Writing About Lives

Last Saturday I hopped on the subway and went down to Brooklyn to visit with my friend Gun. We get together every few months and I had never been to his place. After about two hours of tea, walking around a bit in his neighborhood and getting a slice of pizza, we jumped on the R train to get back to Manhattan.

The trains were slightly crowded when two women in traditional Middle Eastern garb got on with two small children, a young girl still in a stroller and a boy who couldn’t have been more than three or four years old. The kids were giggling and having a good old time.

Suddenly the little boy, who was just an adorable kid but on a black cloth mask with pointed corners. All we could see were his eyes sitting right across from us. Other people on the train started to stare at him. It was obviously a kid’s mask and game when Gun leaned over and whispered: “What do we have here a little terrorist in the making?”

It was one of those moments I wanted to laugh so badly my eyes started to water and I felt ready to explode. Laughing hard would have been rude. That made it even funnier, so I fought it back even more. Gun said exactly what I and anybody else looking at this little boy thought. I haven’t wanted to laugh that hard in years.

Had that little boy in that mask shown up at an average American elementary school they would have sent him home for sure.