Nadine Jolie Courtney - All-American Muslim Girl

Weve passed through security and were boarding the plane when the breaking news alert hits my cell phone: Theres been a shooting.

Alerts like this trigger the same thought process, every single time. First: horror for the victims of the crime. But second: anxiety. Was a Muslim involved? Please, God, dont let there have been a Muslim involved.

The TV monitors in the boarding area are tuned to a show my father hates: Jack Hendersons nightly The Jack Attack, a cable news juggernaut. My heart tightens as images of the shooting flash next to Jacks face. I cant hear what hes saying, but Im sure its his usual bombast: immigrants, Muslims, borders, walls.

Next to the TVs, the beige walls are decorated with white lights and Christmas wreaths, a feeble attempt to bring seasonal cheer to the T gates.

Once safely on the plane, I poke my mother; my father is across the aisle from me, with a white man wearing khakis and a blazer in the adjacent window seat.

Mom. Look, I say.

My mother puts down her iPad and takes the phone from me. Oh no, she whispers. Thats devastating.

We lock eyes, and I know shes having the same thoughts: Please not a Muslim. Please not a Muslim.

Not that facts matter. Chances are good well bear the blame one way or another.

She turns on her seat-back TV, switching it to cable news. A red chyron blazes on the bottom of the screen: Attacker still at large. I hand the phone across the aisle to my dad. He stares at the screen for several seconds, sadness and frustration etched across his face. Silly Dad, the guy Ive been teasing all morning, has disappeared. Hes Serious Dad now.

As passengers continue boarding the plane, people around us frown at their phones. I study their faces carefully for the reactions. Dismay. Disbelief. Fear. Anger.

The man sitting next to Dad turns on his TV and lets out a sound of disgust. He glances sidelong at my father. Maybe its my imagination, but I sense suspicion. My pulse quickens. He switches from cable news to sports.

I bet it was a Muslim. A male voice behind us. Young.

You think? A female voice. Quiet.

An attack like that? Most definitely. Screw those people.

God, its scary. You just never know.

Theyre all the same. They shouldnt be here.

Coulda been Syrian. Refugee, probably.

I work with a Muslim. This chick Rabab. She doesnt pray and do all that crap. We went out for drinks last month.

Yeah, for sure. Theres plenty of good Muslims. Im not talking about them.

Though their voices are low, muttering, they bore into my skull. I picture my grandmother in Dallas: my teta sitting in my aunt Bilas cheerful purple room, watching Amr Diab music videos and reading gossip magazines spilling dirt on Arab Idol judges. I wish I could show the passengers behind me what a Syrian Muslim in America looks like. Ask them if she is something to fear.

Of course I cant, and even if I could, Id chicken out. Dads said it forever: Harsh words equal short-term satisfaction. They always backfire. Best to take the high road.

My dads phone rings, and he pulls it out of his pocket. Kefic, ya Mama? Mabsoot, mabsoot Hamdullah Enha aal tayaara Inshallah, inshallah, he says quietly. Ya habibti yalla, maasalaama. Hes going through the motions with Teta, a routine ten-second phone call: How are you? Im good. We made it on the plane safely, thank God. Ill let you know when weve landed, God willing. Love you. Okay, gotta go.

But the man next to him is now glaring at my father. My dad keeps his head down, his gaze neutral.

Things have become so charged, so ugly. He shouldnt have taken the call.

The man stands up abruptly. Excuse me. He steps over Dad.

I lean forward in my cramped seat, watching him walk up the aisle to the galley. He talks to the flight attendant, who looks our way. He seems agitated, his arms gesticulating.

Her face hardens.

Dad, I say.

Before I can say more, the flight attendant is standing in front of my father. Sir. Is there a problem?

My father looks up at her, blinking several times. No, maam. No problem.

Weve had complaints about you, she says.

Complaints? I say. The venom in my voice surprises me. Or just one, from that guy? I nod toward the man still standing in the galley.

Allie, my father says, voice low. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

The flight attendant appraises me, her brow knitted. I cant tell if shes irritated or confused. She turns back to my father. Passengers have expressed concern. They said you were speaking Arabic and they heard the word Allah repeatedly.

Allah is a really common word in Arabic, maam, I say. Its in, like, every other phrase.

Allie, please, my father says.

Normally I would shut up. Id be obedient and just listen to my dad, like always.

Today is not that day.

He was talking to my grandmother, maam. She doesnt speak English. Were flying to Dallas for a family reunion. We live here, in Atlanta. Actually, just north of Atlantain Providence. You know Providence, right? A gentle Southern twang creeps into my voice, even though Ive lived in Georgia for barely six months.

She looks back and forth between the two of us.

My dad opens his mouth again. Maam, there must have been a misunderst

Im his daughter, I say, putting on my best For the Adults voice. Dad doesnt get these people like I do. Thank God I dressed nicely and wore makeup for the flight. Im a student at Providence High School outside Atlanta. So weve just celebrated Christmas, and now were spending New Years Eve with the rest of our family. For a reunion. I repeat, my tone upbeat and friendly. I pull out my phone, Googling my fathers name. See? Heres my dad on the Emory website. Hes an American history professor there. He has a PhD from the University of North Texas. I click around on my phone, pulling up another entry. Oh, so this is an article about my dad in the LA Times a few years ago. He wrote a book when he was an assistant professor at UCLA, and it got great reviews. Heres another one, when he was an associate professor at Northwestern. I put my hand gently on my mothers arm. She tucks her blond hair behind an ear, looking concerned. This is my mom, Elizabeth. Shes a psychologist affiliated with Grady Memorial. Were American. Were all American.

This is so not me, speaking up, but I have to. Its my dad.

Listing my parents rsums seems to mollify the flight attendant, but Dads seatmate is still in the galley. His arms are crossed against his chest, his eyes sweeping over my father accusingly. I can practically hear his inner monologue: The daughter and the wife dont look Muslim. But the dad

I stand up slowly. No sudden motions.

Here, Daddy, I say, pulling gently on his arm. Why dont we switch seats? You can sit next to Mommy. I never call her Mommy.