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Sitting on jagged river stones
Surrounded by old douglas fir trees Lining winding river East of small town Eugene Oregon In my thirsty hands A newly bought book on Islam I read each line voraciously Seeking to learn about my cultural heritage A fisherman approaches White weathered skin burnt crimson red Big grizzly hands clutching long fishing rod After informal salutations I introduce myself somehow drawn To state first and last My name is Jahan Khalighi. What kind of name is that? He glances sternly at the book in my hands Are you a TERRORIST or something? His words pierce me like a hook I hold my tongue like a weight Unsure how safe my truth is Was it the ash and smolder Of two towers collapsing That made you blame Anyone with a Middle Eastern name Anyone wearing a hijab, a beard, a turban Even me with light skin Can’t speak Farsi fluently Raised American middle class My name now somehow a threat To your home-land in-security When you think Middle Easterner You say Terrorist, suicide bomber, flag burner, ISIS But you don’t smell the intoxicating aromas of my grandmother's kitchen nor do you know how love wakes her before sunrise to cook our nourishment in big steaming pots her plump hands tattooed golden yellow color of saffron and turmeric color of sunshine and memory her kitchen filled with aromas of cured garlic, herbed rice and pomegranate lamb stew When you hear Middle Easterner You think Dangerous, irrational, death threat, strip search, border control, checkpoint But you don’t see the grace with which My grandmother entertains the guests wrapping her flat bread around everyone like a warm embrace nor do you hear The passionate poetic language Filling my grandfather's throat His devotion to prayer, laughter and family Your pre-emptive strikes only make rubble of our hospitality you who wage endless war against people whose names you never took the time to learn You tower above me with your sharpened fishing rod As I sit under these tall rooted witnesses Frozen in the heavy silence hovering After your accusation The prophets' words like a sacred bird Held gently in my palms As this wild river rushes downstream Its fluid body reshaping even stone. |