Truth: “Go Home” is a xenophobic favorite.
Truth: Racists are really bad at geography.
The scene spun around me. Flashing police lights. My mom bringing me an extra shawl to drape around my shoulders. The cameras. The pedestrians stopping to gape. The neighbors coming by to offer kind words and to help clean up. All as the sun rose on a brisk, bright January morning. My mind felt jittery, images popping in and out, some bumping into other ones, like a muddled flashback in a movie, where the character is trying to remember something, reach for something they can’t grasp. Except this wasn’t a movie. It was real life.
And I knew who did it.
I didn’t have proof. But I knew in my bones it was Nate.
A fireball whirled in my chest. My stomach clenched. How deep did Nate’s anger run? Hacking the newspaper, vandalizing the school and my parents’ store, threatening me. How far had he escalated? Was he capable of assault? Kidnapping? With each new question, I felt my breaths grow shakier.
“Beta, are you okay?” my mom asked. “Why don’t you go inside and sit down.” She put her arm around me and led me to the door. “I made some tea when the police went in to look at the video from the security camera. Drink some. It will warm you up.” My mother smiled at me. I’m not sure how she and my dad were holding it together. Those hateful words painted on the store were glaring at me and screaming in my ears. I couldn’t think straight.
“Mom,” I said right before stepping into the store, “how can you be so calm? Aren’t you upset?”
“Of course I am, beta. I’m furious. It’s a horrifying violation, and I hope they find who did this. What a sad, cowardly person to have so much hate in their heart and then to spew it under the cover of darkness.”
“But you and Dad both seem so… unbothered.”
My mom cupped my chin in her hand. “This isn’t the first Islamophobe who has crossed our path. We might never be able to stop them all, but one thing I do know is that racists want to take our power and sap our energy. They want us to live in constant fear; we are not about to let them. Our existence is not controversial, and this is our home. Full stop. We don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” My mom kissed my cheek. I was too choked up to respond, so I nodded and headed inside, my heart squeezed like it was held in a vise.
There were still a few cops reviewing the security footage in the back room, so I tiptoed in to pour myself a cup of tea. They were at the other end, their backs to me, and their loud voices and the crackle coming from their radios were likely covering up the sounds of my shoes shuffling against the floor.
“Perp made a damn good effort to hide his face,” one of the police said.
“Wore a mask, got that hoodie pulled up. Gloves on. Can’t even tell what race he is,” the other cop replied.
I dropped the spoon I was about to use to stir milk into my tea; the spoon clattered against the counter before hitting the floor. Both cops swiftly turned their heads. The shorter one put his hand to his holster. That made me jump back, sent my heart racing. Seeing me, he lifted his hands up in, like, a calming gesture. Like I was the one who needed to take it down a notch. But, hello, I wasn’t the one whose first instinct was to reach for a gun.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, miss,” he said. “But best not to sneak up on armed officers.”
“I didn’t realize I was sneaking,” I whispered, then cleared my throat. “I… I only came in here to get some tea. I didn’t mean to—”
“No worries. I’m Officer Hill, and this is Officer Anthony,” he said, pointing to the cop who was seated in front of the TV my parents kept in back to monitor the store. Officer Hill was standing next to the chair, and now both had turned to face me.
“So you’re the one who found the graffiti,” Officer Anthony said. “I know how scary that can be.”
He and Officer Hill were both white, so I supposed they weren’t speaking about personal experiences with racist graffiti. I nodded.
“Guess you’re an early riser, huh?” he added.
“Going for a run,” I said.
“You do that often?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Once in a while. I guess.”
Officer Anthony’s questions seemed basic, and he had this light conversational tone, so why did it feel so tense?
“You have any idea who might want to do this to your parents’ store? Anyone who has a grudge against them?” Officer Hill took a few steps toward me.
I tilted my head up to look at him. “A grudge? Against my parents? Can’t imagine any customer would be disgruntled over their tea selection.”
Officer Anthony chuckled. “Oh, you’d be surprised.”
I picked up my mug and wrapped my fingers around it to warm them. Should I tell them my theory? About Nate? My last experience with the police hadn’t exactly filled me with confidence or trust. But everything felt like it was getting out of hand, and this was maybe my best chance to get them to pay attention. “Well, I… uh… it’s a guess and…”
Officer Hill’s wrinkly forehead softened a bit, and he took another step toward me. “It’s okay. You know, if you see something, you should say something. You never know how it might help.”
I wanted to laugh out loud. Asma and I had already tried, but we’d been blown off when we went to the precinct. The desk sergeant hadn’t even written anything down when we were there. So much for “See something, say something.” I bit back my words because a sarcastic remark could get me in trouble. If there was any chance that Nate was dangerous, then I needed the police to be on our side. I needed them to make sure my friends would be safe. I didn’t know who else to ask for help. It’s not like there were a lot of alternatives.
“Well,” I started again, “we’ve had some incidences at our school.”
“Right, right, there was the smoke bomb and the vandalism,” Officer Anthony said. He scooted forward in the wheeled office chair.
“There was also a newspaper hack. And… and a column I wrote got copied and plastered all over the school with a Nietzsche quote scribbled on it that said Swallow your poison. The hack also had a Nietzsche reference.”
“Who?” Officer Hill asked.
“Nietzsche. He’s a German philosopher who was loved by Nazis, and white nationalists stan him now, too.”
Officer Anthony adjusted his collar. “You think it’s all connected… how?”
I took a sip of my tea with shaky hands. They both were giving me slightly different variations of the skeptical raised-eyebrow look, like they’d seen one too many obsessive true crime fans trying to crack cold cases. I put my mug down on the counter because I was afraid it would slip from my clammy palms. Do it, Safiya. Say the words. “I think I know who did it, because he confronted me yesterday after school. And he’s also a big fan of Nietzsche, like quoting him in class and stuff.”
“Confronted?” Officer Anthony stood up from his chair.
“Were you hurt? Did you call 911?” Officer Hill furrowed his brow while he rushed out his questions.
“No. It was more like a verbal confrontation. It’s this guy, Nate, he cornered me about some stuff at school. He was yelling.”
“What was he yelling at you about?”
My stomach fell. I couldn’t tell them I’d stolen the combination and broken into Nate’s locker, because then I would be the one who’d committed a crime, even though he’d done worse. And I couldn’t tell them I was the one who shoved Nate, even though he was the one in my face, because they could twist it into some kind of assault. With me being the assaulter. I didn’t trust that they’d believe me. “He was going on about me supposedly taking something that belonged to him. I dunno. He wasn’t making much sense.”
“And did you?” Officer Anthony arched an eyebrow. “Take something of his.”
“No. I didn’t take anything that belonged to him.” Technically, the book and the page he ripped out belonged to the school library, so I wasn’t exactly lying. “He seemed… irrational.” I shrugged.
“And how did you leave it?” Officer Hill asked.
“Oh, my friend Richard stepped in, and then, uh, Nate backed off. That’s all. I didn’t think it was that big a deal, so I didn’t—”
“You didn’t tell your parents?”
“Nope,” I whispered, shaking my head.
Officer Hill continued. “Are you involved with this kid Richard romantically? Could Nate have been jealous? Did you not tell your parents because you’re not allowed to talk to boys? Or maybe they don’t want you hanging with boys who aren’t your culture?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Like, because they want you to have an arranged marriage, like, back home? Maybe you’re promised to someone?”
My jaw dropped. I could not believe what I was hearing. This country was our home. “No. No. That’s not it at all.” My voice got louder. How did this get to arranged marriage when the actual conversation was supposed to be about racist graffiti?
My mind slipped back to the time when my US history teacher basically made me and Usman explain our feelings about 9/11 in front of the whole class. We weren’t alive when it happened! And he asked us stupid questions about whether we condemned the act. Duh. But he never ever asked white kids if they condemned slavery, or the Trail of Tears, or the assault on the Capitol, or took responsibility for the culinary crime that is chocolate hummus. I took a deep breath and tried hard not to get a tone. Getting a tone with the police was the most dangerous thing I could do.
“My parents didn’t have an arranged marriage. Besides, that’s not even—” Deep breaths, Safiya. “All I’m saying is that Nate seemed mad and then our store got vandalized and there’s been a lot of weird stuff happening at school and… Oh! There was also a Nietzsche quote on the threatening letter our mosque got. You know, the one mailed from London right around Christmas? Well, Nate was in London over winter break. He’s the common denominator.”
“What’s this kid’s last name again?” Officer Hill asked, completely glossing over his earlier stereotyping and assumptions.
“Nate Chase.”
“Nate Chase? You don’t mean the alderman’s kid?”
“Yeah,” I said. My heart sank because I knew what was about to happen. “Him.”
The officers exchanged looks. Officer Anthony took a breath and began, “Listen, that kid was probably born with a silver foot stuck in his mouth. Hundred-percent. But you know how boys are.… Sometimes when they like you, they’re mean to you.”
My blood boiled. I was getting the Boys will be boys BS? The If a boy hits you, he probably likes you excuse. The If he calls you a bitch, maybe it’s because you rejected him line. Because it’s always, always the girl’s fault, right? What. The. Hell.
Officer Hill continued for his partner. “Look, we’re not saying he wasn’t outta line. But kids like that…. This kind of vandalism isn’t a rich-kid crime. They don’t like to get their hands dirty with this kind of thing. But, of course, we’ll, uh, check into it.” Officer Hill turned to Officer Anthony, who nodded as if he were taking me seriously.
I felt like I’d been sucker punched. I was glad I’d put down my mug, because I wanted to smash it on the ground, and they’d probably arrest me for assaulting an officer or something. So I did the smartest thing I could do. I lied. I nodded. Picked up my tea and took a sip. I turned on a huge smile. “Yeah. I get it. Boys will boys, I guess.”
Officer Anthony smiled. “Exactly,” he said. “Better to move on.”
“Now if you see anything suspicious, you let us know, okay? We want to do whatever we can to find the person who vandalized your parents’ store.” Officer Hill reached into his pocket and then handed me his business card.
“Sure thing, Officer. Will do.” I turned and walked out of the back room, every cell in my body raging like a bonfire.