Shame

My Thoughts on the Afghan Girls Attacked in Houston...

I see them waving in the breeze, shooting up toward the sun. My eyebrows furrow. It’s only my lawn. Weeds hover high.

I think back to the Homeowners Association meeting where we were handed a piece of paper instructing us to act fast, these were the months where weeds had to be controlled. It was critical, they said. We were advised to get a lawn service. My mind smiled smugly. I had a landscaping service. I was a good neighbor. I followed the rules.

I didn’t realize that my landscaping service only did landscaping, not lawn services like grass fertilization and treating weeds with something called pre-emergents. Solutions that prevent weeds entirely. Walking the neighborhood, I eye my neighbors' weed-free lawns. Perfect rectangles of green. My eyes veer to my front lawn. Shame.

***

My eyes hover over the article. My eyebrows furrow. Worries multiply thick. Three Afghan girls are attacked in a middle school. They wear hijab, like me. I have a middle school daughter. A high school daughter who wears a hijab. Sequined floral ones. My eyes scan various articles with different accounts. One says they were attacked by twenty students. The other says twenty-five students. Seven students. The teachers took too long to intervene. Timing was critical. There is a GoFundMe page. The school didn’t protect those girls. Shame.

***

I ask around and choose a lawn service. One tells me I need to pull the trigger and get a service ASAP. If not, just call back next year. I’d already missed the window. I meekly thank them and then figure out my options. I’d never owned a home with actual grass, a lawn. But the weeds still bother me. Bright green splotches poking holes in my lawn. Poke. Poke. Poke. They reach up through the earth. Celebrate when they’re through the grass. They spread. Some with tiny needles that quiver at the end of their leaves. Mocking me as if to say You can’t get rid of me so easily.

***

The girls were stabbed by pencils. Poke. Poke. Poke. One was attacked so badly her neck is fractured. I listen to a video where the father says how they moved here for a new life. A better life. One girl says she is traumatized. They are going to leave Paul Revere Middle School in Houston. They are awaiting transfer to another school. I wonder if the attackers think I got rid of you easily.

***

I don't know why the weeds bother me the way they do. I’m an immigrant. In my mind I sometimes have a constant commentary of

I want to be a good [insert blank here.]

I want to be a good mother.

I want to be a good daughter.

I want to be a good daughter-in-law.

I want to be a good wife.

I want to be a good Muslim.

I want to be a good patient.

I want to be a good neighbor.

The Home Owners Association form taunts me. Those weeds will multiply and not only jeopardize your lawn, but your neighbors’ lawns.

Am I a threat?

***

I keep thinking of the girls. I imagine their peers planning and plotting. Did the group of seven or twenty or twenty-five students sharpen their pencils before circling their palms around the pointed lead? Did they cradle the lead in their palms before they jumped? Before they pushed the lead into their skin, before they pulled their hijabs over their heads, before they attacked? Why did this happen? One article says it was one girl. One article says it was three girls attacked. No matter the case, this question looms.

Why did they see those girls as a threat?

***

I finally choose a lawn service. They’re set to come out today. I plan to ask them if I should pull out any of the weeds or have them treat it all. Over the phone, they said they will spray the weeds. Within 2 weeks they should Yellow. Shrivel. Die.

I hope they never return.

***

The news article released last week. I read one article then another. I watch one video then another. The father laments that his daughter is still in a neck brace, that the incident happened more than a month ago now, that they’ve been facing barriers finding a new school for his daughter.

I hope they never have to return.

***

The weed service company is supposed to call before they come. They don’t. In mismatched socks and a floral shalwar kameez, I ask the woman with the grass green polo shirt question after question on my front porch. I memorize her answers. I ask how to care for grass when I’ve never had it before. She says to water it three times a week during the spring and summer. For the weeds, she advises me to not pull them up. To just let their roots be. Otherwise the seeds will scatter.

***

I hope every teacher, staff member, librarian in these girls' lives ask questions of how to care for them, the girls who’ve never been on this continent before. The girls who’ve already faced so much trauma. I hope they memorize their answers. I don’t know these girls’ names, but I hope they take the time to hold their names in their mouths, to say them correctly, and with love. I hope they nurture these girls, to cherish their roots. I want the wind to be their prayers, their dreams the seeds. Seeds of hope. I hope the girls get their new life, a better life. I want them to bloom.