“You speak English pretty good for a wetback. Just remember, this ain’t a Mexican joint. You go somewhere else to drink your cervezas and hang out with your puta.” The whiskey man and his friend crumbled in heavy laughter, still not charged enough to fight, but well on their way.

Walid held my elbow and guided me past them and out the door.

“Fucking Mexicans!”

“We’re not Mexicans!” I shouted. “We’re Americans.”

This charged the men enough to take the ten steps it took to reach us and to swing fists into Walid’s face and body. I was too surprised to do anything at first, and by the time I thought to swing, sweaty hands were gripping my wrists behind me. Walid tried to hit back, but he tried harder to get away and the original whiskey-breath man caught him and slammed his head against a light post, which made him fall. The man kicked Walid in the belly and ran away laughing just in time, seeing as it was early in a white neighborhood. The police came soon to find Walid laying in a heap on the sidewalk.

“So they beat you up for being Mexican?” the policewoman asked.

“We’re not Mexican.”

“You got beaten up for being Mexican and you’re not Mexican? What are you?”

“Palestinian.”

“Well you got off pretty lucky then.” The policewoman was quiet for a minute. “That jacket sure makes you look Mexican.”

Sneak back home, heart still pounding hours later, with rage, with hate. What loser morons and, squeezing tears out, wishing that it was one of those American movies where Walid would knock those guys to the floor and we would walk off without a scratch, my heroic prince defending my honor ... but that’s not what the American movie would show, would it? Instead it would show the super American guy knocking the scummy Arab flat on the ground, like what happened. Still wishing ... that I were a superhero like in those cartoons where she comes in and wipes out the bad guys and still looks great. But there aren’t any Arab ones, are there? My hair is too dark, too thick; my skin is too far away from white to let me even pretend to be an American superhero.

So I put on headphones in my too quiet California house, tuck the Walkman into my pocket, close my eyes, and dance hard until the rage begins to fade.

8 MAWAL Flowers from My Roza

8MAWALFlowers from My Roza

When I was younger, she used to scare me, like she was a jinn walking down the street. Now I know that she has a sickness, that God made her that way, just the way He made me this way. ...