#healback

[firebreathingchemist]

The Eve I Prepared to Sign Up for the Muslim Registry

It’s Christmas Eve 2016. I’m visiting my aunt’s house; I should be looking forward to Pakistani sweet dumplings and halal General Tso’s chicken, but instead I’m trying to ignore the mist of dread clinging like burned syrup to my skin.

I hear my mom talking to my aunt next to the fireplace. They’re chuckling about two YouTube videos they just watched on their laptop: one that involves singing “Supercallousfragileegoextrabraggadocious!”, and another that describes how a pair of controversial male politicians from different countries have entered “a cozy relationship.” They shake their heads at the meaningless folly that has become our nightly entertainment. Then the laughter fades, and their voices drop to a whisper.

“We’re going to have to register, you know,” my aunt nods. Her voice is calm as if she’s speaking of menopause, or the inevitability of empty nest syndrome. My mom nods back and says nothing.

We’re going to have to register, you know.

Those are the last words that run through my mind before I fall asleep that evening, leaning back against the headrest of the shotgun seat as my dad drives my family home.

When I open my eyes, we’re on the right lane on a two-lane freeway, and a cargo truck is on our left. The truck begins to change lanes. On our other side is a steel railing. There’s no shoulder to veer into, no side road to claim as refuge. Sandwiched between two bodies of metal, we watch as the head of the truck aims directly for our left wing mirror. The metal walls between us spark and collide, bending like molten taffy, and

I shut my eyes and scream, and scream, and scream. Then I gasp for breath, and I scream again, until the highest notes have shredded my vocal cords, and my throat burns with the fire that friction has created, the black smoke that consumes all that exists –

“It’s okay, sweetheart, it’s okay!”

My dad reaches for my shoulder with his right hand as he continues to drive with his left. Our car continues to drive on a sparsely-populated two-lane freeway, with no trucks in sight. My mom and sister are in the back seat, still leaning their heads against each other, groggy-eyed, safe.

“You just had a bad dream,” my mom says quietly, before drifting back to sleep.

I stay awake for a little while longer, watching the moonlight reflect off the ocean as we drive past. My dad holds my hand until I can breathe again, without my throat burning from every gulp of air.

***

I imagine my little sister standing in front of me, dressed in her ridiculous bumblebee-yellow top, matching hijab, and Hermione Granger’s Time-Turner necklace. She’s at the awkward age in which she could pass as either nineteen or twelve, and she often reaps the advantages of both. In this moment, however, I wish that she was much younger than twelve, so young that she could fill the space between the crook of my elbow and the palm of my hand.

“Sis, what if we do have to register?”

I’ve thought through this scenario multiple times. Each attempt ends with me leaving this lazy limbo between consciousness and dreams, and drifting off into the latter. But this time is different.

“My love for the country of my birth isn’t measured by how I respond when everything is going according to plan, but how much I stand by her side when her values are threatened,” I say. “If I have to register, I’ll stay, and take what I’m given. But I’ll also keep doing what I’ve pledged to do every day of my life. I’ll read to the kids in the chemo infusion room. I’ll walk the hallways of the psych unit and bring ice cream to an anxious grandmother. I’ll squeeze my patient’s hand as his eyes close, and be the first to congratulate him when he walks out of the ICU on his own two feet.”

My sister doesn’t look surprised. “I’m not leaving, either.”

In lieu of holding hands, we take out our wands from our back pockets. Hers is an official replica of Hermione Granger’s wand, with twirling vines carved down the length of the wood; mine is a maple branch I found at a wilderness medicine conference last year. My throat is still raw, so she is the first to speak.

“We are the Order of the Phoenix, and we are not going to fight back,” she says. “We are better than that. We are going to heal back.”

We raise our wands to the sky, and for a moment the tips are blazing with a fire of their own.

“Heal back,” we say together. “Heal back!”

[firebreathingchemist]

When people say, “maybe DT will make a good president”

I think, “I haven’t forgotten, Minister...”