Razia had moved from the U.K. to San Francisco. She thought it was a big step to re-locate to the United States of America, believing-like most Europeans-that it would be one massive shopping mall punctuated by Drive thru Dunkin Donuts franchises. She was pleasantly surprised to find that San Francisco was not very different to Europe. You could be a pedestrian and ride buses without being ridiculed or ostracised. And not everyone was morbidly obese or yelled when they spoke.
She settled into the land of opportunity and became a teacher in the Berkeley public school system. She enjoyed being in such a diverse, multi-cultural and broad-minded society.
Her children attended a local public school near the Golden Gate Bridge. Every October, they would come home with art projects centered around the theme of Indigenous People's Day which fell on a Monday in the middle of the month. There would be lists of atrocities committed at the hands of early settlers directed towards Native Americans. This was not easy reading. She herself had grown up with the omni-present spectre of colonisation.
Every country had its skeletons and checkered pasts. Did we not need to get beyond our collective guilt, make necessary reparations and vow never to repeat the mistakes of yesterday?
Razia then moved to the midwest to be closer to family. She knew that Ohio would not be identical to the Bay Area but she assumed she WAS still living in America. She had settled in at her new position in a local Islamic school. There was a staff orientation where a list of annual holidays was distributed.
" We don't get Indigenous People's Day off?" she enquired of the principal, Mr Jamal Qureishi who was leading the meeting.
"What?" replied Mr Qureishi to the sound of pens dropping from hands. The other teachers were trying not to look at each other. It was Razia again, with another outlandish demand. It was like dinner theatre. First it was the composting bin, now who knew what she was requesting.
"Indigenous People's Day!" Razia was raising her voice and looking around at the other teachers for support.
What was wrong with these people?
They were lax about recycling, wore polyester-and now this. Did they not care about the REAL founding fathers of this country?
A year later when Razia finally left the field of teaching and entered the corporate world, she discovered that the rest of America referred to this holiday as Columbus Day. An entire twenty four hours dedicated to someone in desperate need of cartography instruction? At that moment, she decided to take out two minutes of silence to pray a henceforth annual psychedelic prayer for the idyllic little West Coast community she had left behind.
She settled into the land of opportunity and became a teacher in the Berkeley public school system. She enjoyed being in such a diverse, multi-cultural and broad-minded society.
Her children attended a local public school near the Golden Gate Bridge. Every October, they would come home with art projects centered around the theme of Indigenous People's Day which fell on a Monday in the middle of the month. There would be lists of atrocities committed at the hands of early settlers directed towards Native Americans. This was not easy reading. She herself had grown up with the omni-present spectre of colonisation.
Every country had its skeletons and checkered pasts. Did we not need to get beyond our collective guilt, make necessary reparations and vow never to repeat the mistakes of yesterday?
Razia then moved to the midwest to be closer to family. She knew that Ohio would not be identical to the Bay Area but she assumed she WAS still living in America. She had settled in at her new position in a local Islamic school. There was a staff orientation where a list of annual holidays was distributed.
" We don't get Indigenous People's Day off?" she enquired of the principal, Mr Jamal Qureishi who was leading the meeting.
"What?" replied Mr Qureishi to the sound of pens dropping from hands. The other teachers were trying not to look at each other. It was Razia again, with another outlandish demand. It was like dinner theatre. First it was the composting bin, now who knew what she was requesting.
"Indigenous People's Day!" Razia was raising her voice and looking around at the other teachers for support.
What was wrong with these people?
They were lax about recycling, wore polyester-and now this. Did they not care about the REAL founding fathers of this country?
A year later when Razia finally left the field of teaching and entered the corporate world, she discovered that the rest of America referred to this holiday as Columbus Day. An entire twenty four hours dedicated to someone in desperate need of cartography instruction? At that moment, she decided to take out two minutes of silence to pray a henceforth annual psychedelic prayer for the idyllic little West Coast community she had left behind.
3 comments:
I am waiting for an Anthology of the Chronicles of Aunty-G.... It needs to be I published NOW!
Reminds me of the "diversity tree" at my brother's college dormitory.
Wow - I never knew San Francisco was THAT progressive! Makes me feel a little bit better about the strong possibility that my daughter may be headed there next year.
Thanks for sharing this!
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