In recent weeks, much of the media has focused on the aftermath of the San Bernardino shooting, including discussion of the future of gun laws and negative commentary toward the attackers.
Donald Trump, outspoken 2016 Republican presidential candidate, recently spoke out against the attackers, targeting their Islamic beliefs, and the beliefs of past terrorist attackers. In a December 7 press release, Trump proposed a ban on Muslims entering the United States, "until our country's representatives can figure out what the hell is going on." He went on to cite President Roosevelt's use of the Alien and Sedition Acts during World War II to "apprehend, restrain, and deport Japanese, German, and Italian alien immigrants," and that the measure would be temporary, "until better screening methods are devised."
Earlier this year, a gun shop owner in Florida made headlines when he declared his business a "Muslim-free zone," and offered a $25 discount for using the coupon code "muslim" [sic]. He received backlash on Twitter and in the media, but in November, a U.S. District Judge released a decision in favor of Andy Hallinan, citing the First Amendment and "insufficient alleged imminent harm," on the part of the Council on American-Islamic Relations.
This negativity has weighed heavily on my mind in recent weeks. For reasons of recent prejudices I find myself fighting the air of anxiety that has hung thick in American minds.
I work in a restaurant in my hometown, a small Oregon chain of family-and-date-friendly establishments, and have noticed a rise in the number of quizzical looks and second glances toward anyone in a hijab. We have a large population of foreign customers. Whether they be students here on visa, or immigrants becoming citizens, our demographics range from Chinese and Japanese and Korean, to Muslim and Indian and Saudi Arabian. This is the Pacific Northwest, so anything darker than the milky skin tones of the Western European descendants is like pepper in a bowl of salt.
On a steady Thursday night, deep in the holiday season and in the wake of the San Bernardino shooting, a man approached the host counter after finishing his meal with his family. He motioned to a table behind me, over my right shoulder, of three young women in hijabs.
"I'd like to pay for their dinner, if that is possible," he said to me and co-worker. He told us that he did not know them and had never seen them before, but that he wanted to buy them dinner if that was still a possibility. After checking with the young women's server, we informed the man that, unfortunately, they had already paid for their dinner. He smiled, resting his hand on the counter, and thanked us. And then he motioned for his family and left.
I went home after work that night thinking about this moment; about how a stranger wanted to make some other strangers' day better, for no other reason than to do so; about how the season was being shrouded in negativity toward a whole group of people and how I myself had been guilty of considering such prejudices; and about Dumbledore.
In a matter of weeks, my reality went from the hopeful, youthful, and reckless horizon that is your twenties, to a darker, grittier, and grimmer horizon of the unknown. And in this moment, in the mundane atmosphere of my workplace, I was reminded of the good and great in people, of what it means to be human and what it means to be a good person.
