by N. H. Senzai
“Self-talk?”
“You’ve gone quiet on me,” Dr. Kelley said. “What are you thinking about?”
“Handing out manna bags.” I could tell by the confused look on her face that Dr. Kelley didn’t know what I meant. “When you mentioned self-talk, I got this picture in my mind of a homeless man I see on the Tampa Riverwalk. He talks to himself. Sometimes Mom and I take him a ziplock bag with stuff like protein bars, sunscreen, and socks in it. Our church makes the bags, and we buy them for five dollars.”
“That’s a very worthwhile thing for you and your mom to do,” Dr. Kelley said, “but positive self-talk is a little different. Every time you have a negative thought, I want you to pause. Think about it for a second … and then turn it into a positive. For instance, I’ll probably have a panic attack at my next swim meet becomes, I’ll probably be a little anxious at my next swim meet, but that’s okay. I’ll take some deep breaths and get through it.”
“Something that easy actually works?”
Dr. Kelley leaned toward me. “It does. Some patients even carry around a small notebook. They write down their negative thoughts and reframe them into positive ones.”
“You mean like, I stink at oral reports would become, With enough practice, I’ll get better at giving oral reports?”
“Exactly,” Dr. Kelley said.
“Okay, I’ll give it a try. I’ll even use a notebook. You know, Dad and I took Noura, Ammar, and Mr. Alwan on a boat trip to Shell Key. She was nervous about being surrounded by so much water, but ended up having a great time!”
“That sounds like fun,” Dr. Kelley said.
I paused, wanting to ask my next question, but afraid of the answer. I pulled my hair around to the side and started braiding it. “Do you … do you think I’m ready to swim in competition again?”
Dr. Kelley stared at me for a long time. “What do you think?”
“I’m thinking … I’m thinking maybe I should skip the spring meets and shoot for the summer, or maybe even wait until fall.”
“That sounds reasonable,” Dr. Kelley said, “and it gives us a goal to work toward. If you’d like, I could attend your next meet.”
“Is that allowed?”
She laughed. “Absolutely. I’d be there to support you, and we’d do some visualization beforehand. It’s really nothing out of the ordinary. I’ve gone to a concert with a patient afraid of crowds, ridden an elevator with a claustrophobic, even taken a road trip with a woman afraid to drive.”
I shook my head and imagined being on I-275, with cars whizzing by and a panicked driver. Now that was brave. “At least you won’t have to do anything as drastic as swim in the lane beside me. Sure, I’d love for you to come.”
“It’s a date,” Dr. Kelley said. “And, Jordyn, try and take the pressure off yourself. Being a happy, well-adjusted teen is much more important than holding a state record. I’ve spoken to your parents and your coach—they just want you to be happy.”
I stared out the office window, thinking about happiness. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine my life without swimming. I thought about taking down the Missy Franklin and Katie Ledecky posters from my bedroom walls. Of not swimming beside Lea. Of never again hearing Coach say, Good job, Jordyn! Thinking about giving up those things caused tears to leak from my eyes, and that’s when I knew for sure I’d be back swimming my heart out. It was about freedom—about flying over water like the fish on my necklace. And when I remembered that free feeling, the one I always used to have, something inside me relaxed for the first time since Mom’s miscarriage. Finally, I could breathe.
Successful swimming lessons, a boat ride to see incredible birds, and now, Jordyn had had an amazing breakthrough with her counselor. It felt like things were looking up when I heard a faint, plaintive cry coming from somewhere down the hallway, near the eighth-grade wing.
I looked over at Ammar, confused. “Who is that?” I asked, but he shrugged.
The bell for lunch had rung a few minutes before, but we’d stayed to talk to the math teacher about an upcoming test. We needed to make wudu and quickly pray so we could have lunch with our friends in the courtyard. Penny had the idea to go to Disney World, and just the thought of meeting Mickey Mouse had caused my heart to beat faster. I hoped we could afford to go.
The strange wail came again, this time sounding as if it was closer. It was followed by a garbled voice: “Ammar … Noura, where are you guys?”
“It sounds like a boy,” I muttered as we rounded the corner and headed toward the bathrooms closest to the gym.
Before Ammar could push open the door to the boys’ bathroom, a head popped out, followed by a plump body. It was Joel. His neatly pressed shirt and shorts were disheveled. He blinked, as if trying to focus behind his round metal frames.
“Thank goodness,” he burst out, wringing his hands. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you guys.”
“Joel, calm down,” said Ammar, his voice as soft as when he was soothing Ismail. “What’s wrong?”
Joel stood shaking, tears collecting in his eyes.
“Are you okay?” I asked, worry flooding through me. “Is your mom okay?”
“My mom? She’s fine, better actually,” he said distractedly, “but something terrible has happened,” and he took off running.
Ammar gave me a confused look, but we started to run too.
“What’s going on?” asked Lea, standing at her locker.
“I’m not sure, but Joel said it’s terrible.”
Lea slammed her locker shut and hurried after us. Joel slipped past the eighth-grade wing toward the hall that led to the gym. I spotted Lubna and Malik talking near the water fountain, and when they saw us sprinting by, they followed. Malik’s long legs sped past us, matching Ammar’s strides.
Before Joel got to the gym, he slowed and slipped down a familiar side hallway, toward the supply room. He skidded to a halt at the open door, his hand gripping the frame. Ammar reached him first, and after looking inside, he turned, and the blood drained from his face. Malik froze and his mouth flew open.
I reached them next, and then Lea. What greeted me was utter destruction. I felt sick. The row of cheerful paper flowers had been uprooted and lay in balled-up scraps beside what had been Penny’s towering trees. Their three-dimensional branches were scattered on the carpet, now littered with broken stars that had hung from the ceiling.
“What happened?” I whispered, stepping past the others to enter the prayer room. I skirted around the scattered cushions and shredded red-and-white curtains, noticing someone had dumped a ton of glitter onto the soft carpet. The once cheery snowflakes and posters with positive messages had all been ripped apart. Daksha’s COEXIST banner had been torn in two and hung drunkenly by shards of tape.
Ammar stumbled into the room, followed by the others. He fell to his knees and clutched a cushion to his chest.
“All our work,” said Lubna, choked up. “It’s all gone.”
I stood at the center of the room, feeling tears slip down my face. Who hates us so much? I thought. Although we’d been made to feel unwelcome before, this was the first time I had truly felt as if we would never belong. As if hate would win.
Our social studies class was silent. No papers rustled; nobody whispered or passed notes. I slouched in my seat, still numb from what had happened the day before. My eyes wandered to the whiteboard. As usual, Mr. Fowler had written one of his quotes. Normally, I would have copied it in my notebook, but I just wasn’t motivated. I didn’t think anybody was. Frowning, I let the words he’d written sink in.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof . . . First Amendment to the US Constitution
Prayer in Public Schools— The Supreme Court Weighs In:
Engel v. Vitale (1962)
Wallace v. Jaffree (1985)
Lee v. Weisman (1992)
Santa Fe v. Doe (2000)
I leaned forward and scowled a
t the quote. If we didn’t live up to the principles our country was founded on, what was the point?
Mr. Fowler perched on the edge of his desk. His bushy eyebrows drooped as he examined our somber faces. With a sigh, he stood and paced in front of us. “Yesterday, several students stopped by to see me privately about what happened to the prayer room. Then, later in the evening, I heard from quite a few of your parents. I know some of you are sad, some are angry, and others just confused—wondering who did this terrible thing?”
I had thought about it almost nonstop. Who? Who had vandalized the prayer room? A list of names flashed through my mind. Was it Nick? He’d said Immigrants are terrorists and drew the mean cartoon of Noura. Or maybe it was Alexander? He’d tripped Ammar, and most kids thought he’d done it on purpose. One of the names left a sick feeling in my stomach, and I felt like a traitor for even considering it, but could it have been Bailey? She hadn’t been the same since Bryan died, and when we did the coastal cleanup, she’d said, Bryan is dead because of these people. There was also the possibility it was a classmate I hadn’t even considered. One who was angry on the inside, but hadn’t shown it on the outside. Or maybe … maybe it was an adult?
I didn’t wait my turn before blurting out, “I just want to know who did it, and I want them to be punished!”
Mr. Fowler looked at me with sadness in his eyes and paused before answering. “Jordyn, I understand, but you have to be patient and let the school conduct their investigation.” He turned his palms toward the ceiling. “And … this may be hard to accept, but we may never know who vandalized the prayer room.”
“This is true,” Ammar muttered. “The police still haven’t caught the person who set fire to the mosque, even with surveillance video.”
Mr. Fowler pursed his lips, nodding at Ammar. “You’re right. The police haven’t made an arrest, at least not yet.”
“Even though no one has been caught,” Noura said, “something good has come from the fire. Someone at the mosque set up a LaunchGood account to repair the mosque, and he noticed that many of the gifts were in strange amounts … eighteen, thirty-six, seventy-two. And all the donors linked to the money had Jewish last names like Cohen, Avi, and Goldstein.”
“They were giving chai,” Joel said, a smile spreading across his pensive face. “It’s a Jewish custom. When you give chai, you’re wishing someone a long life.”
“That’s great,” Mr. Fowler said. “It’s wonderful to hear that people across our community are stepping up to help. I call it feeding the good wolves.”
“What do you mean?” Nick gruffly asked.
At the sound of his voice, Noura’s shoulders twitched, and Nick slunk down in his seat.
“It’s from a story called ‘The Tale of Two Wolves,’ ” Mr. Fowler said. “Some people say it’s a Cherokee legend, but nobody really knows for sure. It goes like this: One day, a grandfather was talking with his grandson. He said, ‘Each person has two wolves inside him. The good wolf is brave and kind. The bad wolf is hateful and afraid. The wolves are always fighting.’ The grandson asks, ‘Which wolf wins?’ The grandfather answers, ‘The one you feed.’ ”
It was so quiet in the room you could have heard a feather fall. We didn’t know who had set the fire, but we knew why … Hate.
It was hard not to be angry. Or sad. Or disheartened. I looked across the dinner table at Mama and Baba and saw the same mixture of emotions flicker across their faces. Ammar slouched beside me, pushing a piece of kabob across his plate. It was always a troubling sign when my brother wouldn’t eat, especially his favorite lamb kabobs drizzled with spicy tomato sauce. Only Ismail seemed happy, without a care in the world, sticking bits of cheese to his face. He was going through a white food phase and would only eat bread, cheese, milk, and rice. Mama just gave him what he wanted, hoping he’d get sick of them and eat something else.
“I think we should go back home,” muttered Ammar, his eyes downcast.
Baba paused, chewing slowly, and swallowed before answering. “Habibi, we are home.”
“No,” said Ammar, dropping his fork onto his plate. The sound startled Ismail and his eyes widened. “America is not home. We are not welcome here. The president made a ban against us the day we arrived. People stare at Mama and Noura just because they dress differently. They make fun of us when we pray. A person full of hate set fire to the mosque, and now another one has destroyed our prayer room.”
Mama reached across the table and took Ammar’s hand into her own. “I love Syria,” she said, her eyes mournful. “I would like nothing more than to walk back into our apartment in Aleppo—visit my mother’s house, go shopping in the souk, help my brothers at their bakery, or just stand and smell the jasmine while listening to the birds sing in your father’s hotel.”
Ammar bowed his head, tears running down his cheeks. I was stunned. He never cried. Not even when they’d pulled him out of the rubble, his face slashed and bloody.
“But, my love,” continued Mama, “that life … that home is gone. There is no returning. We fought to keep it, but the price of our lives was too high.”
I looked at my parents, the reality of what they … of what we had lost rushing back. I wanted us to be happy again. To be normal—at least as normal as it’s possible to be after living through a war where we lost many family members and friends.
“As usual,” Baba said, smiling gently at Mama, “your mother is right. To become a refugee, to leave the place of your birth, break with your culture and history, is like ripping away half of yourself. But we had to find a place where you, our children, would be safe and have a future.”
“But America doesn’t want us,” said Ammar, angrily wiping his face.
I thought about what he said. Ammar was right. “I don’t feel as if I belong either,” I said. “So many people have hate in their hearts.” Baba was about to speak, but I kept going, unable to stop the flowing words, because Ammar wasn’t 100 percent correct. “But there are also others—Mr. Fowler calls them good wolves. Families, like Jordyn’s, who have helped us. Students who came together and set up the prayer room. Even strangers gave money to repair the mosque.”
“But it’s not enough,” said Ammar, the anger subsiding, leaving mostly sadness. “We have to always fight—to prove we are normal, that we are good people.”
“Everyone has to struggle,” I said, remembering Mr. Fowler’s lessons on immigration and citizenship. “Except for the native people who lived here, or the poor Africans who were brought as slaves, everyone else came as refugees or immigrants. And most struggled—nearly each group had to face hate—the Irish, Italians, Poles, Jews, and others. After what happened in Syria, this is the place we need to build a home.”
“Noura is right,” said Baba, pride beaming from his eyes as he looked at me. “No place is perfect. There will be conflict wherever you are, but you have to find your … uh, good wolves, work hard, and live together in peace and harmony.”
Ammar still looked disheartened, but he didn’t disagree.
Ismail threw a piece of cheese at Mama, but she ignored it. Puzzled, she asked, “How do wolves have anything to do with this?”
“Uh, yes,” chimed in Baba. “That confused me too.”
Ammar and I looked at each other and started to laugh.
We were running late! “Dad, can’t you drive any faster?” I pleaded, anxiety pulling at me like a riptide.
Dad gestured with his free hand toward all the cars surrounding us. “Kennedy Boulevard is a parking lot. I’m doing the best I can.”
“Close your eyes and take some deep breaths,” Mom said. “We’re cutting it close, but with a little bit of luck, we should get there before the meeting starts.”
I leaned my head back against the seat, but instead of relaxing, I remembered all that had happened since the prayer room had been vandalized. Some parents were upset, calling the room a mini mosque. Other parents said there should be no religion at all in public schools. Still others wan
ted prayer in school, but only Christian ones.
Confused parents posted on the county school board whistleblower page. They sent angry emails and made phone calls. Pretty soon the school board stepped in and called a special meeting to discuss it.
Mr. Fowler had signed up online to speak at the meeting, and when he told us, Penny had asked if kids were allowed to weigh in.
“They sure are,” Mr. Fowler said with a pleased smile. “Anybody interested?”
A lot of us had signed up, and now, while I was stuck in traffic, Lea, Daksha, Penny, Joel, Noura, and Ammar were probably waiting for me inside the Raymond O. Shelton School Administrative Center.
“You can open your eyes,” Mom said, looking a little pale herself. “We made it!”
While Dad searched for parking, I watched people picket in front of the four-storied admin building. “Look!” I said, pointing to a man carrying a sign that said, BAN ISLAM.
“I don’t have much patience for extremists,” Dad muttered.
Mom grabbed my hand and we hurried past people clapping and chanting, “No religion in public schools! No religion in public schools!”
Things were calmer once we got inside. People whispered in small groups. I recognized Imam Ibrahim, chatting with the rabbi and the minister who’d spoken at the interfaith service.
“Good luck,” Mom said. “Remember to breathe the way Dr. Kelley taught you.”
I slipped down the aisle to the second row, joining Mr. Fowler and the kids from school. Noura gave me a weak smile, but Ammar didn’t look up. He sat beside Joel with his hands crossed over his chest.
“Glad you made it,” Mr. Fowler said. “I was getting worried.”
“Sorry. Dad was running late because of a dental emergency.”
I barely had time to scoot into the empty chair beside Lea before the school board members took their seats behind a raised platform shaped like a half circle. There was a podium with a microphone for those of us who’d signed up to address the board.