though it is a title of respect
given to Muslims who have lived long enough
to make a pilgrimage to Mecca.
His ignorance is almost as offensive as his bigotry.
I open my mouth to enlighten him,
but Mama nudges me—
a reminder of where we are,
andwhowe are.
“You got somethin’ to say?” the man taunts,
raising his arms in invitation.
“Matihullah,” Mama says,
shifting her bags to grip my elbow.
She drags me forward, away from the threat.
“Home! We must go home.”
My heart thrashes against my ribs as I follow,
listening to the man’s unrelenting jeers,
clenching my hands into useless fists.
I hate him,
but I hate myself more.
It reeks of weakness,
allowing prejudice to affect me,
tohurtme.
But sometimes…
Sometimes I wish I were anywhere but here.
elise
Bambi is up at dawn. She wakes me with slobbery kisses.
I roll out of bed, then throw on a pair of leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, one my brother sent me after he and Audrey moved to Fort Bragg, leaving me behind for what would not be the first time. It’s black with a crest of blue, yellow, and white, set off by a red lightning bolt. His unit’s motto—Advise, Support, Stabilize—is embroidered below. I sport it so often it’s pilling and faded. Last year I had to mend a hole along the right sleeve’s seam. I’m not sure what I’ll do when it’s too old to pass as wearable.
Bambi bounces around while I brush my teeth and twist my long hair into a knot, her claws clicking against the hardwood. I leave the house sans camera, and she seems pleased that I’ve got nothing to slow me down. In the front yard, I clip her leash to her collar and hold her tennis ball out so she can clamp it between her jaws; she likes to carry it all the way to the beach. We’re heading down the cobblestone path when our salt-and-pepper-haired neighbor, Iris, approaches the waist-high box hedge that separates her yard from ours.
“If it isn’t my dear Elise,” she says. “And Bambi, too!”
Bambi turns an excited circle, grinning around her ball. She loves Iris, and Iris loves her—almost as much as she loves her garden, which encompasses her entire yard, front and back. I appreciate her green thumb because sometimes, when my window’s cracked and the wind whirls just right, my room smells of gardenia and lilac and rose. She’s outside all the time, pruning, planting, weeding, and eavesdropping on neighborhood goings-on.
