I was sitting in my fourth grade classroom and there was something wrong. The teachers were communicating in whispers outside the classroom doors and our curious minds were wondering what were they talking about. My fourth grade teacher walked back into the classroom with a distressed look on his face. His cheeks below his eyes quivered and he paused slightly picking up a piece of chalk. Slowly. He started teaching again. Something was wrong. It was the feeling in our stomachs.
Now as an adult I understand what the teachers had done. They had discussed whether or not they should tell us or not what had happened. They were questioning whether or not our innocent minds could understand that there were people in this world who didn't like us. There were people in this world who disagreed with our perspectives and approach to life. There were people in this world who didn't want to know who I was as an individual but wanted to kill me because I was nothing more than a dirty American. The thought was perplexing for me. When my mother and family explained, all I understood was we were attacked. Then, we went on with our merry life's. But we were scared.
For months planes didn't fly over our heads. There were no streams of jet fuel trailing in the blue sky. The bright blue sky sat ominous. Flight became a frightening thing. Words like hijackers, towel head, Middle East, Shitte, and Sunni filled the screen. Videos filled the internet, music of national pride bonded musicians, and things became offensive.
It was years later when as students we were informed about the meticulous details of the event. And still, it never really offended me when my cousin, author of this blog, converted to Islam and came out as a Muslim. By this point, the details of religion became ambiguous to me and had my brother not been a Marine who headed to the Middle East to fight, I would have forgotten there was a war. There were days when my brother was overseas that I still forgot there was a war because I had homework to do, and my own life to situate. There was one occasion where I cried.
My own life had taken a turn in that I was coming to accept my sexual orientation soon after my cousin had converted. And I had just watched, and listened, and I had just been observing the actions of everyone else as she converted. My grandmother was offended that someone would become the "enemy" and become a part of the "most violent religion" in the world. My cousin had initially abandoned a Christian God and started praying five times a day to a rock in the East. To Allah.
Me personally, I had come to reject God and any belief in its entirety. Besides, my other cousin, the author of this blogs younger brother was even worst. An atheist. That aggravated my family even more. It bugged them. It meant that we were somehow falling apart. And finally, I had come out of the closet. And after the longest time I hadn't talked with my cousin, I decided to walk down to her door one door down from my grandmothers. It was Thanksgiving and the family was delicately putting out a Thanksgiving dinner. Ok, not delicately. Yelling at each other, anger spewing, frustration cooking the gravy. I needed to leave because before you knew it they would be incessantly talking about politics, religion, morals and the babies of the house would cry and I would be asked to change their diapers.
I left. I wanted to talk with my cousin. I walked into the house and there was my cousin. Shorter than I now she had lost a lot of weight. Though, she looked good. She was healthy, her auburn hair catching the glimpses of sun in the porch. She was human. Beautiful. And it didn't matter to me that she was Muslim. And it didn't matter to her that I was gay. We just connected on an intellectual level and we shared our experiences opening up a dialogue of religion and sexual orientation instead of just talking about how the clouds were hiding the sun, or how the chickens had laid ten eggs, or about how the cows left the fences, or the beavers made a damn, or how the four wheelers got stuck.
We just talked. And we talked about issues that mattered in this world. And we pursue to make a difference. And for once I understood what it meant not to judge. My cousin's conversion was a beacon to me to come express my sexuality. And she, without knowing it, perhaps helped me through it. Regardless of belief, she helped me.
And every year I wait for this day to become a part of the history books where things don't seem like they are real. The idea that things happened in the past settled our stomachs as children. And every time 9/11 comes around I think about a lot of things. Most not related to the day at all. But, I can safely say that I have never upon this day thought, Islam, those dirty towel heads put planes into our buildings. Instead, today I remember, there are people out there who want to kill me because I am gay, because I am American, because I am white, because I am male, because I just am.
And there are some things we will never fully understand.
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Jacob Woods writes for his own blog at Good as Gay. He is studying psychology and has an interest in sociology. Currently, he resides in the Twin Cities of Minnesota.
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