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and crannies of my grandfather’s house. Exotic furniture from
all corners of the world set up with their own regional themes,
ancient school supplies from my parents’ youth, empty jewelry
boxes, and old perfume bottles.
I climb to the roof in search of more artifacts. There’s
a closet up there that once was a pigeon coop. I find yellowed
newspapers in Urdu, mangled cages, and brightly colored clips
for hanging clothes. I step back outside and I look out to the
horizon. White two-story buildings and paved streets as far as I
can see, and behind a hill, I see the edge of a black scar. There’s
a column of dark smoke rising from the scar, as if it were cau-
terized, burned to prevent further harm.
My aunt explained it to me that a man had blown him-
self up there, leveling a mosque and taking dozens of people
with him. I had heard of things like this happening before. But
I could not understand. If the man’s war was against my world,
then why would he kill so many of his own people? I sat there
and thought until the memory of the brain eating amoebas
came to mind. There had been a sickness at work here too. It
had consumed everything that man was – brain stem and ratio-
nale alike. At that moment, there was nothing more I desired,
but to dance again – to brush knuckles with the bats of the
world – to drink that dirty water just to see if I could retain
who I was.
“I am a natural born Ameri-
can of the Asian persuasion.
Represent.” - Hasan Muzaffer
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