Thomas had joined us in our tiny office, and he looked at me carefully, gauging my reaction.
“Consider it your responsibility as a journalist,” Marisa said. “Just run us through the day, what you were doing downtown. Talk about how you were showing your cousin around the city, how scary the attack felt. Maybe you could post a picture of yourself, to give listeners some context,” she said, warming to her theme.
My heart sank at her words. I pictured the blue hijab I had beenwearing, one of my favourites. A very poor choice of camouflage. I should have worn a red and white maple-leaf hijab instead.
Marisa reached out and squeezed my shoulder, taking my silence as reticence instead of discomfort. “People will be interested in hearing your side. They want your perspective. They will be sympathetic, Hana. This will be agoodstory about your community.”
“Because this time the Muslims were the victims?”
“Exactly!” Marisa beamed at me. Behind her, Thomas’s face remained neutral, but I could feel his unease. “Please just think about it. Okay?” Marisa asked.
I looked down at my shoes. Sneakers today—great for running. “I’ll think about the story,” I said.
Hemingway allegedly said there’s nothing to writing. “All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Being a visible Muslim felt a bit like that too, sometimes. This time.
AT THE THINKING WALL, THOMASeased beside me, adjusting his body so that his hands were folded behind him, digging into the brick at the small of his back.
“Marisa was trying to be kind,” he said. “Her intentions are good.”
“Her intentions are always above reproach,” I said. “It’s left for others to deal with the impact of those good intentions.”
Thomas looked at his feet and the breeze ruffled his dark, curly hair. “I wasn’t born here,” he said. “I immigrated with my parents and sister when I was eleven, from Chennai. I had to take ESL classes for years because I didn’t know any English. I still don’t understand the spelling rules, your obsession with the silentg.” He smiled. “I used to watch TV constantly, to mimic the way Americans spoke.”
“Is that why you’re such a sellout now?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. He caught my eye and we laughed. “You don’t have to tell this story. Not if it’s too painful,” Thomas said.
“But my pain makes for good storytelling, right? It makes me more relatable.”
Thomas looked away. Our laughter had been spontaneous, a subtle acknowledgement of all that we shared, despite our different outlooks. I liked that we could laugh together. Even if I wasn’t sure we were laughing about the same thing.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rashid convinced me to accompany him and Fahim to the baseball diamond on Friday morning, two days after the downtown attack. The restaurant would open late that day, after the jumah prayer, and the weather was fine.
While Fahim and Rashid practised hitting and pitching, I sat in the empty wooden bleachers and worked on editing mySecret Family Historypodcast. I had finally cornered Kawkab Khala and convinced her to finish our interview. As I played over our conversation, I allowed myself a tiny flare of excitement. The rest of my world might be on fire, but this podcast was shaping up to be excellent. Perhaps I would show it to Marisa and Thomas, an example of an introspective program that talked about the everyday experiences of people of colour, without having to turn everything into a painful lesson.
Working on that secret project also gave me something to think about besides Aydin and my plans to sabotage Wholistic Grill. I had studiously avoided checking on the progress of my rumour-spreading. I was too busy, I told myself. Perhaps it also felt strange now, after everything that had happened downtown.
I took out my phone and messaged StanleyP. We hadn’t communicated in a while; he hadn’t even commented on my last few podcast episodes. My listener count had been rising steadily, but I missed my friend.
AnaBGR
It took me a while, but I think you might have been right.
He replied immediately, as if he had been waiting for me to message.
StanleyP
I usually am. What am I right about this time?
AnaBGR
Feeling bad about something I did re: competition.
StanleyP
Welcome to Regretsville. The rent is high and the amenities are pitiful, but at least you can wallow among beautiful company.
