The Covering

As I peered out the car window, I held my stomach slightly as my father navigated through the snaky windings of the Ozark Mountains. The hovering trees reminded me of our home near the lake when I would stop to rest after a long morning swim. The timbers would dance in the reflection and sooth my soul.

My father slowly pulled over onto a scenic stop and parked. He rolled down the window and took in the fresh air, held it and then exhaled a sound of apprehension. He turned to my mother who sparkled in the fading sunlight with her gaze fixed hard upon the mountains.

“Look, Jim.” Her chin pointed out toward the valley surrounded by mountains. “They’re starting to turn purple, just like the song.”

The hills morphed into a dark shades of violet and the sun became a slice of lemon resting upon the peaks until it vanished leaving orange and pink memories.

My father carefully removed the draping from my mother’s head. The pink silk tapestry fell to release her brown hair from its detainment. That was the view I chose to look at because it was more beautiful and mysterious. I forgot how silky smooth it was. It’s like melting chocolate over a warm fountain.

Then, my fathered turned to me. He spoke to me without words, and I did what he requested. I removed my own hijab. As it dropped to my shoulders, I felt like I was removing a layer of my flesh. And just like my skin, it was a part of me and who I was. Who I am.

We entered the town of Harrisville, Arkansas, at nine o’clock that night. This was to be my new home. My father was an urologist who specializes in helping older people and because there were many of the antiquated living in this town, he was greatly needed.

Christmas lights lit up the road of our new house. Blow up animations bounced in the wind like a happy unwelcomed welcoming party. So what did I do? I settled in like a bird to a new tree placing my branches to build a nest. I called it home, but a common name of something is never its true identity.

The next week, I drove to high school. My father had bought me a new car right after we arrived. I appreciated the expensive gift because I longed for the day I would have my own vehicle, but it felt like a bandage and my excitement didn’t spark.

I pictured my previous school and heard the sounds of the orchestra and band wafting up the halls. The smells. The smells of the world were in that school. I wondered what new aromas would invade my memories here. I eased down the halls unsure of where to go, feeling exposed. My tresses flowed freely about my shoulders, and I blushed at the gawking unfamiliar eyes.

“Where are you from, Laila?” My English teacher seemed genuine in her inquiry.

“Michigan. Dearborn,” I whispered.

I felt every stare bore deep.

I jumped at a sudden tap on my shoulder. I slowly turned to see a smiling face. It was porcelain and perfect.

“Hi, I’m Hanna. Don’t worry. You stick with me, and I will make sure you’re okay,” she whispered.

It was nice to feel like someone was watching over me.

Science that day was my favorite. I loved dissecting fetal pigs. Hanna paired up with me although she wasn’t much help because she excused herself to the bathroom to throw up. I was meant for this, and I longed for the day I would operate on a live person. I guess you could say I’m my daddy’s girl.

A nice boy named James helped me finish up my last incisions. I think he was quite impressed with my handy work.

He patted my shoulder and for once, I didn’t flinch. I felt reassured and understood.

“This isn’t an easy place to fit in, but you are doing just fine,” he said.

As the days went by, I began to acclimate to this strange new world. I even found my words coming out in a drawl. I attended holiday festivals and school events. I was impressed by the big family gatherings throughout the town. Mom and Dad even came out with me to watch the Christmas parade. The marching band played beautifully. The fire and police department was even involved and had allowed Saint Nicholas to drive one of the shiny red engines. Children rode on handmade floats and threw peppermints and chocolates to the crowds around the square.

A few people came up to my father and shook his hand. “Good to see you Dr. Smith.” They would say.

Towards the end, Hanna pulled up in a convertible with Miss Merry Christmas sitting up on the seats waving to the crowd. She threw extra candy our way.

I looked forward to the dark mornings where I could speak to God on my handwoven mat. I felt so genuine and serene.

At lunch I was relieved that Hanna chose the table facing west. As I ate my usual meal, I silently said my noon time prayer as Hanna went on about a certain boy or girl she liked or disliked. I would secretly place my napkin down and put my palm on top of it.

Hanna was very particular about who she liked to spend her time with and there were some people she just didn’t like. There was one boy she seem to hate the most, James. I didn’t understand why because he had been so nice to me. He was the dash of color in the school like a cherry on top of a vanilla sundae.

“Why do you hate James so much?” I asked.

She laughed at me. “Seriously? Just look at him. He thinks he is so special, but he’s Not.”

“Have you ever talked to him?”

Hanna spat a little of her milk at the question.

“I don’t talk to black,” she sneered.

I felt like it was directed at me and a dagger had been sliced my way.

I wonder if she talks to Muslim.

I began to notice objects around me that I never noticed before: Confederate flags, suspicious mascots, billboards of hate.

That night at the table, I sat with my parents. It was so much easier to digest the food with my authentic covering.

“Dad,” I muttered.

“Yes, Laila.”

“I think I now understand why you won’t let Mom and I wear our hijabs in public here.”

Mom dropped her fork onto her plate with a clang. “Laila, what happened today?” She cringed.

“Is it because history isn’t taught accurately here?” I asked my dad.

“Well, it is being repeated, so I think that could be a possibility.”

“My friend Hanna doesn’t like black people. She told me today. Why did we move here anyway?”

“We moved here because it was a great job for me. It’s America, the home of the free, and I refuse to think otherwise.”

“It’s not free, Dad. We’re American citizens too afraid to share who we are. That New Colossus way of thinking I learned in elementary is just mumbo jumbo to these people.”

Mom cleared her voice. “Dear, as soon as people get to know us and understand we are peaceful people, we can begin to reveal our faith.”

“But our faith is why we are so peaceful!” I groaned.

Silence.

“What if they don’t accept us,” I whispered.

“Then we continue to have faith, and we continue to walk in kindness and help others,”

Dad said as he took a big bite of salad.”

Mom turned to me and shook her head. “As for this Hanna girl, you may need to rethink your friendship.”

“But she is the only friend I have,” I regretfully retorted.

The next day a horrible event took place. A radical Muslim couple in Oregon decided to murder innocent people at a Christmas celebration.

At school, you could hear the tension coming from the faculty and the student body. In European history that was the only thing anyone wanted to talk about.

“All Muslims need to pay!”

“Yeah, we need to nuke them all!”

“Why don’t they quit hiding under their sheets? Are they cowards?”

I’m horrified by their comments and sink low into my chair.

Mr. Stanley, our teacher, just sat there.

Say something. Say something. I tried to telepathically will Mr. Stanley to stop the protests.

Instead, he just said, “Get out your textbooks; we must cover the next chapter on the French Revolution before our semester test. No time to talk about this. Open your book to page nine hundred and eleven. Read the chapter and complete the questions at the back.

They’re due first thing tomorrow.”

He bent over and opened a drawer and pulled out some political book written by some television commentator and began to read. And yes, he was the only one in the room that actually read.

I was never so relieved to hear a bell ring. I quickly got up and rushed out the door.

Hanna was in the hallway, and she hurried over to me.

“Laila,” come over to my house after school and make some cookies with me.

I took a deep breath. I felt like making sweets might be what I needed to get my mind off of all of this madness. “Okay, that sounds like fun.”

“You can follow me over when school’s out. I can’t wait for you to see where I live.”

“Me too,” I said.

As I followed Hanna to her house out to nowhere Arkansas, I admired the silhouettes of trees and foliage entangled and reaching. I guess when they lose their leaves, they embrace each other until the warmth of spring.

Hanna’s house was modest but stood tall and solid. Two large columns framed the entrance like a small Roman structure. Next to the house the American flag snapped in the December breeze and slapped at the red fabric of its Confederate rival.

I stopped a moment to look at it, and Laila stopped and looked at me.

“I thought the South lost,” I said.

Hanna laughed, “Don’t tell my father that.”

Inside, her father was sitting on the couch watching a television that could easily double as a theater. He was watching the coverage of the recent shooting.

“Damn it, Dana! We need to hide the guns! These crazy Muslims are in cahoots with that damn monkey in the White House. He set this whole thing up, so he can take away our fire power.”

“Daddy, we have company!” Hanna yelled back.

He turned around and looked at me. “Tell your father to hide his guns, girl.”

“Okay,” I shuttered. I’ve never seen my father touch a gun.

I then recognized her father as the man driving one of the fire engines in the parade. I didn’t realize he was the fire chief, and I felt like fire would be the least of my fears right now.

We walked into the kitchen where her mother was getting out the ingredients for cookies.

“Hello girls. I’m setting everything up for you.”

“Mom, this is Laila,” Hanna introduced me.

“I’ve heard a lot about you. Your father was right. You are very beautiful.”

“You know my father?” I was surprised.

“I’m a nurse at the hospital. I see him every day. He is an excellent doctor and a good man. We were sure lucky to get him down here. I hope y’all will become a permanent fixture in Harrisville.”

She was much softer and inviting than Hanna’s father. She looked just like Hanna with chestnut hair concealing locks of gray. Her porcelain skin was worn by time and I’m assuming the negative energy in her life.

“He seems to like his job here,” I said.

“Good, because we sure need to keep doctors like him here.”

The next couple of hours were brutalizing. I could still hear the ranting of her father in the other room.

“Are you okay?” Hanna asked. “You seem a little tense.”

“I’m okay. Just tired from the long day.”

I was beginning to think the whole world had gone sour until I sat down in Miss King’s U.S. History class. I almost bought into the premise that if one person is a certain way, then the whole lot of them is too. Miss King reminded me just how wrong I was. She was the hope in this entire story. She passionately talked about historical discriminations throughout our American history. Her strong belief in equality for all was contagious. Her words echoed in my head, “We are all human beings living on the same planet,” she announced.

Even the boy who wanted to nuke the Muslims in Mr. Stanley’s class was having a change of heart. Hanna just sat there and doodled in her notebook. She wouldn’t look up or make eye contact with anyone.

Miss King proudly announced an upcoming field trip to Little Rock Central High School to learn more about the Little Rock Nine. This was after she told us about the historical event, and we watched television coverage from 1957 showing the courage of the nine students that just wanted to go to school. I’ll never forget the African American girl walking with her head held high, notebook in hand, ready to learn while thousands of white protesters screamed at her because she desired equality. One woman spat on her, but she didn’t flinch. I wish I could be as strong as her.

The rest of the week whispered more bigotry toward the Muslim religion. One man at the gas station was telling another one that he agreed that Muslims needed to be “ran out of the country.” I gasped and then said, “Excuse me, sir” as I passed in front of him to buy a cold drink.

The newspaper even had ads about diversity being anti-white. Apparently, the KKK was still a driving force here, and I was missing Michigan more than ever.

I made sure I sat next to James in biology and in U.S. History. I caught myself daydreaming about being one of the nine with James. I pictured him holding my hand as we walked up the steps of Central High.

I caught him smiling at me in my dream trance, and I blushed.

Hanna asked me over to her house again, and I made up some excuse. I know it wasn’t her fault she was taught hate, and I continued to be her friend anyway. I guess I was hoping somehow I could become a positive influence in her life. But how influential can I be if I’m not even my real self?

The day of the field trip was unusually warm for December. Some of the students wore shorts. Hanna got on the bus late. We almost left without her. She threw herself down in the seat next to me. She was out of breath.

“What’s wrong, Hanna?” I asked.

“If my dad finds out I am going on this trip, he will ground me,” she whispered in the middle of gasps of air.

“Why? This is a school assignment. Why wouldn’t he want you to go?” I said all confused.

She didn’t answer… She didn’t have to.

As we traveled south, I took in the scenery. This state was breathtaking! Every old town we went through was like its own history book. I enjoyed picturing what they must have looked like when they were shiny and new. I imagined horses and carriages and ladies in long dresses. In my mind, the faded sign paintings on the buildings became bright and bold.

As we came upon a bridge, I heard a loud explosion. The bus jolted and wobbled. It began to spin in slow motion. A cacophony of cries spun around me, and Hanna’s head hit the window with a crack. She slumped into the seat and slams of metal on metal began to echo, and we became dolls in a dryer of death.

We stopped with a big jolt and a splash.

I think I blacked out for a second but willed myself into consciousness. I could hear the streaming of water from a babbling brook and realized it was from the open windows of our bus.

Whimpers and moans. Whimpers and moans.

Miss King was at the entrance of the bus. Her face was covered in blood. She stumbled over to the driver to find him slumped over. She sat down at the sideways stairs and began to kick at the door. She got it cracked just enough for the water to pour in. I got on my knees and in a rush of strength, I grabbed Hanna, put my arms under hers, and began to scoot backwards towards Miss King. As more water rushed in, we began to float. I looked towards the back of the bus and saw James struggling to get the back door open. Others hovered around him in a state of panic.

With a primordial scream, Miss King opened the door just enough for students to escape. She was having a difficult time holding it because her arms were badly injured. I lifted

Hanna up to her and stood just enough to take hold of the door. “Go!” I screamed.

She held Hanna with her better arm and pushed their way free into the water that completely surrounded them.

Water was up to my waste. I yelled to everyone in the back, “This way! Hurry!”

James and the others limped and stumbled to the front and one by one, they slipped out of the bus except James who stood by my side. Water was now up to my shoulders and our bus driver’s face was beginning to become engulfed.

James lunged over to him and took a deep breath. He stuck his body underwater to find the latch to the seat belt.

It seemed like an eternity, and my arms were shaking in pain. The force of the water was pulling the door shut.

James immerged and pulled our driver towards the door and with a free hand he pushed the door open enough so that he and the bus driver could pass through. “I’ll be right back, Laila.

Hold on!” He yelled.

As my head was becoming enveloped by the rising water, I began to pray to the God of us all to save us, from this accident and from hate itself. I took one last breath and entered the blackness.

A light immerged and I heard an angel’s voice, “Breathe Laila, breathe.”

I gasped and strangled some air into my drenched lungs.

James pushed me over to a rock where I took hold of Hanna’s limp body. I felt the warmth of her breath and coughed in relief. “We’re going to be okay,” I whispered remembering the first time I met her. “You stick with me, and I’ll make sure you’re okay.”

I positioned her under one arm and I began to paddle with my other. I turned on my back and watched for trees to touch the sky like I did on those Michigan mornings. The trees appeared and offered their mighty hands out to mine. I reached and pulled myself forward and I could feel my feet touch the bottom. Sounds of sirens surrounded us and we were saved.

Christmas came and went. I think the biggest gift that was given to the community were the lives of all twenty-one students including Miss King and our bus driver. The Harrisville Tribune deemed it “A Christmas Miracle”.

Oh there were a few broken bones. Many had cracked ribs and minor fractures along with lacerations and bruising. Hanna had a concussion and Miss King sustained two broken arms. My fingers were badly cut from holding the door and James got away with minor bruising, but we were all expected to make a full recovery.

According to the article, our bus had a blowout that caused the driver to lose control and hit the guardrail and go over the side of the bridge into the lake. When the emergency crew arrived the entire bus was submerged and all of us had made it out safely. It was truly a miracle from the God of us all. And you know, he didn’t just save the Christians. He saved a scared Muslim girl and her black friend. With God, there is no picking and choosing.

For a while, our accident took the focus off of the recent terror plots, but it didn’t stay that way for long. A prominent politician announced that America should not let any Muslims into the country and that he thought the Japanese detainment camps after World War II were a good idea and thought we might need to apply that to the current Muslim situation. How can someone get so much power in the American eye and not know his history? Or maybe he does, and he’s just that heartless? Signs of support for this man were popping up around town. I’m sure Hanna’s dad was on that bandwagon, but I know if our God can save us from that horrible crash, he can save us from hate.

We were all back at school. Many students embraced the ones that were in the crash, and I felt compassion coming from them all.

There was an announcement on the intercom for everyone to go to the auditorium for a special assembly.

I walked with James and Hanna and as we entered, we noticed news crews with video cameras. We were also surprised to see our parents sitting in front. After all of the high school was settled in their seats the principal walked to the podium on the staged and tapped the microphone which made us jump.

“Today, we are very proud to celebrate the heroes of our school. I would like for these students and teachers to come up to the stage when I call your name. James Jackson, Margaret King, and Laila Smith.”

Everyone hooped, hollered, and whistled.

My face became flushed and my heart began to race. We slowly walked up to the stage and the applauding became a loud vibration. There were three chairs for us and the principal motioned his hand for us to sit. Before I sat, I steadied Miss King whose arms were still in casts. She was so lovely wearing a beautiful white sweater and a big pink scarf around her neck.

James sat down in an awkward nervous movement, but gave me a reassuring grin, and I smiled back.

Then, the Fire Chief of Harrisville, Hanna’s father, appeared onto the stage holding three medals. The principal gave him a distinguished introduction and again the crowd began to applaud. He walked confidently to the podium and retold the story of the crash from eye witness accounts. He described our actions as a choice, but I don’t pick and choose either. I just did what I had to do to live and let live.

As James and Miss King each went up to say a few words about their experience and give a humble thanks, I thought about that one high school girl walking alone to school on that historical day in 1957. She was a true hero. She was the stepping stone to diminishing hate.

She truly had a choice, and she made it no matter what the consequence.

As my name was called, I whispered in Miss King’s ear. She smiled and gave me a little look of confusion and then she bent slightly forward, so I could remove her scarf. My back was facing the audience as I concealed my hair under the pink fabric. I carefully turned around to a silent audience and walked up to the podium. Hanna’s father froze with the medal held in front of him.

I pulled the microphone down to my mouth and took in a deep breath. “Today, I’m accepting this hero’s medal as a proud Muslim American.”