The Frontlines of Hatred

Broad daylight. Walking alone to the car from a convenience store. No different than any other day. You hear the typical epithets. Towelhead. Raghead. Sandn**ger. For some of us this is part of the daily grind. Unfortunate, but true. But there was a difference today. Being shoved into a car, pushed to the sidewalk. Spit on. Unbelievable. What was even more appalling is that there were other people out there. Watching the atrocity. Perhaps they were too shocked to stop it. Perhaps their lack of assistance was tacit approval. What ever happened to the Good Samaritan?

We pride our home on being IHOP (international house of people). Among our family members are Native Americans, Scots, Norweigans, Eastern Indian, Morrocan, Irish, Cuban, Dominican, African and African American. And that's just MY bloodline! I have raised my children to be open-minded, inclusive, all- encompassing, empathetic. Our home is an eclectic blend of cultures and traditions, nationalities and ideals. Even my mother's phrase has been adopted, "If you like it, I love it for you". But people on the street who see me in my hijab, or coming out of a mosque on Fridays, or playing with my granddaughter in the park, don't know this about me. When they see my daughter and her boyfriend, walking hand in hand in the mall, they don't know that she is one of the sweetest, most gentle, compassionate women on the planet. They don't know of her charity work, her love of animals, her sense of style and fashion, her willingness to help anyone at any time. They see her scarf and think terrorist, outsider, different.

And that is why I am grateful, not for being attacked, but that it wasn't my daughter who was accosted in such a heinous manner. Her "Anne Franke" vision of the world might have been shattered. For me that would have been more painful than any bruise, abrasion, humiliation. I'm old. I can take it (though admittedly, I don't like taking it). I have lived through these times before. I have seen tolerance come full circle.

I fear for my children and grandchildren. The lost innocence. The world that they live in has been changed. I watch the blue-eyes of my husband turn steel gray with anger. I see the frown in the forehead, the tense lip, the tightening of his shoulders, his hands subconsciously forming fists. He is livid. My son and sons in law are visibly shaken. My daughter is frightened. They are worried about me. And even though I try to convince them that it's only a bruise and that I'll get over it soon enough, I fight to keep from them the emotional pain that will last far longer, long after the outward scars have healed.

I'm a diabetic and am slow to heal anyway. Now I face the real possibility of losing a limb because it might not heal. The bruises and abrasions are far too deep, The last time I had anything close to this, I had gone skiing and broke my tibia (that's shin bone for those not in the know). Now that was horrible and ugly. The bone actually broke through the skin. I still have the exit mark.

Oh but wait! We have art!!

Really now. Could someone please explain to me - like I'm Forest Gump - what I could have possibly done to incur the wrath and hatred of so many strangers? What is my crime that I would be subjected to vigilante, lynch-mob tactics in broad daylight?

I am a mother, a grandmother, a little old Southern black lady. The only difference with me (aside from being phenomenally attractive and drop dead gorgeous) is that I happen to don a scarf when I leave my house. I'm not trying to flaunt my Islam, I'm just trying to practice/live my faith and adhere to my First Amendment constitutionally proctected religious freedom.

The police were unresponsive. Afterall no one "saw anything". Besides, I could have just been some drunk crackhead that had a run-in with my pimp. At least that's how they made me feel. I had to argue with them to make them take a report. I am not pleased.

To my assailants: I don't know who you are, but God knows everything. So you beat up a grandmother in a scarf. There is justice and one day you will get yours. All of you will pay. I firmly believe that. Lucky for you, I left my luger under the seat of my car. Because of you, I will be riding with it in my lap. When I get out of my car, it will now be in my handbag. (Yes I have a permit to carry concealed.) Think about that, the next time you run up on a black woman in a scarf that hasn't done a thing to you.

The gloves are off. Check your weapons; the revolution will not be televised.



PEACE! (for those that deserve it)