Not Without My Truth

Her memory of it is splintered. She remembers the why – her teacher showing an atrocious film oozing with cruel stereotypes that left her sobbing at her locker. To his credit, he agreed to her demands. If he was going to show his classes that film, he also had to let her teach for a day. Dispel all that bigotry.

She enlisted the only other Middle Eastern student in the school, the two of them raw from first trips to their other homelands. Often times they sat in the back of their English class swapping stories about their adventures, their shared desire to “lose” their passports and be gloriously stuck in a place where they finally fit in.

The presentation culminated in music and dancing, the two of them inviting their classmates to come up and join them in the exotic movements. That’s the part she remembers best; the boy willingly leaving his chair, laughing open mouthed with them as they used their own limited knowledge to show him how males were supposed to move.

She thinks she will probably always have that memory, the three of them dancing to the encouraging claps and friendly giggles of her classmates.

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