Here to Stay

by Sara Farizan

  Stephanie’s eyes widened, and so did mine. I guess it was news to both of us. I thought it was kind of cool. Drew had acted like an ass and had probably sent the photo of me. He deserved to be dumped. Stephanie just stood there, shocked.

  “I guess you have a ride home, then,” I said to Stephanie. She blushed and didn’t answer me as Sean and I made our exit.

  ***

  Sean had WERS, the college radio station, on in his mom’s Prius as we left the burbs for the city. Funk music filled the silence in the car.

  “What was with you and Stephanie at the library?” Sean asked as he merged onto the highway.

  “Nothing,” I said. I was pissed off, but I shouldn’t have taken it out on her like that.

  “I wouldn’t mind tutoring Erin Wheeler,” Sean said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the music. “I’d answer any anatomy and physiology questions she may have.”

  I didn’t have the energy to fake a chuckle, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “Do you ever feel like you don’t really know anybody?” I asked. “Like you see people every day, but you don’t know anything about them?”

  “I think we get to know whom we want to know.” It didn’t seem to bother Sean that we went to school with racists. “Most people aren’t worth knowing. It’s the Age of the Asshole, man. It’s their time to shine. Doesn’t matter what race, religion, orientation, or gender. If you’re a jerk, the world is yours for the taking.”

  I didn’t bother to argue with him. Maybe a few days before, I would have. “Why don’t we become jerks too?”

  “We could. Maybe we already are,” Sean said, waggling his eyebrows. I felt a twist of guilt in my stomach. “But let me ask you this: Do you feel good when you pull a jerk move?”

  I thought about Stephanie’s face when I left the library. I had made her feel just as bad as Drew or Erin did. “No.”

  “Well, maybe we live another day to be decent human beings. Besides, jerks always look like they’re constipated. You can tell from their faces. They’re always pinched.”

  “Please don’t major in philosophy when you go to college.”

  “I don’t need to major in it. Teach it, maybe, but you don’t need class to study life. Besides, I was thinking of art school.”

  “Your moms are going to hate that,” I said.

  “Don’t I know it,” Sean said as we sat stalled in traffic.

  ***

  We opened my front door to find a bunch of parents, some of whom I didn’t even recognize, on their phones, stuffing envelopes, and talking. My living room was like a campaign office in late October. This really wasn’t what I wanted to come home to. All I wanted was heated-up leftovers and Sports Center with my mom after I finished my homework.

  “Hi, boys.” Sean’s Mama Hana came to the door and gave us both a hug. “There’s pizza in the kitchen.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “What kind of pizza?” Sean asked.

  Both his mother and I stared at him. I knew that whatever this was, it had to do with the stupid email, but I wasn’t sure how it had led to an eighty-person letter writing campaign. Okay, there were maybe ten people, but it felt like more.

  “You know what, I’ll go and grab us some food.” Sean slapped my back before escaping into the kitchen.

  “How are you doing, Bijan?” Sean’s mom asked, taking my hand and staring up at me. I knew she cared, but it had been less than a day and I was already sick of people looking at me with doleful eyes.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Why don’t you come over and talk to your mom and Jane.” Mama Hana led me through the living room. I tried to match parents with their kids at Granger. There was a woman on the phone whom I recognized from some of the basketball games from when I was a fan and not a player. She looked exactly like Marcus when he focused on his free-throw shots. There was a short man who was speaking superfast to a few women and blinking a lot. I figured he must be related to Stephanie. Genes are weird.

  It was like a party. My mom set two fruit and cheese plates on our coffee table for guests who were on the couch folding letters and licking envelopes. When she stood back up, she finally noticed me. She gave me a big hug, which was a little embarrassing.

  As Mom let go of me, Sean’s other mother, Jane, stood up from the couch.

  “Hey, kiddo,” she said. “How you doing?” I should have had a T-shirt that read i feel like crap.

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Hana and Jane were kind enough to help me organize this evening,” Mom said, oblivious to how uncomfortable the whole thing was making me.

  “What exactly is ‘this evening’?”

  “Why don’t we find somewhere private to talk,” Jane suggested. I looked around. Where we were supposed to find somewhere private?

  My mom led us to the kitchen, where Sean was sitting at our table, stuffing his face with pizza directly from the box.

  “Sean, use a plate, please,” Jane said. Sean finished his slice, ignoring his mom’s request. I sat down next to him. I usually live for pizza, but even the smell was making me nauseous. I couldn’t stomach the thought of eating with my insides in knots.

  “We’re following up our emails with formal letters to organize the Granger parents. The letters inform parents that we’ve requested a meeting with the board to discuss ways to make the school a safer space.” My mom sounded like she had rehearsed that all day. “Jane and Hana were able to bring some volunteers to help spread the word.”

  “We’re with you one hundred percent, Bijan,” Jane said. “There are a lot of us who want to nip this thing in the bud.”

  “We also want to explain some legal aspects to you and your mother,” Hana added.

  “Hang on a sec—legal aspects?” I asked, looking at my mom.

  Mom took a deep breath. She looked more exhausted than usual. That morning she’d been alert, ready to kick butt. Now she looked worn down. I felt guilty to be somehow responsible for that. Isn’t that messed up? Someone harms my mom and me and I felt guilty about it. “Hana explained to me that because there wasn’t an explicit threat of violence against you, what was sent can’t technically be categorized as a hate crime, but it is a bias-motivated incident. We can notify the Massachusetts attorney general’s office or file a civil rights complaint.”

  They were making all these plans without even asking if it was okay with me. Without asking if I wanted my living room full of people I didn’t know treating me like a charity case.

  “Mom, may I speak to you for a minute? Alone?” I asked.

  ***

  “Your room is such a mess,” my mom said, looking at the clothes, both clean and dirty, strewn across my floor.

  “Even in times of crisis, Reggie, Mama Bear takes the time to comment on her son’s hygiene.”

  “Which reminds me: when you’ve gone nose blind, use Febreze!”

  “Mom, don’t you think this has kind of gotten out of hand?” I flopped down on my bed. “I want the whole thing to blow over. People will forget about it soon.”

  “I see,” she said, quirking one eyebrow and putting her hands on her hips like she was Wonder Woman. I knew she didn’t actually “see” at all. “There are a lot of parents who send their children to your school who find it very difficult to let a hateful act like this . . . how did you put it? ‘Blow over’?”

  She was expecting me to give in, to say “Fine,” like I did in most of our arguments. But this wasn’t fine. “Those parents don’t have to attend high school every day with kids whose parents won’t be at that meeting.”

  My mom interlocked her fingers in front of her mouth. This was her “I’m about to put you in your place” pose. I had readied myself for her lectures before. Sometimes I stare at her chin and pretend I’m listening when I’m really making myself think about how I
hate the sound of cold cuts being pulled apart from each other or slapped together or other random stuff like that. This time, though, I paid attention. I had to argue with her if I was ever going to get her to stop.

  “So let me ask you,” she started. “If this were happening to another student at Granger, would you ignore it?”

  It didn’t happen to another student at Granger, Mom. It happened to me. I didn’t say that out loud, but I shouldn’t have had to.

  “If this happened to one of your friends, if it happened to Sean, would you sit idly by? Would you be comfortable with your own complacency while your friend was being dehumanized?” She was good. Maybe she should have studied law instead of dentistry. “I received so many calls, so many emails from parents today. A lot of people I didn’t know, parents of children in different grades, from all different backgrounds. They told me about the discussions they’re going to be having in their homes tonight. This is bigger than you, Bijan. I know it hurts you. I know you want to forget about it. But this is bigger than you.”

  I couldn’t look at her. I knew she was right. But it also hurt that she wouldn’t let me process this in my own time. It hurt a lot.

  “Whatever. Just don’t include me in your meetings, okay?” Being at assembly with everyone either looking at me or doing their best to pretend I wasn’t there was all I could stomach. I didn’t want to be a symbol for the Justice League of Parents to use in their crusade to eradicate campus intolerance.

  She sat down on the bed next to me. “Maybe it’s my fault,” she said, shrugging. “Maybe I didn’t give you enough pride in where your family comes from. Both of your parents are from cradles of civilization. Thousands of years of culture on both your father’s side and mine. You’re the son of rich histories. You are from the places where numbers and language were born.”

  “Nobody at Granger cares about that, Mom,” I said. “I don’t want to be the poster child for this!” To the kids at Granger, I looked like an extra for Claire Danes to chase down in some alley for information. To them, I looked like a kid Bradley Cooper would have in the crosshairs of his gun. To them, I looked like I didn’t belong at their school. They didn’t know the difference between any of the Middle Eastern, South Asian, or North African countries. They didn’t know anything about the different cultures, languages, or histories, and honestly, it felt like they didn’t want to know.

  “If your father were here—”

  “Don’t!” I shouted. “Don’t pull the dad card on me.” We were both surprised. My mom usually didn’t bring my dad up unless I asked her to. When I was a kid, I asked about him a lot, but the older I got, the less point there seemed to be. All I knew of my father was stories. The more time passed, the less sure I was whether he was someone I would have loved or someone I would have rebelled against. Or both.

  Youssef Haddad, my father, whom I barely knew, but whom I thought about more often than I admitted to my mom. We hadn’t even kept his last name after he passed. It’s still on my birth certificate, but at school, my mom thought it’d be easier to go by her last name. That, or she didn’t want to be painfully reminded that he wasn’t here every time someone said my full name. I get that there isn’t always an easy fix for grief. People have different ways of coping. But I don’t think my mom and I have figured out how to cope together.

  We have a few videos of him, which I make sure to watch when Mom isn’t around. One is of their wedding. The ceremony was Persian. My parents sat at a sofreh aghd. Women my mom used to be friends with held a linen cloth above them and ground sugar over it so my parents would have a sweet life together. Mom doesn’t hang out with those women anymore. I guess when Dad died, that part of her life died too.

  For their reception, they had a zaffa, an Arabic wedding procession. Three drummers led them into a hotel ballroom, announcing their arrival as a married couple to a room full of people I’m related to but have never met. It looks like a hell of a party. The guests stand up and cheer before joining the dancing. You can see my dad proudly mouthing “Look at my wife!” several times throughout the night. I’ve memorized everything he says in those videos.

  He looks like he’s having the time of his life.

  My mom looks light. She doesn’t have the weight of the universe on her shoulders yet.

  Now, standing in my room arguing with me, she looked stuck. Stuck with me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “There’s . . . He’s not here. There’s no point in bringing him up.” I didn’t say it to hurt her, but the way she flinched told me that I had. I waited for her to argue with me.

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” she said quietly. “But the meeting is happening. I would like for you to be there.” Then she left me alone in my room to stare at my posters of Steph Curry and Kyrie Irving. I wondered if their moms knew how to guilt trip them like a boss too.

  CHAPTER NINE

  After a week of classes, practice, Mom’s endless phone calls to other parents, and paranoia occupying my every stray thought, Friday arrived. Game day.

  On big game days, we were allowed to wear Granger sports gear instead of our usual school uniform of khaki pants, white shirts, ties, and boat shoes. Only, today was different. I looked around the auditorium during assembly to find about forty or so students wearing the here to stay shirts, the Gunner logo proudly displayed on their torsos. About twice as many wore the no tradition of violence shirts. I hadn’t gotten the memo. I was wearing my track pants and a Granger sweatshirt that had the school’s name on it and nothing else.

  When assembly was over, the staff of the Granger Gazette passed out the new issue of the paper to the student body. Everyone walked slowly, reading as they made their way to their first period.

  “Whoa, Beej, you’re on the front page,” Sean said, handing me a paper. Below the fold was a great snapshot of me being held up by my teammates after our win against Carter Prep. The caption read, “Granger Boys’ Basketball Triumphant After Dramatic Last-Minute Basket by Newcomer Bijan Majidi.” For a moment I was proud. I was good enough at basketball to make the front page!

  Then I saw the headline above the fold for another art­icle and my stomach sank.

  “Mascot Controversy Sparks Hate Incident.”

  I skimmed the article. It explained that an email had been sent anonymously, depicting a student in the mascot’s image. It didn’t show a photo of the email or mention me by name, but I thought it was kind of lousy that they put a photo of me from the game right below the article that was meant to keep me anonymous. Thanks for respecting my privacy, Granger Gazette!

  The article about the email did have some choice quotes from anonymous sources, like “I’m sorry about what happened to that kid, but people feel strongly about this stuff. You can’t mess with tradition” and “I don’t get what everyone is complaining about. It’s not like the mascot is literally shooting anyone.” There was only one student who went on the record.

  “I think it is shameful but very telling of the climate at Granger that someone felt entitled to do something as egregious as send that email,” said Stephanie Bergner, creator of the No Tradition of Violence campaign. “I am hurt by that image, as every student at Granger should be.” When Bergner was asked if the campaign would continue, she responded, “I plan to continue. I never intended for anyone to get hurt by this endeavor.”

  I handed the paper back to Sean. I wasn’t going to read more of what Stephanie or anyone else had to say about that stupid mascot. Sean continued to read as he leaned on the locker next to mine.

  “The Gazette doesn’t have any leads on who did it,” Sean said. No kidding. It’s a high school paper, not the Boston Globe. It’s not like they have real investigative journalists at their disposal. No one from the paper had come to talk to me or let me know they’d be running the article.

  I walked down the hall and noticed notes and plastic bags of candy tape
d to some of the lockers. On game days, members of the girls’ varsity team would leave treats for the boys’ varsity team and vice versa. When I opened my locker, I was hoping I’d find a note of encouragement or some treats from a secret psych. But there was nothing new in my locker. Just my math textbook, a photo of Sean and me dressed up as Ghostbusters for Halloween, and an extra set of clothes I hadn’t put in my sports bag yet. I guess I shouldn’t have expected anything, but it would have been kind of cool.

  ***

  My last class of the day was US History. We took our quizzes in silence while Ms. McCrea paced the classroom. It had been a weird week. I hadn’t studied very much for anything, and I wasn’t doing so hot on the quiz.

  “Okay, that should be enough time. Pass in your papers, please.” Ms. McCrea finally took a seat at her desk. Our desks were arranged in a U shape because Ms. McCrea said that being able to see each other facilitated discussion. We shuffled our papers hand to hand around the U until they made it to Ms. McCrea.

  “How’d you do?” I asked Sean, who sat next to me.

  “Nailed it. Either that or I failed horribly. Could go either way, based on subjectivity and revisionist history,” Sean murmured.

  Ms. McCrea took all the quizzes and held them to her chest like they were her teddy bear. “I will cherish these for the rest of my life. Or return them to you tomorrow,” she said before putting them in her tote bag.

  “So today we’re going to resume our discussion on Executive Order 9066, which, after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, resulted in the internment of American citizens and permanent residents, many of whom were children. These citizens and residents had to leave their homes and their businesses and were imprisoned in camps. In most cases, people lost their property, their businesses, their college careers. Their lives were forever changed. People were forced to live in oftentimes unsanitary conditions and their humanity was stripped away. The detention centers were overcrowded, surrounded by barbed wire, guarded by military personnel—”