after Joy Katz

 

Was it the Oklahoma City bombing? No. It was my grandmothers’ living rooms.

Meditations on Germany. Iran. Lebanon. Israel. From the French, terroriste, 1795,

to take down a king. Guillotine for injustice. Or, 1920, to colonize a country. One

grandmother could name hers. Hitler killed her, she said fingering a photo

of my great-aunt’s curls. Terrorist = fanatic, one who causes terror, but, also,

terrorist = those who seek to purge perceived difference, to create the world

in their image. Someone who, as Voltaire said, “persecutes his brother

because he is not of his opinion.”

 

My other grandmother would say, fear your neighbor. They’ll lend you

milk one month. Hitch your feet to the car’s bumper the next.

 

Both grandmothers assumed everyone who wasn’t us wanted us dead.

 

We/you are an impediment. We/you who cause alarm; dread. We/you

who cause panic.

 

My grandmothers are dead.

 

Tell me: In which moment do you become blind to another’s face?

 

It is sometimes hard to leave the house now. Signs everywhere declare the

need for justice. The word gives me hives. I do not know when here became

here. I do not know when my brothers and sisters in Lebanon, in Syria, in my

own town, went from demanding with voices to demanding with guns. And was it

us or you who changed the flag from symbol to spear? Are we fighters? Are we

clear?

 

I am uncomfortable with my own face. My rage sparks daily. For my daughter’s sake

I hug my own chest. Breathe into my rapid heart. Stop now, I say to the mirror.

Stop now, terrorist.