“It’s just. Well, Laleh never stood out before that. She got treated like all the white kids. But now . . .”
“Iranians are white, though.”
I bit my lip.
Just because that’s the blank we fill out on forms at the doctor’s office doesn’t make it true. No one at school ever treated me like I was white once they found out my mom was from Iran.
Laleh’s classmates weren’t treating her like she was white.
So I said, “Laleh is getting singled out. And the teacher is punishing her instead of the kids teasing her.”
“You’re right.” Mom pursed her lips. “But I don’t know what to do. I have a meeting with a client tomorrow afternoon. Grandma is going with Laleh instead.”
I thought about Melanie Kellner, trying to explain racism to Laleh’s teacher.
I thought about how none of my own teachers ever got what it was like. How they never protected me from being a Target.
“Want me to go with them?”
“You don’t have to do that, sweetie. Don’t you have practice?”
“Coach Bentley will understand,” I said. “I want to. Really. I’m the only one who knows what it’s like.”
Mom started running her fingers through my hair.
“Was school like that for you too?”
“Sometimes.” It still was, kind of. “Sometimes people just don’t like Iranians. Or anyone from the Middle East, really.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
Mom stared out the kitchen window.
“You know, when I first moved here, people said things to me too. Especially after 9/11.”
She kept playing with my hair.
“I guess I just got used to it. And I worked hard to be as white as I could. That’s one reason I didn’t teach you Farsi like I should have.”
Mom had told me that before: that she didn’t want me to feel different from the other kids.
“I even went by Sharon for a while, because my professors couldn’t say Shirin right.”
“Sharon Bahrami?”
Mom snorted. “It lasted about two weeks, before your dad talked me out of it.” She smiled and twisted a lock of my hair around her finger, then let it go and admired the curl. She rested her palm against my cheek.
“Maybe I should have learned more, so I could prepare you and your sister better. But no one wants to think that their kids are going to get called terrorists at school. And that they can’t protect them from it.”
“You don’t have to protect me, Mom.”
Mom pulled my head down to kiss my forehead.
“Yes I do,” she said. “Always.”
“Well.” I swallowed. “I have to protect Laleh.”
Mom gave me this sad smile.
I had never noticed the little creases in the corners of her eyes before.
“You’re a good brother.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS
Rising Hill Elementary School was something of a misnomer. The school sat in a valley between two smaller hills, neither of which were actually named Rising Hill—or named anything at all, as far as I could tell.
The school was new: They finished it right before Laleh started first grade. The exterior was all endless gleaming windows and repurposed lumber, with solar panels on the roof and geothermal heating and cooling inside.
The parking lot was still full as Grandma pulled Oma’s Camry into a visitor’s spot.
Laleh squirmed in the back seat.
“We’re late.” Grandma clicked her tongue. “Better hurry.”
Our meeting with Laleh’s teacher was at 5:00.
It was 4:55.
Melanie Kellner was compulsively early to everything.
I opened Laleh’s door for her and offered my hand as we walked inside, but she shook her head, hunched her shoulders, and trudged ahead between me and Grandma with her hands in her coat pockets.
Everything inside Rising Hill Elementary looked so small: Signs were posted lower on the walls, hallways were narrower, drinking fountains were down at knee height.
Had my own elementary school been that small?
A friendly young white man in a bow tie and thick-framed glasses greeted us.
“Here for a meeting?” he asked. He had a mellow voice, and there was something in it that kind of made me wonder if he was queer too.
Sometimes I did this thing where I imagined other people I met were queer. Just because I liked to think there were lots of us around.
I wondered if other people did that.
I wondered if Grandma and Oma did that.
“Here to see Miss Hawn,” Grandma said, like we were at a doctor’s office.
“Sure thing.” The guy took Grandma’s driver’s license and my student ID and put them through this little scanner/printer to make visitor stickers for us. “Here you go.”
The guy looked down at Laleh. “You think you can take them to your classroom, Lalah?”
I bristled. He said my sister’s name like it rhymed with Challah bread.
Laleh just nodded. But I said, “It’s pronounced Laleh.”
The guy blinked. “Oh. I’m so sorry. Laleh.”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks. I won’t mess it up again.”
“Cool.” I gave the guy one of those closed-mouth smiles and followed Laleh to her classroom.
* * *
Miss Hawn’s classroom was a nightmare.
Here’s the thing: I never understood the point and purpose of SpongeBob SquarePants.
I never watched it when I was little. According to Dad, I used to cry when it came on, and he had to change the channel.
To be honest, I still found it deeply unnerving.
So when we stepped into Miss Hawn’s classroom, and I saw a SpongeBob SquarePants figurine on her desk, and a poster of him with the phrase READING IS MAGIC suspended on a rainbow between his hands, I kind of shuddered.
Miss Hawn sat at her desk, looking up at us with a practiced smile. She had blue eyes and blond hair that was parted in the middle and curled up on the sides.
She looked like a banana split.
I thought that was kind of a mean thing to think, that Laleh’s teacher looked like a dessert that contained dairy products and (most likely) nuts, but it was hard to think anything nice about her after holding Laleh while she cried herself to sleep.
“Have a seat,” Miss Hawn said. “You must be . . .”
“Melanie Kellner,” Grandma said. “Laleh’s grandmother.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, extending her hand over her desk. Grandma shook it and then took a seat in an uncomfortable-looking metal folding chair. “And you must be Darius.”
“Yeah.”
Her eyes crinkled up. “If I had known you were coming I would have gotten you a better seat.”
“It’s okay.”
I sat next to Laleh on one of the third-grader-sized seats. My knees were nearly in my chest, and Laleh giggled at me. I wanted to make a face at her, but we were here to be serious, so I just put my hands on my knees and tried to look as professional as I could in my work jeans and a light green button-up I’d gotten for soccer functions where we had to dress Business Casual.
As someone with years of experience attempting to decipher various interpretations of Persian Casual—the complex set of intersecting Social Cues that dictated attire at various Iranian functions—I found the simplicity of Business Casual a welcome relief.
“So.” Miss Hawn typed into her computer, clicked her mouse a few times, and turned back to us. She put her hands on her desk, one on top of the other. “I’m sorry to ask you to come in. Normally we handle discipline matters in class, but there are some other concerns I have.”
“Other concerns?” Grandma said.
“Her unusual behavior yesterday aside, Laleh is at the top of her class. She’s the first one to turn in assignments. She’s reading well above grade level. And I’m worried she’s not being challenged in class.” Miss Hawn cleared her throat and tucked a stray lock of banana split behind her ear. “I think that might be playing into some of her behavior lately.”
Next to me, Laleh crossed her arms and looked at her feet. She was wearing her favorite white sneakers, and she kept tapping her heels together, like Dorothy trying to wish herself back home.
I raised my hand.
Some habits die hard.
Miss Hawn’s nose scrunched up as she half smiled. “Yes?”
“Well.” I swallowed. “What about the other kids?”
She blinked.
“What about them?”
“Well, what happened to the kids who keep calling Laleh ‘Lolly’ on purpose?”
She blinked again. “I don’t . . . hmm. I haven’t noticed that. I promise I’ll pay closer attention.”
“What about Micah calling her a terrorist?”
Miss Hawn’s eyes went wide.
“Micah said that?”
Laleh was still staring at her feet. I felt her shake a little next to me, so I put my hand on her knee and squeezed it. After a second, she nodded.
“That’s certainly unacceptable,” Miss Hawn said. “But I don’t think he understands the context of what he’s saying.”
My voice shook. “I think he does.” Grandma put her hand on my shoulder, but I kept going. “He sees stuff like that on TV all the time. That’s how white people see people like Laleh and me.”