He finally looks at me. “I realize I don’t want to drive you away, because I love you.” He nods like he found the right words. “And I don’t want to break up our family. Even more. So I want to say sorry.”
That nod almost makes me relent, because there’s humility in it—but the image of finding The Autobiography of Malcolm X on his bookshelf comes to me.
I’d told Dad that I didn’t want to talk about it all now. I made it seem like it wasn’t the right time or place.
But when is it the right time or place, except exactly when it’s in front of us?
And it hits me: I’d just said that to avoid talking about it. Ever.
My heart’s real action plan had been to just chalk up Dad as prejudiced and lessen my interactions with him and go on with my life. Maybe, at the most, talk about it all with Muhammad and let him do the work.
But then that leaves Dad as he is in my mind.
A father who thinks he’s gotta be not-so-racist in order to “not break up our family.”
And it leaves me without the skills to deal with this properly—when I see it again. Prejudice, racism, anti-Blackness.
And I will see it again.
I can’t be a person who only thinks about stuff. Who theorizes. Who makes a great world in my mind.
All of this living in my head just gives me a feeling that things are good, that what I believe is enough. That I don’t need to expend any energy to make the good happen.
That I don’t need to learn more, too.
I look at Dad’s face and decide I’m moving out of my head into the real world. Toward becoming someone who actually addresses things—like Sausun and Sarah always do and like how Haytham said he was going to deal with Auntie Rima. Like how Layth decided to move to Ecuador to fight for what he believes in.
Maybe that’s what I need to secure before I go to college—not a boy, not a relationship, not romantic love, but learning how to act and take risks and first steps and be decisive and become bolder and move out of the safety of my head and into the disruptive and messy realm of making life better. For me and others, too.
And I start right here.
“It’s good that you’re saying sorry, Dad. But you didn’t wound me.” In trying to keep calm as I speak to him, I realize how much easier it is to blow up and yell at someone or deal with them passive-aggressively—coconut-ice-cream style. I’m squashing a lot of impatience at the moment and it’s a real inner struggle to keep it all contained. “It’s not about me and Nuah. And it’s not about you and what happened with Mom’s family. Or Linda’s. It’s about harboring something in your heart and mind that wrecks people’s lives and is unjust and leads to brutality and lives lost. You know that. I’ve seen you shake your head whenever you see news about police brutality against Black people. It can’t just be something we feel we believe or have on our shelves in books. It’s something we have to act upon.”
“But wouldn’t you say I’m acting on it now? That I recognized I was wrong about Nuah?” Dad lifts his hands, palms up, like he’s holding something in them, something he’s asking me to assess.
I feel relieved for a bit to have his upturned hands, still sheltering a crumpled napkin, to look at. It’s a relief to take a break from gazing directly at him while holding a bunch of careening emotions at bay. Discomfort, fear, anger, worry, sadness—great dollops of sadness about what happened with me and Nuah, and me and Dad.
What happened, unbeknownst to me, with Nuah and Dad.
And especially about what more could happen, now and in the future, to other people in our lives.
That’s why I have to keep going. Strong and steady, while piercing Dad’s armor—gently, though, because he’ll always be my father. “Did you recognize you were wrong because you found out Nuah’s studying engineering? And so he makes sense in your world now? Especially when your daughter is so upset?” I look right at him, holding his eyes this time and not fixating on the space below them like I’d been doing when I first started talking. “What if Nuah wasn’t going to college or wasn’t so polite? What if he hadn’t accepted the suit you gave him and instead had run away from you dressing him up like Layth did, Dad? Would you still think he’s a ‘good kid’?”
“I’d think of him like I think of Bilal’s nephew.”
“No, Dad. I know you wouldn’t. Because you didn’t bring any of the same things up about Sarah, or Linda, or even when you found out about Jeremy, any of the things you brought up about a potential relationship with Nuah. Any of the extra scrutiny. And that’s why it’s not just you saying ‘sorry’ that will solve this. The only sorry that works is if you promise to learn more about why you acted differently about Nuah—learn with me. And Muhammad. And Mom. We all need to learn about it.”
He stares at me.
I’ve never spoken to him in such a calm yet forceful way before. While not looking away or trying to escape the conversation.
He breaks his gaze, glances behind me, and returns his eyes to my face with a sigh. Then a nod.
I decide to take that nod as commitment. “Muhammad knows where we can get support on this. I’ll sign us up.”
He nods again and it’s a surer nod, so I let myself spring forward lightly and give him a quick brush of a hug.
He’s caught off guard and his arms are not ready to hug me back, but when they do, when they reach forward to bring me back to him, it’s tightly, with a whispered, “Thank you.”
There’s going to be a lot more work to do—for both Dad and me. Antiracism work and openness work and just the work of taking filters away from our eyes, filters that block the true worth of the people who come into our lives.
* * *
When I reach the driveway, there’s one more good-bye.
Layth’s parked there, and he’s leaning on his car, speaking to Dania and Lamya, who smile and wave me over when they see me.
We do small talk about the wedding, and then it peters out. When it looks like it’s going to get awkward, Layth says, “If you’re still thinking about volunteering, let me know and I’ll send you links to stuff.”
Dania looks at me and says, “Oh, I didn’t know you were into it as well!”
“It looks cool. And the animals are just so cute,” I say, hoping they don’t think I have a thing for their cousin. “I’ve always liked animals.”
“That’s neat,” Lamya says, exchanging a glance with Dania. “Dad’s waving from the side of the road. He’s brought the car, so we’d better go.”
“Did you say salaam to Dad?” Dania asks Layth.
“Yeah, when he was going to get the car. And we talked before when he gave me the jacket.”
“Okay, then, don’t be a stranger. You’d better message us each Friday…”
Dania’s about to go on talking when I stop her with, “Hey, I’ll let you guys say salaam in peace.”
It feels odd to be intruding when they’re saying good-bye as cousins.
I turn to Layth. “Assalamu alaikum, drive safe. I’ll look for those links.”
He nods and I nod, and then I turn and walk to the front of the house, to the porch.