of her hair. Anything is possible.
Cornelia looked down at her paper. The words she had written were all silly. She didn’t see any power in them at all. To top it off, she couldn’t think of any more words. A Mexican guy once said to Chad, “Thanks; you’re an o.k. gringo,” after Chad had handed him back a twenty dollar bill that had fallen out of his pocket in the convenience store. But Cornelia wasn’t sure if gringo was racist either. She was sure, however, that she would have kept the twenty dollars and not given it back to the man. Not because she was greedy or a thief, but because she feared the man.
He was wearing tattered jeans, a checkered shirt and a straw hat. Cornelia thought he looked as if he had just walked away from a field he had been tending to. His skin was dark, like strong coffee with one shot of cream. His eyes were squinty and his nose was red as if he had spent a lot of time in the sun. Cornelia was afraid he was a criminal or at the very least an illegal immigrant. She wouldn’t have spoken to him at all, even to return his money. That rush of heat pierced through Cornelia’s body again. As she thought about the man, more words came to mind.
She wrote the word ‘beaner’ on her paper and quickly looked around to see if anyone was watching her write. Everyone’s head was down as they wrote on their own papers. The twins were each at least a foot from her, so she was confident they couldn’t be reading her paper peripherally. She looked at her own paper again. She thought ‘beaner’ sounded just as funny as ‘honkey.’ But when she thought about the origin of the word, it didn’t maintain its humor.
“Spic,” she continued to write. This word wasn’t as funny to Cornelia. It had a hateful tone, unlike the other words she had written. She often heard it hissed through gritted teeth at people like Admeta, who are of Hispanic decent. Cornelia wasn’t quite sure what it meant, but she knew the intent. “Chicano,” she wrote. Again, she didn’t know what it meant and wasn’t even sure if it was a racial slur, but she had heard people say it to Hispanics.
“Wetback,” Cornelia continued. This she was certain was a derogatory term. She had heard an older white man call the man at the convenience store a wetback after the Mexican man accidentally stepped on his foot. She thought it had something to do with Mexicans crossing the Rio Grande to get to the United States, as she figured the man in the convenience store must have done. The white man said it with repulsion in his voice as if he was disgusted that part of the Mexican man’s body had touched him. Chad told him to chill out, but the man just looked at him with the same disgust.
Cornelia looked over at Admeta. She was still furiously writing with her head turned down toward her paper. Cornelia wondered if Admeta was writing the same words on her paper. Then she looked next to Admeta at Sandy. She didn’t seem to be struggling to come up with words either. In fact the entire group was writing feverishly, including Mrs. Hakim who was sitting at the top of the circle, closest to the board. Cornelia looked at the opposite side of the room at Ralph. He seemed to be writing the quickest out of everyone.
Cornelia wrote some
more names on her paper. She was afraid to write some of the words she was thinking. They were too cruel. Too mean. Too bad. She didn’t dare write them out of fear that someone would see the words on her paper. She especially couldn’t bring herself to write the words she had painted on the wall. What would the rest of the group think?
They would think she was racist. Cornelia was convinced that they already thought that anyway, but she didn’t want to give anyone ammunition. She continued writing for a few minutes until Mrs. Hakim interrupted the sound of the students’ scribbling pens.
“O.k. I think that’s enough time, Writers. Finish up your thoughts,” she said.
“Wait, Mrs. H., I’ve got a lot more,” Admeta protested.
“It’s o.k., Admeta, I think we have enough for the purpose of this exercise. You don’t need to write every name you know.” Admeta looked annoyed again, but she complied with Mrs. Hakim’s request and put down her pen. “O.k., Writers, turn your papers over and I’ll collect them.” Mrs. Hakim walked around the room picking up papers. Cornelia could see that some people had even written on the back side of their papers. She was impressed in a strange sort of way. At the same time she was embarrassed that she had written so little.
After Mrs. Hakim had collected all of the papers, she placed them on the teacher’s desk and proceeded to mix them up like a child would mix up a deck of Old Maid cards if she didn’t know how to shuffle. When she was finished, she picked up the stack and scanned each paper, one by one. Her facial expression never changed. She remained straight-faced and stern and yet there was something soft about her features.
Mrs. Hakim was pretty, although Cornelia would never have admitted that to anyone. She had gentle brown eyes and from what Cornelia could tell from what peeked out from under the veil, her hair was long and black. She had high cheek bones with a medium sized mole on her left cheek, just like Marilyn Monroe. Cornelia thought Mrs. Hakim must have plucked her eyebrows because they were perfectly shaped and not as bushy as she would have expected. Cornelia was surprised that Mrs. Hakim could remain unaffected by the words she was reading.
When she was finished going through the stack, Mrs. Hakim said, “O.k., Writers, when I looked at your papers, almost everyone began with the same expression, so we’re going to start there.” Cornelia felt flush. She tried to think back to the first word she wrote on her paper. “Honkey,” she thought. She couldn’t believe that everyone else had written honkey first. Then she came to the realization that her paper might have been one of the few that started with a different word.
“Oh, God,” she thought. “What if I was the only one to write down that word?” Cornelia groaned inside her head. She was embarrassed at the thought that she was the only person who was different. She groaned even louder when Mrs. Hakim wrote the words on the board.
There, staring back at Cornelia, were the words she had painted on the school wall. Nasty words. Hurtful words. Disgusting words. Cornelia’s face was on fire. She felt like she wanted to throw up. Her hand reached down to her stomach as she tried to steady herself. She wanted to be anywhere else except classroom 97. She looked around the room. Everyone was looking up at the board. Everyone except Admeta, who was staring directly at Cornelia. That made Cornelia feel even more self conscious. She turned and looked at Mrs. Hakim for some relief. It was ironic that she was looking to her victim to save her from her own words.
“Alright, Writers, let’s break this down. The first word is ‘sand.’ By itself it’s harmless enough,” Mrs. Hakim said, matter-of-factly. She had no malice in her voice when she continued to define the word, “Sand, by definition, is nothing more than grains of rocks that have been worn down over time into tiny bits. On its own, ‘sand’ is a pretty innocuous word. In this case, I assume it refers to the desert,” she said and then paused to look around the room. All eyes were now staring back at her.
“What about this word, Writers?” Mrs. Hakim asked, pointing to the second word. “What does this word mean?” Mrs. Hakim continued and then looked around the circle. Many people had their eyes fixed on Mrs. Hakim, deliberately not looking at the word, as if not looking at it could wish it away. Ralph and Brenda were staring at the word as if they would kill it if only they could. No one budged until Admeta raised her hand.
“Admeta?”
“I think Cornelia should answer the question, Mrs. H.,” she said.
“Admeta, please only raise your hand if you are actually going to answer the question,” Cornelia was relieved to hear Mrs. Hakim say that. Before Admeta could protest, Mrs. Hakim continued, “This group is an extra curricular activity. We do not force our members to do anything, especially if it makes them feel uncomfortable.” Admeta squinted her eyes very briefly as if she had been put off by what Mrs. Hakim said. Cornelia felt nothing but relief. She took a deep breath, closing her eyes on the inhale and opening them upon exhaling.
“Let’s look at its origins, shall we? It comes from the Latin word meaning black,” Mrs. Hakim began. “Looking at this logically, however, this term is obviously not meant to describe black sand. So let’s rule that out.” Cornelia thought Mrs. Hakim was speaking to the group as if they were in kindergarten. Everyone knew what the term meant. Going through the origins was pointless in Cornelia’s eyes and only served to further her embarrassment.
“What else does this word mean?” Mrs. Hakim asked. Cornelia was squirming in her seat. The entire conversation was making her feel uncomfortable. She was wondering why Mrs. Hakim was beating around the bush as if they were five-year-olds. Everyone knew what the word meant, but none of them wanted to say it out loud, least of all Cornelia. Again her teacher faced a room of empty stares. Cornelia thought that Mrs. Hakim must know that it wasn’t that the Writers didn’t know what the word meant. It was that no one wanted to be the one to say it. The entire group was uncomfortable at that point, but no one in the room could have been more uncomfortable than Cornelia.
Cornelia looked around and was relieved to see everyone still looking at Mrs. Hakim instead of her. Cornelia looked past Randy on her right and saw Brenda. There was a tear streaming down her cheek. Brenda quickly wiped the tear away as if nothing had happened. She didn’t look around to see if anyone had seen what she had done. She just stared straight ahead at Mrs. Hakim as if she were blind. Ralph was beside Brenda and he too looked like he might cry. Cornelia felt a pang of regret. She never considered the thought that her words would hurt anyone besides Mrs. Hakim.
“Perhaps this word needs no definition. We all know what it’s supposed to mean, do we not?” Everyone was still as if they thought the question was hypothetical. “We all know the intension. Correct?” This time Mrs. Hakim looked at a circle of nodding heads. “So obviously the use of the first word, ‘sand,’ indicates a particular part of the world. The part of the world my family comes from, perhaps. Somewhere in or near a desert.” Cornelia felt as if she had been hurled at the sun. Her skin was burning with embarrassment and regret.
“And this second word, well, it is not as nice, is it? How does it make you feel?”
“Angry,” Admeta said before she even thought about it.
“Angry. Good. What else?”
As if they were inside each others’ heads, Randy and Andy said, in unison, “Sad.”
“Sad. Another good emotion. Anyone else? How does this word make you feel?”
“Mad,” Valerie chimed in.
“That’s good, Valerie, but mad and angry are very closely related. Can you think of another word to describe how you feel about this word?” Mrs. Hakim asked as she was writing “angry” and “sad” on the board.
“Disgusted?” Valerie tried again.
“Good. Another,” Mrs. Hakim prompted.
A small voice from the back of the room said, “Scared.”
It was Brenda. Her voice was usually strong. Brenda was very opinionated in student council and never afraid to express herself.
Her quietness surprised Cornelia as she saw another tear fall down Brenda’s cheek. This time Brenda didn’t bother to wipe it away. Instead she sat tall in her chair and held her head high. Ralph put his hand on her shoulder to comfort her.
“Hateful,” Ralph added.
“Hateful?” Mrs. Hakim questioned. “Ralph, do you feel the word is hateful or do you hate the word?”
“Both,” Ralph said, taking his arm off of Brenda’s shoulder and throwing his hands up in the air. “Why are we doing this, Mrs. H.? You’re making me and Brenda feel uncomfortable.”
“I apologize, Ralph, but once again that is the point. No? I, too, feel uncomfortable. After all, these words are referring to me. Are they not?” Ralph stared straight into Mrs. Hakim’s eyes. Cornelia stared at the floor, embarrassed at the whole situation. “That’s why I wanted to talk about these words first. We need to talk about these issues because they make us feel uncomfortable. If we don’t talk about them, we are giving them power over us. By talking about them, the conversation will eventually become less uncomfortable and as a result, the words will lose their power,” Mrs. Hakim said and then turned to write the word “hateful” on the board.
Mrs. Hakim turned her attention to the entire group. “Do you see all of the emotions associated with this word? Angry, sad, disgusted, scared, hateful. And that is just the tip of the ice block.” There was a moment of silence. Cornelia wanted to snicker but she knew it would be inappropriate.
“I think you mean iceberg, Mrs. H.,” Admeta interjected.
“Oh, my humblest apologies. Admeta, thank you for the correction. These emotions are only the tip of the iceberg,” Mrs. Hakim corrected, putting emphasis on the word iceberg. Cornelia suddenly felt as though Mrs. Hakim had said “ice block” on purpose to diffuse the tension in the room.
“This is how much power this word yields. Yes?” Mrs. Hakim asked, pointing to the words on the board. “But why?” she paused.
“Why do these six letters invoke such anger, sadness, disgust, fear and hate? What makes them different?” The group was silent. Cornelia could have sworn that Mrs. Hakim’s eyes were welling up a little too.
“Intent,” she said. “That is what makes them different. Their intent is what gives them the power to make us react.” Mrs. Hakim pointed to the equation she had written earlier, and said it out loud, “Prejudice plus power equals racism.”
Mrs. Hakim paused and looked around the room. Brenda had stopped crying and Ralph’s face didn’t seem as angry. Even Admeta seemed to have softened a bit. “Writers, I want you to remember this moment. Remember how these words made you feel. Remember the emotions that just writing these words on the board and on your paper evoked. Think about the other words on your paper and how they also made you feel. That is the power of racism. The words that you write in this group have the potential to be just as powerful. In Writers on the Storm, no topic is off limits, not even racism,” she concluded. Cornelia could finally see the point of the exercise, but she was not prepared for what Mrs. Hakim said next.
“This week, Writers, I have an important assignment for you,” Mrs. Hakim began. “This week I want you to write a short story about racism. And this time I want a non-fiction piece. Write about an experience you have had with racism or racist attitudes.” Cornelia rolled her eyes while Sandy raised her hand.
“Yes, Sandy,” Mrs. Hakim said.
“Does it have to be racism exactly?” she asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she replied.
“I mean, could it be like sexism or something like that?”
“That’s a good point, Sandy. Discrimination comes in many forms, not just racism. I’ll amend the assignment to include all forms of discrimination. Writers, you may write about any form of discrimination you have experienced or witnessed,” Mrs. Hakim said.
Steve raised his hand. “Yes, Steve?” Mrs. Hakim asked.
His voice was shallow, not at all like his physique. “What about homophobia? Does that count?”
“Yes, Steve, that certainly counts. Any type of discrimination counts,” she said, pausing. “Let me just give you an example. You see the hijab I am wearing, no?” she asked, running her fingers over the brown veil she was wearing on her head. It was made of a silky material and had beads all along the edges. Cornelia always wondered what Mrs. Hakim’s hair really looked like under her veil, but she could only catch glimpses of it sometimes when the hijab had a gap.
“This hijab is a symbol of my religion. Now, I don’t want to get into a detailed discussion about religion in school, but I am often asked questions about my hijab because it is different. But, unfortunately, sometimes people also make assumptions because of my hijab. Sometimes people think that just because I am Muslim, I have strange ideas or do strange things, or worse.
“Some might even see me as a terrorist even though I have given them no indication whatsoever to that effect. There are terrorists who are Muslim, this is true. But there are also terrorists who are Christian and Jewish and any other faith on this earth. Because Muslims dress differently, Islamic terrorists stand out and they have given people of my religion a terrible stigma that is very difficult to overcome. As a result, there are people who make assumptions about me without knowing me. It is a sad fact,” Mrs. Hakim said, circling the room with her eyes.
Cornelia wondered if Mrs. Hakim thought she assumed she was a terrorist. The thought had actually never crossed her mind despite Rebekka’s rant that morning. Cornelia didn’t even realize Mrs. Hakim’s hijab was a religious symbol. She thought all women from the Middle East wore them. She did not know that Mrs. Hakim was Muslim. She didn’t know much about the Muslim faith except for what she saw on television. Cornelia wondered if that is why Mrs. Hakim didn’t wear make-up. She had a flawless complexion and dark, mocha-colored skin, so she didn’t really need make-up anyway.
“People often make assumptions about other people, whether it is because of their race, religion, gender, the color of their skin, or simply because of the clothes that they wear,” she said and looked over at Steve, “or the people that they love.”
“I think that is enough for today, Writers. Emotions are high. Let us use those emotions to write our stories and be prepared to share a draft next week. Yes?” People started packing up their things to leave. Mrs. Hakim sat at her desk as if she was exhausted.
Cornelia’s mind was racing. She had no idea what she was going to write about. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she was discriminated against. She felt like an outsider in Writers on the Storm. She resented her mother for forcing her to join. She couldn’t relate to anyone, except for possibly Amanda.
Cornelia and Amanda walked out of the room together. “Can you believe this assignment?” Cornelia asked.
“Actually I think it’s a really good assignment, Cornelia. Maybe it will make you think about what you did,” Amanda said hastily and walked faster so that she wouldn’t be seen with Cornelia.
Cornelia stopped in the hallway and watched her friend walk away. The rest of the group walked past her too. Admeta brushed Cornelia’s arm when she went past. It was probably on purpose, although Ademeta would never admit it either way. As Cornelia stood in the hall, she suddenly came to the realization that her freshman year in high school wasn’t going to be easy.
Chapter 7
Writer’s Block
Writers on the Storm Page 6