Towers Falling

by Jewell Parker Rhodes

  Pop’s wrong. The towers’ falling means something. Else the school wouldn’t be teaching it.

  Think critically.

  Ben, Sabeen, and me all felt something. But I think we all felt something different.

  Muslim terrorists. Was Sabeen crying because she thought me and Ben would think less of her? Being Muslim doesn’t make her less than. Sabeen’s the nicest girl I’ve ever met.

  I turn onto my side, facing the blank wall. Ben’s drawings show what he’s lost. I can’t draw as well as him, but I’d draw circles: me in one, my family in another. Our circles overlap just barely. Families can break.

  If I go to a new school, my circle of friends will break.

  I close my eyes. I’m so sad. Knowing what I know now, I wish I hadn’t seen the video. I open my eyes. Is that true?

  I punch the pillow and pull the sheet up to my neck. “Sleep,” I tell myself. “Sleep.”

  I’m in Ben’s room. In front of his computer. I hear a whirring howl. Outside, I see a plane. I scream, “Stop!” But the huge silver plane, pointy like a bullet, keeps getting bigger and bigger, keeps flying toward and through the window into me.

  SABEEN

  It’s in-service day. At the end of each month, Miss Garcia says, “teachers take a half day, talk, discuss what they can do better.” They’re still trying to teach us about 9/11. Not directly, but coming at it sideways, up and down, around, not head-on, direct. Maybe that’s what grown-ups do, how they protect us kids? Or maybe they’re just too afraid to tell it like it was?

  Seeing the video, something shifted inside me. New York is my home. Sabeen’s, too. But she lives in Park Slope. It’s pretty, with flowering trees, potted daisies, and multistory homes.

  We park in front of a house with eight windows and billowing curtains.

  In real life, the brick house looks even better than Sabeen’s crayon and sparkly drawing.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I breathe from the backseat of the SUV. Sabeen grins.

  “Thank you,” says her mother, driving in the front seat.

  “You know English?” I clamp my hands over my mouth. Dumb, so dumb. The entire ride, I didn’t say a word to Sabeen’s mother—not even hello, thinking she only knew Turkish.

  Sabeen giggles.

  “I speak English, Turkish, and Arabic.” In the rearview mirror, Sabeen’s mother glances at me. I think she might’ve winked.

  “Mother makes me translate.”

  “It’s good for Sabeen. Keeps her languages sharp.” The dark flap covering her mouth flutters as she speaks.

  “Dèja, I can teach you Turkish.”

  I feel shy. Lots of kids at my new school know other languages. I only know one.

  I start to feel I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  I invited myself to Sabeen’s house since I knew Ray and Leda would be in day care. I didn’t want to be home alone with Pop. He’s been super irritable. Hoarse, he wheezes and coughs. Plus, I wanted to tell Sabeen I know the difference between good and bad people. Terrorists shouldn’t make her feel bad about herself. If I let them, lots of folks, like my ex-friend Keisha, would make me feel like a squashed bug.

  Sabeen opens the car door, and we scoot out, following her mother’s flowing black gown up the steps.

  “Welcome, welcome.”

  “My father. He came home to meet you.”

  “Really?”

  “No more cavities to fill,” trills Sabeen.

  “What?”

  “He’s a dentist.”

  Dark hair, lashes, and eyes, Sabeen’s father extends his hand. “Mr. Demir.”

  I act normal, like grown-ups shake my hand every day.

  “Honored to meet Sabeen’s friend.”

  “Thanks.” My tongue wipes my teeth. I’ve never been to a dentist.

  “Shoes here, Dèja.”

  All types of shoes line the wall. Thick walking shoes. High-tops. Sabeen’s brother’s? Patent leather shoes. Black loafers. Gold-threaded slippers. I take my tennis shoes off, embarrassed. I don’t have socks. I tug my pants down, trying to hide my toes.

  “Grandmother,” Sabeen says. An old woman, slight, in a silver gown with a loose scarf covering her head, shuffles forward. Her hair is like gray thread, her mouth soft, her face wrinkled and sweet. Everyone pauses, watching, waiting for her to speak.

  I tremble. Even Sabeen waits.

  “You are a lovely girl.” Her palm touches my cheek.

  In the room, there’s a kind of exhale. I get it. It was important that the grandmother like me. I feel like I’ve passed the biggest test. Just by being me.

  Sabeen swishes off her scarf, and waves and waves of black hair cascade down. Hair thick like her father’s. I wonder if Sabeen’s mother’s hair is thick and dark?

  “This is Uncle Ahmet, my father’s brother.”

  Ahmet is much skinnier and younger than Mr. Demir. He doesn’t have a potbelly.

  “Uncle Ahmet is looking for a wife.”

  Ahmet laughs. “See, Dèja, the girls and women in the house want another so they can outnumber the men—me, my brother, and nephew. Right now, we’re evenly balanced.”

  “What about the cat?” I blurt. I remember seeing it in Sabeen’s picture.

  “Smart,” says Grandmother Demir. “The cat is very good. She’s had many kittens.”

  “What?” Ahmet spreads his arms. “I should have kittens?”

  Everyone laughs, and I marvel at how easy they are together. No silences, whispers, or tight smiles.

  “Lunch is ready,” says Mrs. Demir.

  “Mother and Grandmother made my favorite food. Just for us.”

  A party?

  “Too bad Yusuf is in school.” Sabeen grins. I grin back. We’re both happy our siblings aren’t here.

  There’s a huge wooden table. Big enough to fit eight.

  “We’re dining traditional.” Sabeen points to the floor. A smaller, soft green rug lies atop the carpet. Flowers with red petals edge the rug, and in the center are dozens of white squares connected with red lines. I think it’s too beautiful to eat on.

  I plop down. Me, Sabeen, her uncle, and father sit cross-legged on fluffy pillows with tassels. Grandmother and Mrs. Demir bring platters of food and a tray of bread.

  It’s like an indoor picnic. Nothing like eating Kentucky Fried Chicken on the floor.

  “Lamb,” says Mrs. Demir, setting down meat pierced by silver daggers. “Bulgur pilavi. Wheat, not rice.” With parsley and green peppers.

  “Lahmacun. Like pizza.” Sabeen points. I see flaky crust with minced meat, onions, tomatoes, and lettuce.

  I look for a fork.

  “Ekmek, bread,” says Grandmother Demir. “Use your bread and hands.” Now I miss Ray—he’d like being messy, licking his fingers.

  There’s more food—enough maybe to feed ten families in Avalon. I smell hot red pepper flakes, but the other smells are sharp and sweet, unlike anything I’ve ever smelled before. I’ve never had lamb. It tastes green, “grassy,” I think. Sounds bad but tastes great. “Mary had a little lamb” keeps repeating in my head.

  “Do you know what ‘Sabeen’ means?” asks Mr. Demir. “Cool breeze of the morning.”

  Sabeen blushes.

  Her name fits, I think, touching one of Sabeen’s curls.

  Mr. Demir smiles. “My family is my heart.”

  “Home is divine,” I say, repeating Sabeen. Her entire family beams.

  “You’d be a good Muslim,” says Mr. Demir.

  I blurt, “I just want to be good.”

  “You are good.”

  I look at my friend. Then, her grandmother, mother, uncle, and father. I don’t tell them how I get angry at Pop. How I wish my family were like theirs—happy together. How I wish Pop worked and told jokes.

  They’re all looking at me. Not pitying, but a bit sad.

  I realize they all know about me. Homeless Dèja.

  Mr. Demir says, “You’re our daughter’s friend. You’re always welcome in t
his house.”

  “Thanks.” It’s not home, but they’ve made me feel at home.

  “Do you pray?”

  “No. Just when Ma takes me to church.”

  No one says anything.

  “But I wish for things,” I add hurriedly.

  “What do you wish for now?” asks Ahmet.

  “I wish, I wish… I wish I could have more shish kebab.”

  Grandmother claps. “Good appetite. Good girl.”

  “Thank you, Babaanne.” I stuff myself, nibbling lamb off the long dagger.

  After dinner, everybody stays in the living room. There’s no radio. No TV. The brothers talk. Grandmother and Mrs. Demir sew. Me and Sabeen play checkers. So lame.

  Yet I like hearing adults murmuring, feeling the sun through the window, lying on my tummy on a soft carpet, worrying only about jumping checkers.

  Yusuf bursts through the front door. “Dèja,” he yells, like he sees me every day. Adults crowd around him, hugging, asking, “How was your day?” “Hungry?”

  I sigh. Paradise. Divine.

  Without asking, Mrs. Demir hands me a basket. “For your family. Next time, we hope they’ll all come.”

  “Really?” I squawk, trying to envision the Barneses and Demirs sitting on pillows, chatting, eating with bread and hands.

  Mr. Demir drives me home. He pulls the SUV in front of Avalon, opens the passenger door like I’m a princess arriving at a palace. “Nice to have met you.”

  Scarf on, Sabeen walks me to the door. Stragglers are standing, sitting on the steps. Curious, they quiet.

  Sabeen doesn’t make me feel embarrassed. Serious, she says, “I knew you’d be a good friend.”

  I wave as the car leaves. I clutch the food basket to my chest, hurrying down the steps to the left to day care. Ray and Leda are going to be so happy when I tell them it’s okay to eat with their hands… how Turkish food is the best. How even in America, folks can live different. Ben’s ranch; Sabeen’s home; how even Brooklyn, one part to the next, is different.

  SCHOOL

  I can’t believe it. Pop’s walking me to school. I don’t say anything. He doesn’t, either, just stares straight ahead. Crowds make him nervous. That’s all New York is. Him and Ma should move.

  The WALK sign brightens. Across from us, a rush of people walk, dodging, trying not to hit each other in the middle of the street. Pop clutches my hand like I’m two. But I’m the one pulling, weaving him through the intersection.

  Pop’s going to embarrass me. I know it.

  At least he looks nice. He’s wearing slacks, not jeans. A shirt with buttons. Dressing, I watched him open his suitcase. His back blocked me from seeing what’s inside. He stood, staring down. He took something out, shut and locked the suitcase.

  A tie. A blue-and-red striped tie.

  It looks good. I didn’t know Pop owned a tie.

  From the front, Brooklyn Collective Elementary is plain, all concrete. The back windows make it special, letting in light, not making you feel like you’re in a tomb.

  “I’m looking out for you, baby girl.”

  Pop’s expression is earnest, sweet. It feels good that Pop thinks he’s looking out for me. About time.

  But this is the wrong time.

  “I don’t want to leave my school.”

  Pop grunts. He never listens to me. We climb the school steps, push through the heavy doors. Color is everywhere. Sky-blue and yellow walls. Bulletin boards with white trim and gold letters. All shades of kids. The older ones, curious about Pop, wave, “Hey, Dèja.”

  “We go through here.” Another door.

  In the stairwell, Pop stops, holding on to the handrail, leaning into the wall. Kids swarm around him. Sweat pops on his face.

  “Pop, come on.”

  He coughs a bit. His eyes are super dark, like Ray’s eyes when he gets scared.

  “How far?”

  “Second floor.”

  Pop nods and takes a step. Then another and another. But it’s like each step is swamp mud sucking him down and he’s got to lift extra hard to get to the next step.

  Homeroom is bustling. I’m going to miss it.

  Sabeen waves. I’m going to miss her. Ben watches George doing a magic trick with cards. ’Stasia and Angel are comparing charm bracelets. I’m going to miss these kids. This school.

  I point. “That’s Miss Garcia.”

  Pop’s not paying attention; he’s moving toward the windows. I don’t think he sees the kids, the desks, or Miss Garcia. He only sees the view across the river.

  Gently, his palms touch glass. He leans his forehead against the window.

  Miss Garcia click-click-clicks toward him. “Sit, Dèja. Sit, class. We’ll begin shortly.”

  Everyone, except me, goes to his or her desk and chair. Whisper-whisper. Chatter-chatter-chatter. My fists ball. But my classmates are right. Pop is a spectacle.

  Miss Garcia speaks to Pop. No one can hear what she says. I can’t even tell if Pop is answering back. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even look at her.

  Miss Garcia hooks her arm around Pop’s. She’s leading him out the room. “Michael,” she calls. “Will you show Mr. Barnes the principal’s office? He wants to speak with Principal Thompson.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Dèja, you stay here. This week, Michael is Homeroom Helper. He’ll take good care of your father.”

  “Sure will,” says Michael, promising. “Mr. Barnes.” Pop looks at him, but I don’t think he sees him. Michael, just like Miss Garcia, hooks his arm around Pop’s.

  Michael’s thoughtful. He seems to know Pop’s sick, not quite right. Kind, Michael leads him away.

  I’m going to hate leaving this school.

  All day I expect Pop to take me out of class, away from this school. But he doesn’t.

  We switch classes. History. Mr. Schmidt.

  “Any differences—between the far past and the recent past? Between older and more current American history?”

  No one says anything.

  I raise my hand. “Lots of differences. But it’s not the differences that matter—it’s what unites us, holds together our society. That’s the question we answered.”

  “Good, good.” He strokes his beard. “Some histories repeat; some events are unique. There is regional, statewide, and national history. We share all of it in common as Americans.”

  Mr. Schmidt looks like Yoda—short, squat, wrinkled. What little hair he has is gray. Like Yoda, he sometimes says weird, weird stuff.

  “When asked a question, class, it’s important to consider how it’s framed. Sometimes a question is a door to another question, another way of seeing. Understanding.”

  Ben raises his hand but doesn’t wait for Mr. Schmidt to point.

  “Dèja figured it out. Told us to turn the question inside out.”

  “Did she now?”

  Sabeen jumps up. “Ben typed an answer. Read it, Ben.” Sabeen and me push Ben toward the front of the room.

  Ben reads:

  “American principles, freedom, democracy, and justice for all, withstand the test of time. History changes. Relationships between Americans change. But America’s ideals remain strong or adapt and get stronger.”

  “Good, good. Well-written. Excellent thinking, Dèja. You challenged the context of my question.”

  I puff my chest, not minding that everyone is looking at me.

  “Write for me, class. What does it mean to be an American? Why does history matter?” Mr. Schmidt picks up a marker. “Why is history,” he writes:

  RELEVANT? ALIVE? PERSONAL?

  “Being American”

  Essay by Dèja

  by Dèja Barnes

  I used to think I was just me. Dèja. But I am an American, connected to my school, my friends. My home.

  I am bigger and better than I thought I was.

  I am not alone. My family disappoints me. Especially Pop. He wants to take me away from what connects me. But I think if I leave Brook
lyn Collective Elementary, I will always be friends with Ben and Sabeen. Just like I will always be American.

  I stare at my words.

  America is my history. My story. Not just “Homeless Dèja.”

  I don’t know how yet—but the towers falling is my history, too. My friend Ben showed me. My friend Sabeen shared hurt. Sadness, sadness. (That’s not a sentence, I know.) History is about feelings, too. I’m happy I’m American. But sometimes American history isn’t happy.

  I feel proud of my essay. The title is better, focused. It’s not perfect. There’re sentence fragments. Lots.

  I didn’t know I thought and felt what I wrote.

  Funny, looking at the words, I see me better.

  Dèja, the original. The one and only.

  Pop still doesn’t come. We do music. Sing “This Land Is Your Land.” At my old school, we sang pop. Besides the national anthem, I never knew so many songs were written about America. Mrs. Cohn says, “We’re celebrating America.” She’s got a whole book of songs with the American flag and fireworks on the cover.

  In the afternoon, we have science. Pop must’ve gone home. I feel better. But what if Pop is waiting for the next day or the next to take me away? Maybe he’s already visiting other schools?

  Mrs. Davis, our science teacher, is showing a video. She talks as she lowers the blinds and turns off the lights.

  Images flicker on the screen. A man’s deep voice booms.

  “David and Nelson Rockefeller wanted to revitalize Lower Manhattan. The Port Authority of two states—New York and New Jersey—cooperated to build the World Trade Center, a complex of buildings that included the Twin Towers, then the two tallest buildings in America.”

  Construction workers dig a huge hole.

  “Groundbreaking began August 1966. The tall towers needed a strong foundation. Workers had to dig deep through silt to find firm soil.”

  Men with yellow hats push, pull wheelbarrows. Carry buckets. Trucks haul dirt and pour concrete while men hammer and weld.