by Klay, Phil
At the time, I tended to play the world-weary vet who’d seen something of life and could look at my fellow students’ idealism with only the wistful sadness of a parent whose child is getting too old to believe in Santa Claus. It’s amazing how well the veteran mystique plays, even at a school like Amherst, where I’d have thought the kids would be smart enough to know better. There’s an old joke, “How many Vietnam vets does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” “You wouldn’t know, you weren’t there.” And that’s really the game. Everyone assumed I’d had some soul-scarring encounter with the Real: the harsh, unvarnished, violent world-as-it-actually-is, outside the bubble of America and academia, a sojourn to the Heart of Darkness that either destroys you or leaves you sadder and wiser.
It’s bullshit, of course. Overseas I learned mainly that, yes, even tough men will piss themselves if things get scary enough, and no, it’s not pleasant to be shot at, thank you very much; but other than that, the only thing I felt I really had on these kids was the knowledge of just how nasty and awful humans are. A not inconsiderable bit of wisdom, perhaps, but it gave me no added insight into, say, applying Althusserian interpellation to Gramsci’s critique of ideological structures. Even the professor would yield authority when the discussions got to the social effects of rampant violence and criminality, like I’d tell them I’d seen “over there.” Zara was the only one who saw through me.
She was running her own game. As a black girl from Baltimore, she had a fair share of street cred. That she was the daughter of a physics professor at Johns Hopkins and a real estate attorney and was thus a million times more privileged than 90 percent of the white guys I served with in the Army didn’t particularly matter. Baltimore, everybody who’d seen an episode of The Wire could tell you, was a rough city.
My attitude was, she deserved the authority she took. The things you really deserve, no one gives to you, so take what you can get. And I liked having a sparring partner.
One time she cut me off right at the knees. I was midway through delivering an enjoyably self-righteous lecture to another student who’d made an offhand remark about the U.S. invading Iraq for oil.
“I was one of those people invading Iraq,” I said, “and I didn’t give a damn about oil. Neither did a single soldier I knew. And it’s frankly a little—”
“Oh, come on,” Zara snapped. “Who cares what the soldiers believe? It doesn’t matter what the pawns on a chessboard think about how and why they’re being played.”
“Pawns?” I said, indignant. “You think I was a pawn?”
“Oh. Sorry.” Zara smiled. “I’m sure you were a rook, at least. Same difference.”
She wasn’t scared to give offense, and I liked that.
When the class ended, though, so did my contact with her. Our social circles never intersected, and we’d only occasionally see each other on campus. Months after the class, though, she sought me out.
I was eating alone in Val when she sat down in front of me. I didn’t recognize her at first. By this time the yellow T-shirt, which I had loved, which had hugged her rib cage and clung to her breasts in such an expressive way, was long gone. No more short skirts, no more jeans worn tight around muscular thighs. She had a long brown dress that went all the way down her legs to a rather disappointing pair of flats. Her hair was in a shawl. Everything was demure, and yet, perhaps because this was college in late springtime and every other girl was walking around with half her tits exposed, Zara stood out even more in a crowd than she had before. At least to me she did.
She was Muslim now, I guess. When I’d first met her, she’d been disillusioned. Then searching. And finally, somehow, Islam. I’d never pictured her as the sort to go for a religion about submission, even if that submission was to God.
She explained that since her recent conversion she’d been thinking more and more about Iraq. Specifically, about American imperialism and the fate of the Ummah and the unbelievable numbers of Iraqis getting killed, numbers too large to be conceptualized and that nobody seemed to care about. She sought me out for firsthand information. The real scoop on what was going on. Or what had been going on years ago when I’d been there.
“Be honest with me,” she said.
It could only have ended badly. There’s a perversity in me that, when I talk to conservatives, makes me want to bash the war and, when I talk to liberals, defend it. I’d lived through the Bush administration fucking up on a colossal scale, but I’d also gotten a very good look at the sort of state Zarqawi wanted to establish, and talking with anybody who thought they had a clear view of Iraq tended to make me want to rub shit in their eyes.
Besides, she didn’t tiptoe around delicate subjects. “How could you kill your own people?” was, I believe, what she actually said to me.
“What?” I said, almost starting to laugh.
“How could you kill your own people?”
“They’re not my people,” I said.
“We’re all one people,” she said.
I supposed she meant some Malcolm-X-at-Mecca, “us Muslims are all one people” bullshit. I knew otherwise. The Sunni-Shi’a War had pretty clearly illustrated that the Ummah wasn’t a happy family. I snorted, took a pause, and, as I looked at her flat-heeled shoes, felt that old familiar vet-versus-civilian anger coming up.
“I’m not Muslim,” I said.
Zara looked not so much surprised as concerned, as if she were witnessing me lose my mind. Her lips were pursed, perfectly formed, and beautiful, like every other part of her face. I couldn’t tell if she was wearing makeup or not.
“I’m a Copt,” I said, and since that never elicits any reaction, I added, “Coptic Orthodox Church. Egyptian Christians.”
“Oh,” she said. “Like Boutros Boutros-Ghali.” Now she looked interested, head cocked, oval face looking straight at me.
“Muslims hate us,” I said. “There are riots, sometimes. Like the pogroms in Russia against Jews.” That’s what my father always said. The time he saw his cousin die in one of those riots was a foundational myth for our family. Or, it was for him. Being Copt was not a major part of my life. Not if I could help it.
“So you don’t pray,” she said, “because . . .”
I laughed. “I pray,” I said. “But not to Allah.”
She frowned a little and gave me a look that let me know I was never going to sleep with her.
“So you see, I can kill Muslims as much as I like,” I said, smiling. “Shit, in my religion, that’s how you help an angel get its wings.”
• • •
I thought of it as a mild comment. In the Army it wouldn’t have raised any eyebrows. And though Zara had stiffened up and ended the conversation a bit curtly, I hadn’t thought her especially bothered. But two days later, I found myself face-to-face with the Special Assistant to the President for Diversity and Inclusion, a round little man with a potato head nestled on fat, fleshy shoulders. I’d met him before. As a veteran and a Copt, I was the most diverse thing Amherst had going.
At the time, I didn’t even know what I’d done. The e-mail said I may have violated the provisions in the Amherst student honor code related to “respect for the rights, dignity, and integrity of others,” with particular regard to harassment for reasons “that include but are not limited to race, color, religion, national origin, ethnic identification, age, political affiliation or belief, sexual orientation, gender, economic status, or physical or mental disability.” That didn’t help narrow things down for me.
The e-mail directed me to report to the Special Assistant’s office the following morning, giving me all the time needed to work myself into a fervor. I was at the school on a combination of the G.I. Bill, the Yellow Ribbon Program, and various scholarship funds. If I was expelled or suspended, I didn’t know what sort of jeopardy that money would be in. Everything was dependent on me remaining in “good standing with the school.” I tr
ied to call the VA but was put on hold so long I threw my phone at the wall. As I collected the pieces, I saw my father’s face, his tired eyes and thick mustache, the mix of disappointment and, worse, resigned acceptance that this was my fate, to turn every opportunity into shame.
The next morning, I walked into the Special Assistant’s office. He was seated at his desk, fat head sitting placidly on his shoulders, hands folded, his Salvation Army “Toy for Joy” posters and Ansel Adams prints framed on the wall behind him. All this was expected, even a little funny. But across from him, leaning forward and studiedly ignoring my entrance, sat Zara. That hurt. She wasn’t a friend, but I’d thought we had a sort of respect. And I’d never picked her for another thin-skinned golden child, walking through campus like Humpty Dumpty on a tightrope, waiting for a scandalous word to unsteady her balance and shatter her precious identity. Worse, I knew what I’d said to her and how it would play.
The Special Assistant explained that this wasn’t a “formal mediation” because Zara hadn’t lodged a “formal complaint.” He spoke in the soothing tones a mother would use to calm a frightened child, but he ruined it by explaining that, though no punishment was on the table, if our dispute “had to go to the dean of student conduct,” the consequences could be “serious.” He furrowed his brow theatrically to let me know he meant it.
I sat in my seat, across from the Special Assistant, next to Zara. If she ever got suspended, I thought, she’d be fine. She’d go back to Professor Mom and Daddy Esquire for a term, think about what she’d done, and then return to the school they were paying for. If I got suspended, my father would kick me out of the house. Again.
“Now, Waguih,” the Special Assistant said. “Am I pronouncing that correctly? Wa-goo? Wah-geeh?”
“It’s fine,” I said.
The Special Assistant told me how seriously Amherst took threatening statements. Particularly against a group that had faced so much discrimination in recent years.
“You mean Muslims?” I said.
“Yes.”
“She’s been Muslim for like three days,” I said. “I’ve been facing that shit for years.”
He gave me a concerned face, and waved his hand at me to continue. I felt like I was in therapy.
“I’m Arab and I lived in North Carolina for four years,” I said. “At least she gets to choose to be the terrorist.”
“Muslims aren’t terrorists,” she said.
I turned to her, genuinely angry. “That’s not what I’m saying. Listen to what I’m saying.”
“We’re listening,” said the Special Assistant, “but you’re not helping yourself out.”
I looked down at my hands and took a breath. In the Army I’d been a 37F, a specialist in Psychological Operations. If I couldn’t PsyOps my way out of this, I wasn’t worth a damn.
I considered my options: grovel or bite back. My preference has always been the latter. In Iraq, we’d once broadcast the message “Brave terrorists, I am waiting here for the brave terrorists. Come and kill us.” That stuff feels better than lying down and showing your belly.
“In the Army we had a saying,” I said. “Perception is reality. In war, sometimes what matters isn’t what’s actually happening, but what people think is happening. The Southerners think Grant is winning Shiloh, so they break and run when he charges, and so he does, in fact, win. What you are doesn’t always matter. After 9/11 my family got treated as potential terrorists. You get treated as you’re seen. Perception is reality.”
“My perception,” said Zara, “is that you threatened me. And I talked to some of my friends at Noor, and they felt the same.”
“Of course they feel threatened,” I said to the Special Assistant, “I’m a crazy vet, right? But the only mention of violence came from her. When she accused me of murdering Muslims.”
The Special Assistant’s eyes shifted to Zara. She looked at me. In a way, I’d lied. She’d never used the word murder. I didn’t want to give her time to respond.
“I got shot at,” I said. “Kind of a lot. And I saw people, yes, gunned down. Blown up. Pieces of men. Women. Children.” I was laying it on thick. “I helped as I could. I did what’s right. Right by America, anyway. But those aren’t pleasant memories. And for someone to get in your face . . .” I trailed off, glancing toward the ceiling with a look of anguish.
“I didn’t—,” she began.
“Accuse me of murder?” I said.
“I asked a reasonable question,” she said. “There’s hundreds of thousands dead and . . .”
The Special Assistant tried to calm us down. I gave him a tight smile.
“I understand why she said that,” I said. “But . . . sometimes I can’t sleep at night.”
That wasn’t true. Most nights I slept like a drunken baby. I noticed a slight look of panic on the Special Assistant’s face and pushed forward, determined to get out of the corner they’d boxed me in.
“I see the dead,” I said, letting my voice quaver. “I hear the explosions.”
“No one is disrespecting what you’ve been through,” said the Special Assistant, definitely panicked now. “I’m sure Zara had no intention of disrespecting you.”
Zara, whose face had held a lively anger moments before, looked surprised and, I think, saddened. At first I thought it was because it disappointed her to see me playing the game. It didn’t occur to me that she might simply be feeling sympathy for me. If I’d known that, it would have made me angry.
“And I had no intention of threatening her,” I said, feeling very clever. “But the damage was done.”
The Special Assistant gave me a long stare. He seemed to be determining just how big a liar I was before deciding on a course of minimum liability. “Okay,” he said, doing a Pontius Pilate–style washing motion with his hands. “So—a rational observer might conclude there was ample reason for both sides to be offended.”
“I suppose that’s fair,” I said, allowing myself to appear calmer. We were in the realm of claim and counterclaim. I felt on firmer footing.
Then Zara explained her concerns in a slightly cowed voice. The “justifiable anxieties” of her fellow Muslims and the degree to which they felt they needed to band together and “move aggressively against intolerance.” She explained herself not as though presenting her case, but as if apologizing for her overreaction. It surprised me, what my so-called sleepless nights had done to her sense of grievance. The spark she always had in class discussions was gone. When she finished, I graciously accepted her rationale for feeling threatened and said I’d moderate my words in the future if she’d do the same. The Special Assistant was all approving nods. He told us, “You two have a lot in common,” and we suffered through a little talk about how this was a teachable moment, how if we could get past our anger, we could learn so much from each other. We agreed to learn much from each other. And then he recommended, strongly, that I look into the health services that the college could offer regarding my sleepless nights. I said I would, and we were done. I’d escaped.
We walked out of the office and out of Converse Hall together, emerging into the sunlight. Zara had a dazed look about her. Around us were students heading to class or to breakfast. Since it was Amherst, there were even a few assholes playing Frisbee or, as they would call it, “throwing around the disk.” The morning had a healthy, vibrant cast to it that played oddly against what had happened.
We stood there for a moment before Zara broke the silence.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
“Know what?”
“About what you’ve been through. I’m sorry.”
And without another word she walked away, swishing her legs under her dress and dissolving into the sunlight streaming in from the east.
As she faded, so did my relief at evading punishment, leaving me with what I’d done. She had, perhaps inartfully, asked me a genu
ine question. I’d given her nothing but lies. And now she had whatever guilt I’d dumped on her. To leave her with that, I thought, was cowardice.
I ran toward her, cutting a diagonal across the grass, pushing past other students, and planting myself directly in her path.
“What the fuck was that?” I said.
It clearly wasn’t something she expected. The whole morning, perhaps, had been like that. Unsettling.
“What?” She shook her head. “What was what?”
“Why did you apologize to me?”
I could hear the anger in my voice and she stared back with amazement, perhaps with a little fear. But she said nothing.
“You think the big bad war broke me,” I said, “and it made me an asshole. That’s why you think I said those things. But what if I’m just an asshole?”
My breath was still coming quick—the aftermath of the run—and I was full of energy. My fists were balled tight. I wanted to pace back and forth. But she was still, sizing me up, colder every second. And then she spoke.
“Calling you a killer was out of line,” she told me, “even if you are an asshole.”
I smiled.
“You push my buttons,” I said. “Good. You’d be boring if you didn’t.”
“And I care?” she said. “Whether you think I’m boring or not?”
“Did you believe that story in there?” I said. “Poor me and my hard little war?”
She gave me a blank look. “I guess,” she said. “I don’t know. I don’t care. Whatever happened to you, I don’t care.”