1993

Ayeh watched the two boys cross the playground hard top from the far corner where the younger kids she didn’t know usually played. They seemed to look straight at her as they walked, but they were probably headed to the check-out stand where you could borrow a ball during recess or to the boys’ bathroom. There was no reason to single her out, not when she was sitting in the shade of a magnolia tree in a circle of five other sixth grade girls from Mrs. Nielsen’s class.

“It’s great because it’s basically three outfits in one,” Emily Thompson said, looking like the most grown-up of the bunch in a grey pinstripe suit, her blonde hair sporting a short bob, “you can wear just the jacket or the skirt, or you can wear them together.”

As the wind rustled through her headscarf, Ayeh thought about what she might add to the conversation. She had seen the same suit at Clothestime with her mom over the weekend but it hadn’t interested her. The denim overalls that were suddenly everywhere felt more her style. Worn with the form-fitting ribbed cotton turtlenecks and black cord necklaces that she had seen, they looked more sophisticated than those overalls Linda Book sang children’s songs about, back in the third grade. Ayeh’s mom said she’d think about buying them but Ayeh knew she’d have to wait for a sale off the twenty-five dollar price.

“So smart,” said Sandy Chu, “I would never have thought about buying a suit.”

Behind Emily’s shoulder, Ayeh could see the two boys drawing nearer, showing no interest at all in the bin full of balls behind the girls.

“I bought it with my own money. It’s a good investment for a hundred dollars. Suits normally cost at least twice that much.”

“I liked the overalls at Clothestime,” Ayeh said, turning her head back to face the group.

“Yeah, overalls are definitely cool now.” Sandy said, her raven-black hair falling against the shoulders of her long-sleeve white tee, with a neon cat painting, down to her jean skirt. “I would wear those.”

As the boys walked closer, Ayeh thought about how nice it was to have a group to sit with at recess, after two years of spending lunch mostly by herself. The boys were probably third graders. One of them had brown hair and wore a blue t-shirt. The other had soft blond hair and wore a white tee. Both wore jeans. Ayeh turned back to face Sandy. Maybe they were walking to the library near the sixth grade classroom. Maybe they were bored.

The footsteps behind her became audible, then slowed down to a stop. The girls’ eyes shifted from Sandy to somewhere above Ayeh’s head. Ayeh could see the red he-man on the black tennis shoes one of the boys was wearing as she turned her head to face him. He stared down at her.

“We have a question,” the boy said quietly as his blond friend stood next to him, “Are you a terrorist?”

The eyes all shifted to Ayeh. She guessed the boys had seen her headscarf across the playground. And maybe, somehow, they could tell her family was Muslim like the terrorists pretended to be. The answer to their question was no, obviously. Terrorists were horrible people. They hurt people and caused terror on purpose. That is what made them terrorists. Ayeh hadn’t even heard the word terrorist before the bombing. So obviously, she couldn’t be a terrorist. But then why had the boys come all this way?

The television news had talked about them a lot lately, ever since two of them attacked the World Trade Center, killing regular people who were just going about their day. They talked about Islamic terrorists too. Ayeh asked her mom why.

“God doesn’t like anyone who kills innocent people,” she had answered, “Anyone who does something bad like this isn’t a real Muslim. They are hurting Muslims.”

It was true. Everything Ayeh knew about Islam was about being a good person, being kind, and helping others. Islam said it was bad to make fun of other kids or hurt their feelings for being too much of a goody goody, for having feelings that are hurt too easily, for trying too hard to fit in. Islam said those things, let alone blowing up people, were bad. So obviously, Ayeh was not a terrorist.

The two boys stood there, still waiting. The girls quietly watched Ayeh.

“No,” Ayeh said, “but if I were,” she added quietly, “I probably wouldn’t tell you.” She wanted to say that it was really true that she wasn’t a terrorist. She wanted to insist they should believe her but something told her it wouldn’t help to try so hard.
“Oh.” The boy rocked his head. “I guess I didn’t think about that.” He looked at his friend who looked back at him. They turned around and walked away silently.

_________

Ayeh Bandeh-Ahmadi is an Iranian-American writer and economist based in Washington, DC. Her work has appeared in Entropy and been shortlisted for Redivider’s Beacon Street Prize. Ayeh is the recipient of the 2019 Bread Loaf Katharine Nason Bakeless Award in Nonfiction. Her memoir-in-stories, Ayat was a finalist for the Chautauqua Janus Prize. She was previously editor-in-chief of Totem, Caltech’s literary magazine and now teaches personal essay to DC high school students for PEN/Faulkner. Find her online @heyayeh.