Chapter 2

“To me, there are saints every day. They stand up and help others and live for others and do things for others.”
Theodore Melfi.

In the arc of childhood, time bends in strange ways. By the end of my fifth year I had started to notice the many methods by which my parents and their friends operated. My mother was usually a homebody and not naturally gregarious. She slept late and kept to herself. Our home was always tastefully decorated and clean, and mom was a phenomenal cook, but she was never a social butterfly in those days. She did however venture out of the house to go shopping. I never saw her shopping without a large handbag. My sisters who were eight and eleven would each carry one as well. In those crowded aisles, especially the ones with pyramids of cans, all sorts of goodies would be transferred from shopping cart to handbag. Small bottles and jars would often have the same size cap as the larger expensive sizes. If they had the price stamped on the cap, my mother or father would switch caps, getting the larger size for the cheaper price. In the produce department of an organic food store near us there were brown paper sacks bags for the potatoes. Mom would slip a few steaks or some pork chops into the bottom of a bag and pile some potatoes on top. She would have a man in a white coat weigh the bag, staple it and mark the price. Some grocery stores even carried packages of socks, underpants, and t-shirts. My mother always stocked up.
Our job as kids was to act as look-out and shield our parents from the eyes of nosy
employees and other shoppers. In extreme cases where the risk of capture was great, I would feign clumsiness and knock over a display tower of cans. Or I might fake a temper tantrum directly in front of an approaching store manager. Sometimes, in stores where we were not known, I'd act lost and distract the manager just long enough so that my mother could escape with the plundered items.
During the week I journeyed to the local park and the community center. There were free classes offered in a variety of subjects from cooking and knitting to swimming and martial arts. My parents encouraged me and my sisters to take advantage of these classes. I began studying both Judo and a form of Kung Fu. I also joined a ballroom dance class and learned to swim. These activities would normally cost plenty if taught by for profit businesses. But there are still places that believe in passing on one’s skills to others free of charge.
On weekends I would join my father at his job. He would leave one supermarket and get hired at another every so often. Whenever I went to work with him I would be sure to get a few items from the shelves and walk around eating food in the aisles. I might pick up a bag of cherries or grapes and eat them. I always made sure to carry a spoon in my pocket and open some yogurt. The Greek kind was the best. A quarter pound of deli meat and cheese went nicely with a few bagels removed from a package. I always carried some cellophane packets of mayonnaise and mustard from local restaurants to add flavor. I learned to eat well for free.
Life was happy and my internal conflicts about piracy mostly abated.
Then came a fall day that changed the course of our nation. The 9/11 attacks are a historical happening now. But for us young people the pain is lasting. I imagine it must be for everyone. The attacks killed nearly three thousand people. Those people left behind three thousand and fifty one children under the age of eighteen, by the count of survivors’ groups. That day marked our collective entry into a world of grief, an exclusive club that no one would ever wish to join. I have friends today who lost parents and other family members.
That day changed my entire perspective on both life and piracy. Both became more
urgent. That day my parents explained to me and my sisters about a type of hatred we would be observing for decades to come. We were sitting in front of the TV watching in stunned silence. Although we did not live in the epicenter of the main attacks, we were close enough.
“This is going to turn out badly for whoever is behind these attacks. You kids will start
hearing stuff at school and on the playgrounds. I want that you should understand that we do not lump people together. The people who did this are most assuredly Muslims. That’s a given. But that does not mean all Muslims are bad people.” My father had tears in his eyes as he spoke.
“What you father is trying to say is that a lot of less intelligent people will soon start
attacking others based on their religion. They will use this tragedy as an excuse to engage in low and base behavior. You should never join in with such people. No matter what happens you must be willing to stand up for everyone in need. That they are Muslim does not mean they are terrorists or support terrorism.” My mother looked grave.
I felt confused by what I was hearing and simply nodded my head. Gina, who was eleven, said that she knew some girls and a boy from school who were originally from Iran. She asked if they could come over for dinner. My parents smiled and agreed. My other sister, Tori, was eight and seemed more scared than Gina was.
“Is this going to start a war? Is it safe to play in the park still?” Tori started crying.
“Honey, oh sweetie.” My father picked her up and held her in his strong arms. “Yes. I
think before long we will be at war. But I also know that it is fine to play in the park. You can't let these b******s stop us from living our lives. That's what they want to have happen.”
I saw news reports on TV every day for a few weeks. I grew concerned with the angry voices of the reporters and the violence I was seeing. I didn't understand much of what had happened. But I noticed that my father was no longer employed. My parents spent most of their time with neighbors, drinking coffee and having long discussions about protests and politics. Gina invited her friends, Dalir, Reyhan and Soraya Pahlavi over almost every night. Their parents, Amir and Nasrin joined them. As I came to know these people I truly liked them. They were not urban pirates, and they seemed very strait laced, but they were quite friendly toward me. Dalir would bring books with him and help me with my reading. The food they brought for our family was delicious as well. The spicy stews, hearty meat and rice dishes, and various kinds of bread were like nothing I had ever tasted and I would eat until I could hold no more. Nasrin, the mother, would encourage everyone to keep eating.
Finally, one evening, I asked my father to explain everything to me. I had only met this one Muslim family, but if all Muslims were like them then I could not reconcile why Muslims would hate Americans. I could not understand the hatred it would take to crash airplanes into buildings.
The next morning my father took me out for breakfast. At the first diner we entered, he ordered coffee and bought me a glass of orange juice. A man sat next to us, dressed in a red sports coat and black slacks. He was eating an extensive breakfast that included steak, eggs, biscuits with gravy and hash-browns.
“Can I get some pancakes Papa?” I asked while sipping juice.
“In a little bit, son. I want to explain what happened and what you are seeing on TV.” My father got a refill on his coffee.
“ Vinnie, a few weeks ago, as you saw, terrorists attacked the Unites States. It seems that they hijacked four airplanes in mid-flight. That means that they threatened to kill people or hurt them unless the pilot did as they said and flew where they said. The terrorists flew two of the planes into two skyscrapers at the World Trade Center in New York City. You have seen them before but you might not remember it. You were only three. The impact of that crash caused the buildings to catch fire and collapse. A lot of people died.” My father sipped coffee soberly.
“Another plane destroyed part of the Pentagon. That is the nations military headquarters in Arlington, Virginia. The fourth plane crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. No one knows for sure, but like as not the terrorists on that plane intended to destroy either the White House or the Capitol Building. Passengers on that fourth plane fought the terrorists and prevented them from reaching their goal. In all, nearly three thousand people were killed.” I listened beginning to understand but feeling confused still about the why of it.
“These people were not pirates. Not like we are. They are and were cowardly scum. They did what they did out of pure hatred. And I am not even sure I can explain where that hatred stems from. What I do know is that these terrorists hijacked those four planes. All of the men were from nations in the Middle East. They belonged to a terrorist group called Al Qaeda led by a real son of a b***h named Osama bin Laden. Al Qaeda practices an extreme version of the religion of Islam. They are Muslims. But clearly not like the Pahlavis.” The man next to us stood up, grabbed a check and went to the front and paid a cashier.
“ The group called Al Qaeda is intensely opposed to the United States and other western, democratic nations. They are especially against the military presence of these countries in Arab nations. Since the group’s creation by Bin Laden in the late 1980s, Al Qaeda has helped coordinate and fund numerous bombings worldwide. That is the best I can do, son. They hate us because we are in their country.” My father picked up our check and did a double take.
“Well if it’s their country and they don't want us there, then why don't we leave? Then they wouldn’t hate us.” I looked up at my father.
“Hold that thought, Vinnie. Excuse me, miss?” My father summoned our waitress.
“There seems to be a mix-up. We only had coffee and juice. But this check is for a pretty big breakfast. I think the guy sitting next to us took our check by mistake.”
“Oh my goodness!” The grey haired lady in her black dress and blue gingham half apron exclaimed “I'm terribly sorry, sir.” She wrote a new check. My father paid and left her a ten dollar tip.
After we left, we drove about two miles and pulled into a family style restaurant that looked pretty busy. “Vinnie, you can order anything you like here. But if you recognize anyone, just don’t say a word. Pretend that you never saw the person.” My father winked at me.
We entered and sat at the counter. Sure enough I recognized the man in the red sports coat. I started to say something and stopped myself. I noted that the man was only drinking coffee. I ordered a double stack of pancakes, bacon, eggs, hash-browns, milk and a piece of apple pie for dessert. As I ate my father kept talking to me.
“You asked a good question before, Vinnie. Why don't we just clear out of these
countries Al Qaeda owns? The answer is two-fold. First of all, we need to have a military presence there in order to protect our nation and our national allies. If we are not there, then certain other countries will put their own military there and threaten us. Furthermore, many people in these countries do want us around. Al Qaeda is not especially nice to people in their own countries either. They hurt people, they abuse women and they act like thugs. Our presence in those countries helps the people who are being hurt. America can protect them.” My father looked serious. “It’s complex but that is the best I can do.”
I nodded and ate my food. My father had ordered a strip steak with eggs, pancakes and hash-browns. After we ate, he left a ten dollar bill on the counter, grabbed a receipt and paid at the cash register. We left and drove toward home.
“Vinnie, that man you saw is a friend of mine. His name is Mike Horowitz. We have that system down to a science. He orders breakfast in one restaurant and grabs my receipt for coffee. Then we switch it up at the next restaurant. We never hit the same places inside of three months. It has yet to fail. But if you plunder in that manner, never hit mom and pop joints. Hit big chains, or pricey diners that are ripping people off on the costs. And most important is to leave a heavy tip for the server. Servers don't even get paid minimum wage. They live on tips and should not be screwed alongside their greedy employers.” My father ruffled my head and turned on the radio. Light jazz filled the car and I sat thinking about all I had learned.

Author's Note

Rough draft