#just to stop Pakistan from winning and putting three wins on the board

[winterscaptain]

absence.

Aaron Hotchner x Gender Neutral Reader a joyful future fic

a/n: the next installment is here! this is the second-to-last piece in the berry hill section of a joyful future. as it has been lately, this one requires little ajf context, but i would recommend reading berry hill and waldosia, if you haven’t already. (thanks to aimz @ssaic-jareau, kira @good-heavens-chris-evans, and sabina @writefasttalkevenfaster) edit: this has been heavily revised as of april 29th, 2021. the changes and additions address continuity errors and ongoing subplots. 

words: 7k (prev. 3.8k) warnings: language, vomit mention, really accurate satellite phone protocol (eat your heart out, cm writers), beard!hotch, jack hotchner content, one last slow burn

summary: “absence is to love what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the small, it inflames the great” - roger de bussy-rabutin. au!march-september 2011

masterlist | a joyful future masterlist | ajf faq | taglist | what do you want to see next? updated: april 29th, 2021

There’s a moment where he stops at your desk on the way out of the bullpen, but you just stare at him. He opens his mouth as if to speak, then closes it. After a moment, he finally says, “Jack is with Jessica tonight.” 

You have no idea what your face looks like, but it’s enough to drop his shoulders and send him on his way, defeated.

+++

You let yourself into his apartment, slamming the door behind you. He’s been waiting for you, leaning against the windowsill across from the door. 

“How dare you.”

He sighs and presses a hand to his forehead. “You have to understand that I -”

“Bullshit, Aaron. I don’t have to understand a goddamn thing. What are you thinking? We need you.” 

His head tips up, and he looks through you. The haunted look in his eyes almost makes you falter - it so acutely reminds you of the days following Haley’s death - but you keep your resolve. He doesn’t say anything, just lets you yell at him until it's out of your system. You could never actually hate him and he knows that, which makes some of it easier, but not all of it. 

The tears start and pick up speed as you continue, nearly at a shout. “You've known for seven months that you were going to leave for Pakistan. I read the brief. Seven. Fucking. Months, Aaron. Since September, you’ve known and you didn’t tell us about the task force assignment in fucking Pakistan!” 

You pause, but the final nail in his proverbial coffin leaves your mouth without permission. “Emily died, and you’re still leaving?” He flinches. “You’re leaving me and Jack. You’re leaving our team. I never thought you could do something like that to us. Maybe them, but not me. Never to me. I mean, after everything we’ve -” You cut yourself off and raise the back of your hand to your mouth, unable to finish the unbearably painful thought.

He’s not sure which part is the most painful - the fact that you list yourself with Jack instead of with the BAU, the fact that you say ‘our team,’ or the tone that drips with hurt. The sob that rips through your chest breaks his heart. He leans heavily against the arm of his couch, knocked down by the weight of your tears. 

No. The hardest part is knowing he deserves it, that you aren’t saying anything that isn't unfair or untrue. 

“I can’t even look at you right now.” 

He can only watch you as you walk back out, leaving the door open behind you. 

About twenty minutes later, he receives a text.

9:34pm I’ll be there tomorrow at 12:30 to take you to base. Be ready when I get there. 

He crawls into bed about half an hour later, and receives another text.

10:05pm Goodnight. 

Fuck. 

+++

The ride to base ride is mostly silent, and you know something’s wrong. It’s nothing you can articulate or even really put your finger on, but it’s something bigger than just his imminent absence.

He’s boarding a C-130 supply transport with a few Marines and various agency task force members to an outpost in Pakistan. It will no doubt be a long and deeply uncomfortable flight. His go bag, packed with desert fatigues and a couple of creature comforts, looks smaller than usual at his feet. 

“How long?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “Task force operations are need-to-know.” There’s so much he can’t tell you, and it eats at him. Because it’s you, and he’s been an ass, he concedes a little. “Probably a couple of months.”

“We’ll be okay, Aaron.” 

A little laugh leaves him, and it pulls a smile from you. 

“What?”

“Remember when you chased me down last night to tell me the team couldn’t do this without me?” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s still true, but we’ll manage. We always do.” There’s a moment of silence, and you continue. “And you’re going where you’re needed. That helps.” 

It’s true. Your anger had cooled (just a little) overnight, and you decided you didn’t want to be upset with him when he leaves. 

You already miss him. 

“Don’t think I’m not still mad at you.”

He looks out the window, and you can hear the wheels turning in his head. Jack is on his mind, and so are you. There’s nothing more nauseating than the thought of leaving you while you’re still hurting from Emily’s loss. “I know.” 

Why are you going through with this, Hotchner?

Oh, right. You’re a coward. 

“I just don’t want our last conversation before you leave to be a fight.” You sniff, but don’t look at him as you continue driving down the highway. 

I am perhaps the most undeserving man on the planet. 

He says, “Thank you. I don’t want that either,” but he hopes you can hear what else he can’t say. 

I love you. I’m sorry. 

+++

“Alright, you’ve got everything you need?” You stand next to him on the tarmac, shading your eyes from the sun. 

Aaron hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. “Think so. You gonna be alright?”

You nod and reach for him. He embraces you, tucking his head into your shoulder. “You be safe, Aaron Hotchner. If you die out there I’ll kill you myself.” 

He chuckles, and you hope the sound is enough to keep your heart from breaking too much over the next couple of months. Your eyes close as he presses a kiss to your cheek. “I’ll check in when I can.”

Shoving against his chest, you turn him around and push him toward the plane. “Get outta here.” 

He takes one last look over his shoulder when he reaches the loading ramp and offers you a wave. You return it. 

+++

You manage to get to the highway before the tears start. The only person you want to talk to is Emily. She’d know exactly what to say, and she’d make sure your days off were full of fun and good company. You pull off on the side of the road, your head falling into your hands, sobs wracking through you.

When you’re able to keep driving, your chest hurts beyond belief. 

Without her, these months seem to stretch before you forever. 

+++ april 2011 +++

It’s not the first time you’ve ended up in his office alone, but it’s the first time you’ve really noticed the evidence of his absence. 

The picture frames on his desk started gathering dust, so you brought a little duster to the office. His desktop computer has stopped making noise, so you turned it on and off once out of pity. His phone hardly rings, unless it's the NSA trying to get a hold of one of you for a sat phone call, so you and Morgan take turns taking forwarded calls. 

The silence is overwhelming and seems to pull something intangible from you. It’s exhausting. 

“When’s the last time you slept?” 

You turn, finding Penelope in the doorway. You’re not sure how long she’s been there, watching your acquiescence to the bees that seem to have invaded your brain in the last couple of weeks. 

“I slept last night,” you tell her. It’s not technically a lie. 

She doesn’t look impressed. “Did you sleep through the night, or are you just trying to play one of your Jedi mind tricks on me?” 

With a sigh, you cop to it. “No, I didn’t sleep through the night.” You look out the window to the bullpen, and you know she sees something on your face. 

“I don’t like it either.” She looks over her shoulder, finding Spencer and Ashley playing a game of Go on the desk. Unsurprisingly, Spencer’s winning. Rossi and Derek speak quietly by the little kitchen, looking just about as tired as you feel. 

The short-handedness is getting to you. “There’s just…” You search for something to say. “There’s just so much to do.” 

Penelope looks back. Her mouth twists. “And we’re down a couple’a hands.” 

That’s an understatement. 

+++

“I would understand if you needed some time to think about it.” Erin leans forward in her chair, elbows on her desk. “With your team cut in half, even I wouldn’t feel comfortable sending you to another unit without some time to train a replacement or two.” 

“Or three,” you add.

She looks at you and nods. “Exactly.” 

You pick up the letter from the Special Agent in Charge in Los Angeles. You’d be his right hand - essentially the liaison between operational support divisions and units operating in the field. It’s a hell of an opportunity, a huge promotion, and a significant bump in pay. 

“Can I take you up on the offer to think about it?” You slide the letter across the desk again. 

Her eyes are soft, and you almost feel close to her in that moment. “Of course. Take your time. It’s a position created just for you, so there’s nobody else in line for it.” 

“Thanks.” 

+++ may 2011 +++

“Ready or not, here I come!” You call across the apartment, sneaking through the familiar rooms with practiced ease. 

Aaron’s been away for close to a month, and you’ve settled into a routine. Cases, of course, keep you busy. Derek’s rather good at playing unit chief - decisive and collaborative - but you miss Aaron’s steady, even hand. 

Really, you miss everything about him. You try not to think about him too much. 

You fail, often. 

Avoiding thoughts of Aaron gets even harder as you creep into the master bedroom. The smell of him hasn’t left. Past the doorway, the air is spicy, masculine, and warm. You squint at the bed. One of the pillows moves, just a little, and you pounce, pulling the covers back and grabbing the wiggling pillow. 

Jack screeches and throws himself at you. You catch him and fall back on the bed, laughing. “I found you!”

Jess is off running errands for the afternoon, taking some well-earned time off. You’ll more than likely spend the night over here tonight to give her more of her weekend. It’s never any trouble to stay with Jack. You adore each other. 

Usually, Jack leaps right to his feet for another round, but he stays put after his fit of mirth passes, sprawling across your chest. 

“What are you thinking about over there?”

He sighs, and brings his little hands under his chin, propping his head up so he can look at you. He’s six (and then some), now - still very much a boy - but the pensive look on his face starkly reminds you of his father. “When’s Dad going to be home?”

You push some hair off his forehead. “I’m not sure, my love. I’m hoping it’s only a couple more weeks, but it could be a little longer than that.” 

He sighs, and it breaks your heart a little. You turn on your side, and he curls into you, resting his head on your arm and tucking under your chin. “Are you and my dad best friends? I have a best friend named Connor and he says best friends are really important and I was just wondering.”

You laugh a little. “Yeah, I think so. Your dad and I have known each other for a long time.” His little hands play with the collar of your shirt. There’s more to his question. Jack’s just like his dad and takes a bit of ferreting out. Luckily, you’ve had plenty of practice. “What are you curious about, little bug?”

“Do you miss Dad?”

A track of Aaron’s laugh, his smile, the way his arms feel around you flies through your head. “Yeah, I miss him a lot.” 

“I’m happy you’re here so we can miss him together.” You can almost hear Aaron’s voice in Jack’s. It sounds just like something he would say, and probably has said, talking to his son about Haley.

“Me too, buddy.” You kiss the top of his head. “Me too.” 

Jess returns about an hour later, groceries in-hand, to find you and Jack curled together in Aaron’s bed, snoozing the afternoon away. She snaps a picture with her phone, saving it in an album she keeps for Aaron. After she puts the groceries away, she escapes, leaving a note. 

You’re on your own tonight and tomorrow. Have a good time with breakfast - he’s been picky lately. 

XO, Jess

+++

“You know,” Jess says, a little out of the blue one afternoon. “Haley told me something once.” 

You snort. “I’d imagine she told you a great number of things.” 

“Well, sure. But I mean about you and Aaron.” 

It’s pretty stupid that your body decides to panic over absolutely nothing. If this was a polygraph, you’d fail outright. And yet, nothing’s happened between you and Aaron. You’re just friends. 

Yeah but you love him. 

And he probably loves you, too. 

But we're all to chickenshit for that.

What a-fucking-bout it?

You take a little breath and a sip of your tea. “Oh?” You hope the query sounds casual enough and doesn’t give away the cool sweat blossoming over your palms. 

Luckily, Jess isn’t a profiler. 

“Haley told me - and this was the summer before she died, so it’s not like she told me under duress or anything - that she thought there may have been something between you and Aaron after the divorce.” 

She says that like it’s the simplest thing. You’re not sure what to say, so you keep your eyes on the grain of the coffee table, tracing the lines with your eyes. Eventually, you decide to answer in the simplest, most honest way possible. 

“There’s never been anything between Aaron and me. He’s one of my best friends and I care about him.” That sounds evasive even to your own ears. “I care about him a lot.” 

Jess hums. “I know, but Haley always had a sense about these things. And she knows Aaron better than anyone.” 

Her slip into the present tense makes your chest pull. 

“I don’t say that to put you on the spot or anything.” She shrugs. “I just think you guys would be good together. You’re good for him and I think he’s good for you, too.” 

She’s more right than she knows, but you can’t think about it for too long. You miss him too much. 

Out of a need to respond, you offer a half-hearted, “Maybe.” 

Jess reaches out. “He’ll be home soon. When he gets back, I think you should at least think about it. Or talk about it.” She shakes her head. “Or something.” 

“I have -” You cut yourself off, not really meaning to share. 

She squeezes your knee. “I know you have. So has he.” 

+++ june 2011 +++

Back to back cases - five of them, to be exact, pull you through the next four weeks by the ear. Formal leadership wears on Derek more and more by the day, and you find yourself making just as many decisions as he does. You’re immensely proud of him, but the whole thing is exhausting. Spencer does his best to slip back into his normal role, but Emily’s loss continues to wear on him. You don’t blame him.

Most days feel held together by duct tape, with you and Rossi acting as the adhesive. All that and the offer in Los Angeles you’ve hardly had time to process. 

Thus, your evening with Jess is both well-earned and much needed. 

“Wanna crash here tonight?” She sets a mug of tea down on the coffee table in front of you and sits heavily back on the couch. “It’s pretty late.”

You check your watch and find it is indeed late. Before you can answer, your phone rings, and you answer it with an apologetic glance toward Jess. “Hey, Morgan. What’s up?”

“We have sat call notification from Hotch. Can you come in?” He sounds exhausted. 

“Yeah, I can be there in twenty. Is everything okay?”

He sighs. “Yeah, looks like a routine check-in.” 

Jess sighs, knowing the drill. She goes to the kitchen and pours your tea into a travel mug. 

“Are you calling anyone else in?”

“Nope. Just you. See you when you get here.” He hangs up. 

You stare at your phone as Jess sits next to you again. “We have a call from Aaron coming in, and I have to head to the office.” She hands you your travel mug, and you take it gratefully. 

“You’re welcome back here - I can set up Aaron’s room for you. We’re a lot closer to the office than your place, and I don’t want you to drive if you’re too tired.” She sets a hand on your knee, and you reach over to embrace her. 

“Thanks, Jess.”

+++

When you arrive, Derek’s already on the phone. “... So, no leads?... Right.” He looks up and catches your eye. “Here, Hotch.”

You take the phone. “Hey.”

“Hi.” He sounds relieved. “Are you doing okay? How’s Jack?”

His questions make you smile. “We’re good. He’s good. I just left the apartment - Jess and I were having some grown-up movie time.”

You’re warmed by his laugh. “Good. Glad to hear it. I was just telling Derek that the leads out here have gone cold, but we’re still working.”

“Ah. Any chance you’ll be home soon?” You avoid Derek’s searching gaze. 

“It doesn’t look that way, no. We’re picking up on some chatter out there, but nothing firm. We’ll have to keep out for a couple more weeks at least.”

Your heart drops, but you hide it as best you can. “Alright. Anything you need from us back here?”

“Just keep doing good work.” You know he can’t say much more than that, with more than a couple of NSA guys in between you on the line, not to mention the archival recording of the call. Even then, you know he means looking for Doyle. “That’s all I need from you.” 

“We can do that.” You give him a quick rundown of some recent cases, all surface-level. You’re mostly stalling, using up incredibly expensive satellite time just to hear his voice. 

You hear him sigh. “Alright, I gotta get back. Tell Jack and Jess I love them.” 

“Of course.” You hand the phone back to Derek and wait while they finish up. Your eyes wander over the volumes of law books in Aaron’s bookshelf, the pictures of Jack and Haley and Jess behind his desk. Wandering over to his chair, you sit down and rest your head on your arms. 

Your eyes wander to a photo taken a year and a half ago at Haley’s service. You’re not sure who took it, but you’re crouched on the ground talking to Jack, while Aaron stands behind him with a hand on his head. Jack's little hands are in yours, and he’s smiling a little. 

Of all the photos to keep on his desk...

Derek hangs up the sat phone and puts it back in the lockbox. He crosses the office and leans against the desk beside you, placing a hand on your shoulder. 

+++

When you get back to the apartment (indeed much closer than your home), Jess is asleep in the guest room, and Jack’s still out like a light. 

You change into your pajamas, stuffed into your go bag, and curl up under the covers on Aaron's side of the bed. His pillow smells faintly like him, and you burrow into it. 

The bed feels far too big and far too cold without him. 

+++

“JJ!” You stand to greet her. “What are you doing here?” 

She holds up her credentials. “I’ve been reinstated as a profiler on temporary assignment, so don’t get too excited. It’s a contingent favor for the FBI and I’m sure the State Department will call to collect sometime soon.” 

You clear your consults and subpoenas off the desk beside you. “Good to have you back.” Looking over at the intimidating stack of files you ask, “Need anything to do?”

+++ july 2011 +++

The next time a sat call comes in, you can’t go into the office. Jack has the flu and is absolutely miserable. You can’t, in good conscience, leave Jess to her own devices. Between the vomit and the sleeplessness and the tears, four hands are absolutely necessary. 

“Derek, I can’t leave. Jack is literally puking his guts out as we speak, and I don’t have any new intel for Hotch.” 

Morgan huffs into the phone. “Come on. You know you’re the only one he actually wants to talk to and the only one who has any actual updates about Jack.” 

“You just have to tell him that I’m up in the middle of the night with his son, who has the flu. Isn’t that enough of an update?” You don’t really mean to snap at him, but the lack of sleep has made you a little punchy. 

“Fine. If he -”

“Yeah, I know. If he gets upset, just blame me. He can deal with me when he’s not in Pakistan. As long as there are five time zones between us, I’ll take my fucking chances.”

“Fair enough.” 

He hangs up, and you return to the hall bathroom, where Jack’s cheek is pressed against the toilet seat, his forehead clammy and face pale. Jess is taking her turn to sleep - you’ll switch off in an hour. 

“Hey, bubba.”

He mumbles something that sounds like, “Hi.”

“Can I get you some crackers or maybe some Sprite?” 

Jack shakes his head and lifts himself up, holding his arms out. The risk of illness far from your mind, you gather him up and lean against the cabinets, rubbing his back.

“Can you try to close your eyes for me?”

“I don’t feel good.” There are a few tears in his voice, and it breaks your heart a little. You’ve so been there. 

“I know, baby. I know. Just close your eyes for a minute, okay?”

He does, and his breathing evens out eventually. He’s still feverish, but you’re happy he’s sweating, at least. It could break by morning at this rate. 

The makeshift towel-bed on the bathroom floor looks more than inviting. You gingerly shuffle over and lay down, keeping Jack flat against your chest. 

It’s the best sleep you’ve had in weeks.

+++

“Strauss offered me that transfer to LA again.” 

Derek looks up at you from his report, his brows drawn low over his eyes. “You gonna take it?” 

You heave a sigh. Before you can say anything -

“Yeah, that sounds about right.” He puts his pen down, giving you his full attention. “What’s stopping you?” 

So many things. 

There are only a couple of them you can say aloud. Luckily, they have the benefit of being true, albeit incomplete. “I love this work. I love this team. I don't know if I want to be a lackey for an almost-politician.” 

“And?” 

He’s got you. He knows there’s more because he knows you. Even then, you can’t bring yourself to say exactly what it is that’s holding you back. So, you hedge your answer, knowing he’ll understand. 

“I can’t -” leave Aaron and Jack. You clear your throat. “I can’t leave this team. Maybe that makes me a coward or suggests a lack of adventure or something, but I can’t do it.” 

“It doesn’t,” Derek says. “It makes you human.” 

You smile a little. 

“And for the record, I don’t want you to leave. And I don’t think Jack and Hotch do, either.” 

A little incredulous laugh leaves you. Derek simply smiles, but doesn’t say much else. It makes your point for you. 

Nobody else knows you like this team. 

+++

The hardest days are the ones where you end up by yourself. Derek’s picked up kickboxing with Penelope, Spencer has withdrawn almost entirely, JJ has her family, and Rossi retreats to the cabin by the lake with an alarming degree of regularity. 

Thank God he’s not as cranky as Gideon. 

That would be too spooky. 

Everyone is out of the office, scattered to their respective distractions. You sit on the floor of Aaron’s office, leaning against his desk. Your laptop sits open in front of you, but you’re only half paying attention to the movie playing. 

It was only this afternoon you realized his office smelled more like stale paper, your house, and Tiger Balm than Aaron, and it broke your heart a little. Your only solace was his apartment - the evidence of his existence was inescapable there. With Emily gone for good, you often needed the reminder. 

His office phone rings. You pause the movie, stand, and answer it. 

“Agent Hotchner’s office.” 

NSA is on the other side, dry and professional. “We have an incoming call from Agent Hotchner. Is Agent Morgan available?” 

You tell him he’s not, but that you’re the next in line to receive task force updates. In an equally dry and professional tone, you relay your credentials and your unique intel code. 

“Thank you. Please stand by.” Click. 

You roll your eyes. 

God, they’re boring. 

Sitting down at Aaron’s desk, you wait for the armed guard to arrive with the phone. As per protocol, you’ll sign for the call and remove it from the lockbox yourself. You’ll return it for pickup when the call is completed. 

The guard shows up and you step through the motions, finally getting the phone to your ear. 

“Hey.” 

“Oh, it’s you.” He sounds surprised, but not displeased. 

You laugh a little. “Yeah, it’s me. Morgan’s unavailable at the moment.” 

“I see. Is Jack feeling any better?”

“Yeah. He’s been alright for about a week now. It was a pretty nasty bug, but he’s a trooper. Any new chatter down your way?” You trace the wood grain of his desk with your finger, only a little absent-minded. 

“There’s a little bit of activity on the border. We’re monitoring the situation. Is everything going okay over there?”

“Yeah, for the most part. We’ve been feeling the heat a little since Seaver transferred to Andy’s unit, but we’re managing alright. Dave’s called JJ back in to lend a hand, and she’s doing really well.” 

He hums. “That was a smart idea.” 

“I’ll tell him you said so.” 

“Oh, please don’t. It’ll go straight to his head.” 

You smile. “Fair point. Any updates on the timetable?”

When are you coming home? Please make it soon. 

“Not at the moment. I think we’re getting closer. Few more weeks.” There’s something behind his voice you can’t quite grasp, but you let it go. 

“Alright. Keep us posted.” 

“Will do. You know the drill.” 

“I sure do. I’ll relay the information to the team, tell your son you love him, and talk to you in a couple of weeks.” 

You can almost hear his smile. “Exactly. Talk soon.”

“Be safe, Aaron.” 

“Hey, before you go,” he says. “Can you, um -” 

You smile, tracing the wood grain on his desk. “I’ll tell Haley you said Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks.”

+++

Jess’s hand only shakes a little as she lights the candle and holds the cupcake between the three of you. While she takes care of the cake and begins to sing with Jack, you hold the camera, filming the impromptu party so Aaron can see it when he comes home.

“Okay, Jack you have to help Mom blow out the candle,” Jess says, holding the cupcake in front of him. With a great amount of glee, Jack extinguishes the candle with a big breath and a laugh. 

You turn the camera on Jess, who says, “We couldn't let Haley’s forty-first go unrecognized - she’s officially old and we had to let her know.” 

With a laugh of your own, you turn the camera around and wave before turning it off. 

“Can I eat the cake now?” Jack asks. 

Jess nods, pulling the candle and setting it aside on your picnic blanket. “Of course, but after we eat some fruit, okay? I don’t want the ants to get to the basket before you do.” 

The July sunshine beats down on the three of you, picnicking beside Haley’s resting place. It is, in fact, her forty-first birthday. You can only imagine the look on her face she would have adopt when you reminded her of her age. 

“Oh please,” she’d say. “When you get to be as old as me, you’ll never hear the end of it.” 

Jack sits in the sun, munching on a little apple slice. You reach over, rubbing a little splotch of sunscreen into his skin. He already has a little sunburn from your adventure to the District earlier in the week and you’re not about to make your life even harder. 

Aaron’s absence, even in its fourth month, is glaring. Jack has mostly stopped waking in the middle of the night looking for him and having regular meltdowns, but he always looks up when the front door opens with an expectant look that breaks your heart. He’s an adaptable kid, but months without contact from his father have taken their toll. If you’re honest, it surprised you a little bit. 

With a little bit of perspective, months are different than days, or even a week or two. Jack relies on Aaron more than you realized and the difficulty of helping Jess where you can has only further illuminated your ignorance.

“Will Mom always have a birthday?” Jack asks. 

Jess looks over at him. “What do you mean?”

He thinks for a moment, a little pensive. “I mean, because she’s not here. Do people who aren’t here still have birthdays?” 

“They do,” she replies. “That’s why we have to celebrate for them. They aren’t here, but it’s still special.” 

He nods, a kind of understanding look on his face that makes you think he knows exactly what that means. 

+++

“Yeah?”

You smile. It’s been a minute since you heard his voice, over the phone or otherwise. “Hey, Dr. Reid. How’s Vegas?”

“Hot. But it’s nice to be home.”

“How’s your mom?” You trace aimless patterns over the mat on Aaron’s desk, watching the suede imprint and erase as you go.

He sighs. “She’s alright. I think she’s about ready to kick me out, though.”

“It’s only been three weeks,” you laugh. “Surely you can make yourself useful?”

“I sent in her most recent publication to the journal, so I’ve outgrown my use until I find her a new thesis.”

You can almost see it - the two geniuses, mother and son, bickering over a game of chess or fourteenth-century novel. “Better find her a new thesis, then.”

Spencer’s thin smile is audible through the phone. “Guess so. How are things over there?”

“It’s a little hectic. It’s just me, JJ, Morgan, and Rossi now. Penelope’s still working with us regularly, but counter-terrorism keeps pulling her for ‘special projects,’ whatever that means.”

You don’t mean to guilt him into coming back or anything - you know he needs the time to recharge. He’ll come back when he wants to or feels he needs to but at this point, there’s hardly a difference between four and five agents on the team. You need Aaron. And Emily.

“With the amount of summer task forces coalescing, that doesn’t surprise me.” He pauses. “I’ll probably spend a few more weeks here unless there are any developments between now and then.”

By developments, you know it means any confirmed sighting of your target. “That sounds like a plan. We’ll be glad to have you back but take your time. You’ve more than earned it.”

“Thanks.”

+++ august 2011 +++

“How’s Jack?” 

“He’s doing alright,” you tell him. “He misses you.” 

I miss you.

Aaron sighs. There isn’t time for everything he wants to say, even less for the things he could. “I’m probably going to miss his first day.” 

“That’s what I figured.” It's hard to think about and probably going to be harder than you can imagine, especially if there’s a case that takes you away from home. “Jess will take lots of pictures and I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you all about it when you get home.” 

It’s hard to keep the bitterness from your voice, but neither one of you could have anticipated this would go on for this long. ‘Over the summer’ seems a little abstract until the end of the summer arrives. 

This isn’t his fault. It isn’t. You know that. 

But it’s his fault for going in the first place. 

Conceptual anger isn’t useful. That’s another thing of which you’re keenly aware. 

And yet…

“Thank you for being there for them,” he says, as if he’s reading your mind. “I know this isn’t easy.” 

There’s nothing you can really say, but you hum anyway. 

The pair of you are just eating satellite time now, so you say goodbye and good luck before tipping your head back against his office chair. 

When the tears slip down your cheeks, you’re not sure if you miss him more than you’re mad at him or the other way around. 

+++

“Chief Strauss?” You knock lightly on her door and she beckons you in, just finishing up a phone call. She gestures to the little sitting area in the corner of her office, and you make yourself comfortable on one of the couches.

She hangs up and joins you. “Have you thought more about the offer?”

“I have. Thank you for your patience. I know it’s been a little while since we first spoke about it.”

Erin waves her hands, brushing off the implied apology. “The BAU’s work in the last few weeks has been exemplary. I’m impressed, especially considering the significant funding and personnel obstacles you’re facing at the moment.”

You laugh a little.  “I hope that doesn’t make anyone think working with this many people is acceptable, ma’am.”

“No,” she assures you. “I’ve made that very clear.”

There’s a small moment of silence before you speak again.

“I won’t be accepting the position in Los Angeles.”

Strauss sighs but doesn’t look surprised. “That’s as I expected. I will, however, add something that I did not share with you before to further inform your choice.”

You sit up a little straighter, a little more attentive.

“The push for a transfer is also in an effort to protect your reputation. I know the BAU has continued investigating Ian Doyle and while that is noble, it could go very wrong. And that much is above my head. DHS, ATF, NSA - they could all be upset by your unofficial involvement. This could go as high as Congress and could result in your permanent termination from the bureau, making you ineligible for work in federal law enforcement.”

“Yes, ma’am. High risk, high reward.” You shrug. “Or at least, that’s what Dr. Reid tells me.”

A wan smile pulls at her mouth. “Yes. As long as you’re comfortable with the consequences.”

“I am, ma’am.”

“Good.”

+++ september 2011 +++

“Alright, buddy! You ready to go?” 

Jack adjusts the straps on his little backpack while Jess finishes putting his lunch together. “I’m ready. Just need lunch.” 

“It’s right here!” Jess says, bringing his Captain America lunchbox to him and strapping it to the outside of his backpack. “You’ve got a ham and cheese sandwich, a juice box, some carrots, and a brownie. Does that sound okay?” 

He nods. 

“And if it’s not enough, we can always get some more food after school okay? It can be a special treat.” 

Jack grins and you all head off to the car together. 

+++

The little meltdown arrives when you and Jess move to leave him at the door of his classroom. Jack’s brown eyes get wide and rapidly fill with tears as soon as you take a step away from him. 

“Jack, baby, c’mere.” You drop to your knee and open your arms. He steps into them and you can feel his shaky, hiccuping breaths against your shoulder. 

While you hold him, you hear Jess debriefing his new teacher about their current situation, and the way things are in general. Dad in Pakistan, dead mom, goes by Jack rather than Jonathan, the whole nine. 

“You are so brave,” you whisper into his hair. “You are so smart. You are a good friend and you are safe.” 

He nods. 

“I’m so sorry your dad can’t be here, honey, but he’s going to be so excited to hear all about it as soon as he gets home. And I'll tell him how brave you are on our next secret superhero phone call.” 

‘Secret superhero phone call’ was the best way you could describe using the sat phone (and why Jack couldn't talk to Aaron himself) so you just went with it. 

Jack nods again, sniffling a little and pulling back. You reach for him, wiping his tears with your thumbs. 

“I love you so much, bud.” 

“I love you, too.” 

You kiss his forehead, reminding him, “I might have to get on a plane for work, but otherwise I’ll see you after you’re done with your first-ever day of school, okay? This is so exciting!”

He finally smiles, and your work is done. When he steps into the classroom, he doesn’t look back.

+++

Thankfully, you’re not pulled for another case until the end of the week, so you’re able to see Jack through his first-ever week of school. 

It hits you more than once that you’re the person next to Jess right now while he hits these milestones. Long gone is that toddler that would giggle in his mother’s arms as she danced around the living room to Hall and Oates. In his place is an insightful little boy with a rapidly burgeoning sense of humor and a wickedly kind smile. 

You love him.

+++ 

The entire team got an emergency call, so you're all gathered in the roundtable room when Aaron walks in, looking all the worse for wear and -

Is that a beard?

Wait. He’s back. 

You just spoke to him on Monday, with news of a “few more weeks,” even in the face of developments on the Doyle case.

Fucking bastard knew he was coming home, didn’t he?

All of your joy in seeing him evaporates, and you narrow your eyes at him. Just like the last time you were in this room together, there’s an apology in his gaze. 

“Welcome back.” Derek doesn’t sound surprised, and your head whips toward him. He doesn’t look at you. 

Unbelievable. 

“Thanks. Everyone, have a seat.” You follow Aaron’s instructions, and sit, crossing your arms. It’s childish, sure, but the balance of personal and professional life has flown out the window. 

This feels like a personal slight, rather than a professional one. You try to push it away, but it lingers in your sternum like a lit flare. It’s uncomfortable, and you hate it. 

“Why?” Derek sounds a little concerned. Your anger cools a little bit. Derek doesn't actually know anything. “What’s going on? Is everything alright?”

“Seven months ago I made a decision that affected this team.” You notice, brow furrowed, that JJ stands beside Hotch like an ally. They both have odd looks on their faces. “As you all know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle.”

No. 

“The doctors were able to stabilize her. She was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfiltration.” 

No. 

“Her identity was strictly need-to-know. She stayed there until she was well enough to travel. She was reassigned to Paris, where she was given several identities, none of which we had access to for her security.” 

No. 

There’s silence, and you can’t tear your eyes from Aaron.  

“She’s alive?”

“We buried her...” 

Penelope and Spencer’s comments rush past you and you feel much like you did in the waiting room on that horrible, horrible night seven months ago. 

“As I said, I take full responsibility for the decision. If anyone has any issues, they should be directed toward me.” 

His eyes finally meet yours, and you find your vision blurred. You blink away your tears. 

It was a necessary lie. 

You go into this business expecting to be lied to. 

Not by Aaron. 

That’s not the issue and you know it. He left. 

He missed Jack’s first day of school. He was gone for five months. 

He left us. 

“Any issues?” Derek’s disbelief is marred by hurt, but you can’t reassure him through your own shock. “Yeah, I got issues.”

He’s cut off by Penelope’s glance toward the doorway. 

The team, save for JJ and Hotch, rushes toward her. You’re stuck to your seat until she approaches you. At her touch, you come back to life, throwing yourself into her arms. Her name sounds strangled leaving your mouth. “Emily.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.” Her grip on you is tight, but your arms, looped around her shoulders, don’t feel like they’re attached to your body. 

She lets you go and continues to speak. Derek’s frozen, and you can’t imagine for a minute what’s going on in his head. Emily wraps around him. He’s stock still, his eyes misty. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when he brings his hand to her shoulder, his cheek falling onto the side of her head. 

It’s back to business faster than you can blink, and now you’re sure you’re not the only one ready to kill Aaron where he stands. Derek is livid. 

They stare at each other while Spencer starts asking questions. Eventually, they focus back. Aaron crosses to you, contributing where necessary. 

You don’t acknowledge him. It’s horrible. You hate being so angry with him, but there’s nothing to be done. 

You can’t be upset at him about Emily. There’s too much to understand, and yet the initial shock of it is like a never-ending bucket of cold water poured over your body. 

Selfishly, you realize you’re upset with him because he didn’t tell you he was coming home. It’s so small when there are other, much bigger, issues to address. 

Emily’s lie is professional. Just part of the job. This one feels personal.

You’re a child. Let it go. 

He knew and he left. 

He missed Haley's birthday.

He knew and he left. 

He shouldn't have gone. 

He didn’t tell you he was coming home.

[douxreviews]

RoboCop Review

By Billie Doux 

[This review includes spoilers.]

Murphy: "Dead or alive, you're coming with me."

I don't care for heavy-duty violence in movies. But I've always had a soft spot for RoboCop. It should have been a forgettable B movie, and it wasn't. It's clever, bitingly satirical, moving and visceral. It stayed in my head a long time after I first saw it.

Murphy is the only truly human character in this movie. He's a dead man in a super suit, a Frankenstein monster who is more human than those he hunts. We're with Murphy throughout the movie. We see his death and his transformation into RoboCop through his own dead eyes, from his perspective. The poor guy loses everything: his life, his family, everything that made him human. But he still manages to be a good person, and one we care about.

How did a monster in a metal suit remain human and vulnerable? The dreams about his family. His relationship with Lewis. The baby food (good writing there). And we can always see his lips; such a vulnerable part of the human body. When his fellow cops turn on Murphy in the parking garage scene, his face plate is damaged and we can see one of his eyes. (He crawls like a baby, too.) Peter Weller, an often underrated actor, did an outstanding job projecting strength, sensitivity, emotion, and most importantly, vulnerability from under that immense robot suit and disfiguring make-up. Weller clearly put a lot of work into his portrayal of RoboCop, and it showed.

And the villains in this movie – all of them, including the supporting players – were something special. Ronny Cox's Dick Jones, corporate shark extraordinaire, may be one of my favorite movie villains of all time. Kurtwood Smith's Clarence Boddicker is also brilliant as well as memorable; so over the top but believably evil that he just jumps off the screen. I particularly loved the scene where he pulled the pin on the grenade with his tongue, as well as the one where he spit blood on the police desk.

The dialogue is so clever, too. I particularly loved Boddicker screaming "What is this shiiiiittttt..." as RoboCop is throwing him through windows while simultaneously reading him his rights. RoboCop's law enforcement platitudes are humorous as well as a little poignant. ("I have to go. Somewhere there is a crime happening.") We're very conscious that all RoboCop has left is law enforcement, after all.

The ending ("Dick! You're fired!") is totally satisfying. The human element triumphs, goodness wins, justice is served; Murphy avenges his own murder and makes peace with himself. The president of OCP, the very corporation that made Murphy into a monster in the first place, acknowledges and applauds Murphy's humanity. Yes, Murphy has only an imitation of life left, but at least he has a purpose that he cares deeply about. It's something.

Bits and pieces:

— The RoboCop suit is freaking cool. It's one of the best things about this movie. It just works. You believe it.

— The satirical news segments and commercials are delicious. The news in particular reflects the current downward trend toward info-tainment and takes it to a comically absurd level.

— One of my favorite bits has always been the visual of the city councilman plummeting to the ground with the cameraman following his fall with a camera. It says all there is to say about predatory reporters. And it's really funny.

— ED-209, the scary enforcement droid, is just hilarious in the initial boardroom scene that pretty much set the tone for the entire movie, as well as later, when it falls down the stairs. The stop-motion effects are starting to look a little dated, but I think it still works.

— Why were objects in the Murphy house burned? That has never made sense to me.

— Even though the extreme violence in this movie has literary warrant and worked well as a backdrop to the story (inhumanity was sort of the point, after all), it has always bothered me and I think it went too far. To this day, I have to look away when Boddicker and his minions blow Murphy to pieces. And the minion disfigured by toxic waste? Come on. Was that extreme level of gross-out really necessary? I don't think Verhoeven could have gotten more blood in this movie if he had tried. (And he probably did.)

— I'll answer the obvious question. No, I didn't like the sequels. Although I did rather like the too brief television series. It was going in the right direction: exploring RoboCop's humanity and human relationships. Ah, well.

Quotes:

Prisoner: "I'm what you call a repeat offender. I repeat, I will offend again."

Reporter: "Robo, excuse me, Robo, any special message for all the kids watching at home?" RoboCop: "Stay out of trouble."

Cop: "Okay, Miller. Don't hurt the mayor! We'll give you what you want." Miller: "First, don't fuck with me! I'm a desperate man. And second, I want some fresh coffee. And third, I want a recount! And no matter how it turns out, I want my old job back!" Cop: "Okay." Miller: "And I want a bigger office! And I want a new car! And I want the city to pay for it all." Cop: "What kind of car, Miller?" Miller: "Something with reclining leather seats that goes really fast and gets really shitty gas mileage." Cop: "How about a 6000 SUX?" Miller: "Yeah, okay, sure. What about cruise control? Does it come with cruise control?" Cop: "Hey, no problem, Miller. You let the mayor go, we'll even throw in a Blaupunkt."

(Commercial) Voice-over: "Red alert! Red alert!" Girl: "You crossed my line of death." Mom: "You haven't dismantled your MX stockpile." Boy: "Pakistan is threatening my border!" Dad: "That's it, buster. No more military aid." (nuclear explosion over the game board) Voice-Over: "Nukem. Get them before they get you. Another quality home game from Butler Brothers."

OCP President: "Nice shooting, son. What's your name?" RoboCop: "Murphy."

I've noticed that critics rarely give science fiction movies more than three stars, no matter how good they are. But science fiction movies are my favorites, and this is an outstanding science fiction movie. So I'm giving it four stars,

Billie Doux loves good television and spends way too much time writing about it.

[mypkshop-blog]

Buy Best Electronic Toys Online | Top 11 Best Electronic Toys

Best Laptop: ASUS C202SA Chromebook

With as long as 10 hours of battery life and a rough form that can more than withstand a couple of knocks and wounds, the 2.65-pound ASUS C202SA Chromebook is the perfect present for youngsters. Controlled by an Intel Core Processor and 4GB of RAM, the PC has 16GB of capacity and Google gives more than 100GB of distributed storage through Google Drive with each buy. It has a spill-safe console and fortified elastic planned explicitly for understudies both inside and outside of the study hall. The C202SA is additionally intended to withstand a drop from a tallness of 3.9 feet with no kind of useful disturbance. Past strength, the 180-degree pivot is perfect for completely opening the Chromebook to give better survey points, particularly during study gatherings.

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Best Camera: VTech Kidizoom DUO Camera

For youngsters ages three years to nine years, the VTech Kidizoom DUO Camera will give your child their first look at photography life and give long stretches of excitement. With two cameras exchanging between the front and back focal point, the DUO is useful for selfies while as yet offering 4x computerized zoom, an inherent glimmer, five games and parental control settings to constrain game recess. The 2.4-inch TFT show sets with a 1.92-megapixel camera for catching shots, which can be put away inside the 256MB of on-board memory. Luckily, there's space for memory development with a microSD card that can be acquired independently. To help protect battery life (four AA batteries), the child cordial camera consequently stop following three minutes of no use.

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Best Educational: Wonder Workshop Dash Coding Robot

In the present STEM-accommodating world, showing your children how to code is as straightforward as getting them their own programmable robot. Sound entangled? It's truly not; the Wonder Workshop Dash Coding Robot is in a perfect world appropriate for children ages six and up.

When children tear the Dash from the container, they'll find unlimited conceivable outcomes. They can show the robot to sing, move, and play — all through voice directions and the guide of comparing applications. The Dash gives an open-finished stage to guarantee that tech is presented in a basic and available manner. The thought is to assemble certainty through fun and, for this situation, the Dash succeeds.

Associating with iOS and Android gadgets, there are four diverse applications that show distinctive coding aptitudes. The applications help with showing kids the basics of mechanical autonomy and coding. Furthermore, it finds the robot's sensors and sounds just as showing the robot how to play. Each application is the initial step into what can be a lifetime of aptitudes and in the end a profession.

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Best Video Game: Nintendo Switch

The Nintendo Switch made genuine waves this last discharge cycle with a really noteworthy and consistent "switchability" between all out support gaming and that equivalent experience contracted down to your pocket. The Switch is, subsequently, a legitimate followup to both the DS line and the Wii line. The comfort itself is fundamentally a slender sub-one-pound tablet with a 6.2-inch screen that offers a too fresh 1280 x 720 pixel touchscreen directly on it.

To play it most effectively in its versatile state, they suggest securing in the Joy Con controllers on either side which basically give you physical, material catches to utilize while playing in a hurry. Yet, take this support tablet half and half and lock it into the at-home dock that is associated with your TV and you have a completely utilitarian, conventional game framework that performs at abnormal states with a NVIDIA Custom Tegra processor and up to 1080p illustrations yield. There's inside capacity ability up to 32GB with expandability through MicroSD cards. In addition, with all the most recent ages of games including Mario and Zelda, this framework will pay profits as the occasion blessing that continues giving.

You may likewise need to locate some great games, so look at our picks for the best Nintendo Switch Kids' games.

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Best Robot: Anki Cozmo Robot

Try not to let the Anki Cozmo's adorableness trick you, this minute robot prevails upon children by masking learning as play. Right when it's hauled out of the case, Cozmo's facial acknowledgment program filters your youngster's face and learns their name. The little show goes about as the robot's face and precisely depicts feeling, regardless of whether it just restricted to beat up hues. Cozmo looks glad when it wins and dismal when it loses.

There's a large group of stunts and games accessible ideal from the beginning, however including a greater amount of each is a piece of the good times. Furnished with Code Lab, Cozmo includes significantly more incentive by training children ages eight and up essential coding abilities. As Cozmo sets with its vital iOS and Android applications over Wi-Fi, "squares" can be moved into an assortment of examples. Each simple example will it to act contrastingly or play out another conduct.

On account of the cell phone application, Cozmo continually gets new updates to keep things new after some time. Guardians ought to know that except if your youngster has a committed cell phone, plan to continually surrender yours.

Need more blessing thoughts? Check our rundown of the best electronic endowments of the year and the best mechanical technology for children.

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Best Active: Razor Hovertrax 2.0

Perfect for children ages eight and up, the Razor Hovertrax 2.0 is as yet one of the most sweltering toys available. With the flame security worries in the back view reflect, the hoverboard probably won't be the most instructive blessing, however it's an incredible path for children to sharpen their engine aptitudes. Equipped for cruising at a speed of around 8 mph on a 350-watt engine, the Hovertrax 2.0 can keep running for around an hour of persistent use for riders as much as 220 pounds. For additional help, the Razor incorporates its select EverBalance innovation that makes for a simpler mount and smoother ride, particularly for amateurs.

Need to investigate some different alternatives? See our manual for the best hoverboards.

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Best Drone: Air Hogs Helix X4

Prescribed for a very long time eight to 13 years of age, the Air Hogs Helix X4 quadcopter is an extraordinary novice ramble that is tough enough to deal with an unpleasant and tumble new client. With a charge time between 45 to an hour, clients will have around five or six minutes of flight time (which in fact isn't much), yet it's sufficient to offer children an opportunity to get their feet wet and become familiar with the hand-to-eye coordination required for increasingly costly and bigger automatons. Furthermore, on the grounds that it just has a flight separation of around 40 meters, guardians won't need to stress over FAA guidelines or the children straying excessively a long way from the yard.

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Best Race Car: Anki Overdrive Starter Kit

Bringing out recollections of toy race tracks from years passed by, the Anki Overdrive Starter Kit is a blessing that is useful for quite a long time of fun. With 10 bits of track, two supercars, and two riser pieces, the framework is an entryway to the bigger Anki world. Be that as it may, even with your out-of-the-case arrangement, you can make up to eight distinct tracks to race the red and blue supercars on.

Beginning with the Anki is simple. Snap the attractive sorts out to frame a track. From that point forward, the Anki Overdrive application is accessible for Android, iOS, and Amazon's Fire tablets. The application controls whichever of the two vehicles you pick. Tilting the gadget in either course will move to another lane while on-screen catches serve as a quickening agent and brake.

Singular players can challenge an AI rival or a companion and race for the best time around the track. Guardians will observe that every vehicle holds as long as 25 minutes of charge. When the battery is drained, energizing takes an insignificant eight minutes to get back on the track.

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Best Tablet: Dragon Touch Y88X Plus

Contending with Amazon is extreme for any organization, and with the new Fire tablets went for children, you may believe that is the best wagered on this rundown. In any case, the Dragon Touch holds its own in light of the fact that it's a tablet that is structured starting from the earliest stage only for children. This 7-inch tablet accompanies a quad-center processor and 1GB of RAM so it'll run the Android-based OS at smart velocities. There's 32GB of capacity on the gadget and the goals is fresh at 1024 x 600 pixels. The tablet itself comes encased in a silicon-type, kid-accommodating case that has generous guards for drops and recess.

The Dragon Touch comes preloaded with a unique children fix OS called Kidoz that gives them full, autonomous opportunity to pick their games and applications, while likewise remaining securely in a "play area type" condition. What's more, the best part? The tablet comes preloaded with 20 Disney story books and 4 book recordings including Frozen, Zootopia, Moana, and the sky is the limit from there, so you're essentially getting a tablet and the keys to the Disney book vault.

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Best Headphones: Puro Sound Labs

Broadly viewed as the best kid-accommodating earphone around, the Puro Sound Labs highlights volume constraining insurance at 85db (decibels), so guardians don't have to stress over children attempting to play sound unreasonably noisy to their benefit. Past sound, the Puro offers 40mm custom powerful drivers, which makes for a sound encounter that adversaries progressively costly earphones. With regards to travel, the earphones crease level for capacity, so they're extraordinary for staying in a rucksack or portable luggage. With remote capacity, the Puro goes on for around 18 hours on a solitary charge and incorporates a corded choice in the event of some unforeseen issue.

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Best Smartwatch: VTech Kidizoom DX2

The VTech Kidizoom DX2 is a well known decision for the individuals who are searching for an age-fitting option in contrast to costly smartwatches. Appropriate for children ages four and up, the Kidizoom DX2 has games and action following highlights (like movement detecting and step-following) that urge children to remain dynamic. It even uses increased reality, similar to the implicit game called Monster Detector, to consolidate an advanced beast getting game with certifiable physical action. The simple to-utilize touchscreen is connected to an elastic watch band fit for little wrists, and the entire thing is solid and sprinkle evidence to oppose the mileage of regular play. Children can browse 55 advanced watch faces, or utilize one of the two implicit cameras to snap a picture for the watch face backdrop. The groups are accessible in both blue and pink.

We purchased four of our perusers' preferred electronic toys for children and our analysts tried them for 52 hours. We requested that our analyzers think about the most significant highlights when utilizing these gadgets, from security to excitement and instructive worth. We've illustrated the key takeaways here with the goal that you, as well, comprehend what to search for when shopping.

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What to Look for in an Electronic Toy for Kids

Security - The greatest list of capabilities to search for when purchasing electronic toys for children has to do with wellbeing. Earphones ought to have volume limiters, tablets and PCs ought to have incredible parental controls, fun toys like hoverboards ought to have the proper UL appraisals, etc.

Worked in versus replaceable batteries - When choosing an electronic present for a child, make a point to focus on what kind of batteries it employments. On the off chance that it's a choice, search for one that accompanies an inherent, battery-powered battery so the tyke doesn't need to approach a grown-up for new batteries constantly.

Diversion - Children don't normally get energized when they find out about instructive toys, yet there are a huge amount of extraordinary electronic blessings that make learning fun. Search for toys, devices, and units that advance inventive reasoning and engine expertise improvement and help show kids the world for entertainment only ways.

Test outcomes: ASUS C202SA Chromebook (Best Laptop)

As indicated by one of our analyzers, this PC was "extremely simple to set up and significantly simpler to utilize." Translation: it's ideal for children. Another in addition to? Its "exceptional" toughness: "It's something you see from the first occasion when you open the crate," watched one analyzer. "You can disclose to it's made for mileage. Indeed, even the console feels strong, by one way or another." Our analysts noted that it was substantial for its size.

Test outcomes: VTech Kidizoom DUO Camera (Best Camera)

This camera won the endorsement of our analyzers and their families. One analyst, whose three children all utilized it, said that they "cherished the photograph impacts, selfie compositions, and stickers." Durability was likewise a feature, with one analyzer seeing that "there are no delicate pieces and that is a major star." However, one of our commentators felt that this camera may be a superior fit for marginally more seasoned youngsters. "It's excessive for a 3-to 5-year-old to have the option to utilize autonomously," he noted.

Test outcomes: Wonder Workshop Dash Robot (Best Educational)

Our analyzers suggested this robot dependent on its fuse of STEM abilities and by and large stimulation esteem for children. One of our commentators clarified, "There is some basic speculation associated with figuring out how to make the robot move and there are a lot of computations to do when utilizing this item." Our analyzers likewise thought it was solid and especially loved the element that enables you to record and play back your voice. The drawback? As per one of our analysts, "If the client isn't generally sagacious with tech or understanding essential coding it can appear to be repetitive and dishearten utilization and play." It sets aside some effort to learn and get the hang of, advised our analyzers, however one commentator spouted, "Dash resembles an individual from the family — our very own robot!"

Test outcomes: Nintendo Switch (Best Video Game)

"The size and compactness of the gadget are what make it worth purchasing," said one of our analysts regarding the Nintendo Switch. She included, "It isn't substantial nor is it excessively thick, and the screen is an extraordinary size." Our analyzers likewise cherished the determination of games accessible and the way that it's additionally good with a TV. One of our commentators noted that you'll have to purchase a memory card, as extra room is restricted, and furthermore cautioned that any extra extras get expensive. In general? "It resembles having a cutting edge Game Boy, yet with better games and designs," raved one of our analyzers.

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Test outcomes: Anki Cozmo (Best Robot)

"Cozmo is a really cunning approach to show kids how to code," said our analyzer. "The application and the communications make it feel like you're playing, not realizing, which is an extraordinary method to get kids ready." She additionally preferred that it could engage kids with various aptitude levels: "The Cozmo application offers two levels on the Code Lab—one for amateurs and one for further developed children," she said. "It shields minimal ones from getting overpowered and more established ones from getting exhausted." as far as drawbacks, she noticed its high sticker price and voiced worries about its progressing application support: "Anki as of late declared that it'd shut its entryways and laying off all staff," she said. "Bugs or different issues could cause the application, and in this way Cozmo, to be futile, particularly if it's not being consistently refreshed or fixed." Update: the organization has made a self-serve help focus and will screen cloud activities for Anki accounts.

[lodelss]

Osama Shehzad | Longreads | August 2020 | 3,543 words (14 minutes)

“Passport please,” asks the security officer, an Indian-British woman, at London’s Heathrow airport.

I hand her my green Pakistani passport, and she thumbs through it to get to the page with my visa. I am travelling to America where I’ve lived since 2009 on either student or work visas.

As she examines my passport, she frowns and then lifts her head to look at me.

“Osama?”

I reply with a nod and a small wry smile, as I always do when people ask to confirm my name.

She leans over and asks in a hushed voice, “Do you get shit for your name in America?”

*

I was born and raised in Karachi, Pakistan, where Osama was — and still remains — a popular name.

My grandfather, a poet, named me Osama because he wanted a name without a harsh stop at its end, a name that would flow smoothly off the tongue to my last name, Shehzad.

*

My elementary school Koran teacher, Qari Sahab, tells me Osama is an ancient Arabic name that translates to “lion.” It is popular throughout the Muslim world because Prophet Muhammad chose that name for his adopted grandson.

*

“What is your name beta?” asks the uncle, an old friend of my father who is over at our place with his wife for tea. The uncle emigrated to the U.S. in the ‘80s and has rarely visited Karachi since. This is my first time meeting him.

“Osama,” I reply.

“Oye, you are hiding here in Karachi and Bush is looking for you everywhere,” replies the uncle and everyone in the drawing room gives out a courteous chuckle for his attempt to lighten the mood.

“Good luck getting a visa to America,” his wife adds.

“You should change your name,” the uncle instructs me.

“Chai piyo aur niklo,” I feel like telling him, but instead reply with a polite “Okay.”

*

“Be prepared,” warns Mrs. Isani when I tell her that I have decided to attend college in Atlanta, Georgia.

Mrs. Isani is my high school counselor. She is, I guesstimate, around 85 if not older. She is a soft-spoken but straight-to-the-point Parsi lady.

“The American South is a racist place,” she tells me. “I am afraid you will be bullied because of your name.”

*

“You are applying for an American visa?” people in my high school mockingly remark when I tell them about my college aspirations.

“I thought you were planning on going to Georgia, the country in Eastern Europe,” comments one friend. I wonder if he is showing off his knowledge of world geography or highlighting his apparent lack thereof.

“You will never get a visa to America.”

*

It’s 2008 and America has just elected a new president with a name only one letter different from mine. Obama dares everyone to hope. I hope that Americans don’t judge people by their names.

*

My parents tell me that I shouldn’t feel ashamed if I want to go by another name when I’m in America.

I can tell they feel responsible for giving me a once-beautiful, now-wretched name.

They even make suggestions: maybe a condensed Sam? Or a Western-sounding Sammy? Or Two-Two, a pet name they reveal they had used for a few days in the hospital — the room in which I was born was numbered 22 — before my ultimate name was assigned to me.

*

I try to put myself in the shoes of an American college student and contemplate which name can be more easily made fun of: Osama or Two-Two?

*

“You should just go by Shehzad in America,” suggests a high school friend. “I’ve heard people in the West just go by their last names.”

“Mister Shehzad,” I say out loud to him. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

“Sounds like Mister Bond.”

“Maybe I should go by Double-O Seven?”

“Or better, you should come up with your own number. How about Zero Zero Nine Two?”

“Zero Zero Nine Two…” I repeat to check how it sounds.

“Don’t do it. They’ll think you’re a telephone from Karachi.”

*

“Visa milgaya apko?” asks the airline employee with a tinge of sarcasm as I check in to my flight at Karachi’s Jinnah International Airport.

There are no direct flights from Pakistan to America. I fly from Karachi to Dubai to London to Chicago. Phupho and Phupha, my aunt and uncle who live in Indianapolis, will pick me up from O’Hare and then drive me to my college in Atlanta.

As I wait at Heathrow to board my final flight, I practice introducing myself to others. I try to imagine every possible reaction from them — and what an appropriate polite response to it might be.

If someone were to start laughing and ask, “Are you serious?” I would pretend to laugh too and say, “Obviously not, I’m Sam.”

If they called me a terrorist or tried to punch me, I would run away. Where? I am not sure. Maybe back to my dorm?

If they walked away because they didn’t want to talk to anyone who had a name like mine, I would just put my head down in shame.

I wonder if I need to say sorry for going by my own name.

On the flight from London to Chicago, a white American woman is sitting next to me.

I am worried: will she ask what my name is? I debate if I should tell her my name is Osama. Maybe I shouldn’t because we are on a plane.

We talk briefly but she never asks.

*

There is always a pause after I tell people my name in college. I see a split-second hesitation in their eyes. I feel embarrassed for putting them in this situation. I don’t know what to do. I end up smiling a lot.

“Osama?” People repeat my name, sometimes a few times, to confirm they heard it correctly.

“Yes, Osama,” I say.

“Obama?” Some people ask me.

“No,” I correct them. “Osama.”

“Ajay?”

“Bro, how the fuck did you hear me say Ajay?” I want to ask this weirdo.

Instead I politely correct him. “No, Osama.”

*

I watch Office Space for the first time with people in my freshman dorm. They claim to have seen it multiple times.

“Michael…” a woman reads out a man’s name in one scene, before pausing with astonished eyes, “Bolton?”

“That’s me,” says Bolton, who we can tell has been in this situation too many times before.

“Wow,” exclaims the woman. “Is that your real name?”

Everyone around me laughs. I am tense. I wonder how Bolton will respond to this. I also wonder if anyone is looking at me, trying to see how I react to this scene. So I keep my eyes glued to the screen and smile.

“Yeah,” says Bolton curtly as he clears his throat.

“So are you related to that singer guy?”

“No,” clarifies Bolton, who’s trying to end the conversation. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Oh,” says the woman, seemingly disappointed, as she walks away.

When Bolton’s cubicle mate, Samir, complains that no one in America can say his last name correctly, Bolton says, “well at least your name isn’t Michael Bolton.”

“You know there is nothing wrong with that name,” Samir tells him.

“There was nothing wrong with that name,” corrects Bolton. “Until I was about 12 years old and that no-talent ass clown became famous and started winning Grammys.”

“Well why don’t you just go by Mike instead of Michael?” suggests Samir.

“No way, why should I change? He is the one who sucks.”

*

On Facebook I notice that some other Osamas — whom I knew from Pakistan and who had also come to America — have now tweaked their names. They go by Sam or Mo or Sammy. No one goes by Two-Two or Zero Zero Nine Two.

I wonder if their experience as an Osama in America is different from mine. It probably is, I tell myself.

Sometimes I wonder what other Osamas in the world, not just in America, are experiencing.

*

“Wait, wait,” says a guy at a frat party. He is trying to hush the three other people whom I have also just met for the first time, and who are standing in a circle with us.

“I have to ask you a question, Osama,” he says.

The way he emphasizes my name. I know where this is going.

“Are you related to…” He pauses for dramatic effect and then adds, “Osama bin Laden?”

He delivers his punchline and looks around the circle as he laughs. The two guys, both wearing identical Braves hats, smile.

The one other person in the circle, a girl who I think is in the same CS1371 section as me, squirms with an uncomfortable expression on her face.

“This is awkward as fuck,” I can hear her thinking in her head.

*

I contemplate changing the spelling of my name: Usama Ousama Oouussaammahh Okssamta (the k and the t would be silent)

*

I read somewhere that self-deprecating humor makes you appear more relatable and therefore more attractive.

*

A Starbucks opens in the library. It is quickly the most popular spot on campus. Lines are always long and sometimes extend out of the building during finals week.

Even though the baristas ask for my name every time and spell it correctly on the cup when they write it down, I notice that they never say it out loud.

I feel bad for putting the barista in a position where they are afraid to offend someone by calling them an Osama.

I tell this story to all my college friends. I end it with the punchline, “So I guess everyone has name troubles at Starbucks.”

People laugh in acknowledgement; even though their name is Gracie, Chris, or Zach and mine is Osama, we share the same inconveniences at Starbucks.

“See, we have so much in common,” they say.

*

It’s 2010 and a Pakistani man tries to blow up Times Square.

His last name is Shahzad.

My last name is Shehzad.

I tell myself that at least the spellings are not the same.

*

“Do you always tell people that your name is Osama,” friends ask me.

“Yes,” I usually reply with a nod. “Except when I am on a plane,” I add after a slight pause for dramatic effect.

“If I asked the guy sitting next to me on the plane what his name was and he replied ‘Osama,’” I say with a laugh, “I would freak out too.”

This is a joke I often crack about my own name. It always gets laughs.

*

“Yo, check out the time,” my friend tells me.

I check my phone. It is 9:11pm. I look back at him.

He has a proud smirk on his face.

*

My friends and I are watching Russell Peters’ stand-up show on YouTube.

“What’s your name?” Peters asks someone in the crowd.

“Anthony,” the guy replies.

“What’s your Asian name?” asks Russell back.

The person is reluctant to share his name at first but does so after Peters insists. Peters then goes on to make fun of his name and his ethnicity.

I shudder when I try to imagine what Russell Peters, or any comedian, would do with my name.

*

“Kahan say arahay hain?” asks the immigration officer in Karachi as I hand him my Pakistani passport.

“America,” I reply.

As he stamps the green pages of my green passport, he asks, “Wahan loog mazak to nahi uratay apka?”

Do you get shit for your name over there?

*

I am watching Jon Stewart clips on YouTube when I stumble across his interview with Bassem Youssef in Egypt.

Stewart narrates his encounter with an “incredibly hospitable” refugee in Jordan.

Towards the end of a heartwarming interaction, a deeply moved Stewart asks the refugee for his name. The refugee replies, “Osama.”

Stewart pauses on that punchline.

And then in Stewart-like broken sentences, collecting his thoughts on stereotypes and ignorance in general, he says, “So that was a… it was difficult… it’s a kind of thing that you need to open up your heart to.”

I wonder if it is this difficult for everyone in America when I tell them that my name is Osama.

*

I start a summer internship at a technology company in Atlanta.

A few days into the internship, Jie, an intern who is an international student from China, tells me that he will now go by the name Humphrey.

I ask him why he decided to go by a different name than Jie.

He says his manager, who is also Asian, advised him to pick an American name to go by in the office.

“It is better for my professional career,” he tells me.

*

I change my Facebook display picture to my college graduation photo. In the photo I have a mortarboard on my head, a degree in my hand, and a big smile on my face.

A friend comments on it with a pun.

Awesome-A

I smile when I read it. I never realized that Osama could sound like Awesome.

*

“I’m authentic, real name, no gimmicks”

— Drake

*

I move to New York City for my first job out of school. On my first day, a coworker asks me if I have seen Office Space.

“Yeah bro,” I tell him. “Such a classic”.

“You know the character Michael Bolton from Office Space?”

I see where he is going with this.

“Why should I change my name?” He says.

“He is the one who sucks,” I complete the sentence.

He nods at me with a big satisfied smile on his face and extends his fist.

I fist-bump him.

I feel as if I just passed Steve’s Assimilation Test.

*

“Do you get extra shit at the airport when you enter America?” A coworker asks as he pumps the dispenser to top off a half-sipped coffee mug . “Like, do they strip search you and shit?”

*

Browsing the shelves of McNally Jackson in Soho, I come across a short story collection by an author named Osama Alomar. He is a Syrian immigrant now living in Chicago.

I buy the book, The Teeth of the Comb and Other Stories, and read it in one sitting in Washington Square Park. His stories are very short, some only a few sentences long.

One of them is called “The Name.”

*

I download a dating app and set up a profile.

“Will our first date be a blast?” A brunette in the West Village messages me.

I unmatch her.

I match with a Muslim grad student at Columbia. The first message she sends me: “Please be honest, do people give you shit for your name?”

I unmatch her too.

A hot blonde in Williamsburg messages me. “Come bomb my pussy.”

I wonder if this is an invitation to sext. Maybe? But probably not. I unmatch her too.

*

I am browsing books at WORD in Greenpoint when I overhear a comedy show taking place in the building’s basement.

I stand near the entrance, trying to listen without paying for a ticket.

A stand-up comedian finishes her set and the next one introduces himself.

I hear his name: Osama. (I later learn that he spells it Usama.)

He makes fun of his own name. He cracks some jokes that are very similar to mine. He tells a story of how he freaked out when his friend shouted his name at the airport. I have a similar story that I tell to make people laugh.

I wonder if all of us Osamas (and Usamas) make the same jokes about our name.

*

Often, once I get to know someone and we are a little more comfortable around each other, they tell me, “I am sure you get this a lot, but sorry, I’ve always wanted to ask you something.”

In the middle of the first heartfelt conversation with a new friend, he will invariably say, “Bro, can I ask you something that might be a bit personal?”

Sometimes during an intimate moment, a girlfriend will say, “Can I ask you something that might be a little weird?”

I know what question they are going to ask next. But I still cross my fingers and close my eyes in anticipation of being asked something truly weird.

Despite it being different people, different moods, and different amounts of clothing we are wearing, it is always the same question.

It is the question that I knew they were going to ask.

*

I show up 20 minutes late to a comedy show in Brooklyn.

It is a packed small venue, and the only open seat is in the very front row. I am reluctant to take that seat but the usher tells me that I am blocking everyone’s view. I have to walk across the stage to take that seat.

The comedian raises her hands in faux-annoyance as I walk in front of her, “Alright dude, what is this?”

The crowd laughs.

I mouth a “sorry!” to her and shrug my shoulders.

After a few minutes of jokes, she introduces her last bit, “You guys have been great. Now for my final joke, I will ask you your name, and make fun of it.”

Fuck.

I know she will pick me. I try to look at the row behind me in an effort to nudge her to pick someone else.

She is looking directly at me. I don’t look at her to avoid eye contact.

“You, who walked in late,” she points at me and walks over. “What’s your name?”

She holds the mic in front of me.

I can feel the eyes of the crowd glaring at me in anticipation, waiting for me to say my name.

I don’t want to tell her that my name is Osama. Maybe I should tell her my name is Sam, or Sammy, or even Two-Two.

I wonder if my friends, who are sitting a row behind me, are cringing as they see this happen.

“Osama,” I reply into the mic.

There is a pause.

I look at the stand-up comedian who is still holding the mic in front of me. She is staring at me, unsure what to say.

“Okay,” she says as she moves away from me.

The crowd remains silent.

I have a wry smile on my face. I feel embarrassed for putting her in this situation. I feel embarrassed for making my friends sitting behind me witness this awkward scene.

“And what’s your name?” she asks a guy sitting a few spots from me.

“Ben,” he replies.

“Where did you get that sweater from,” she asks him, before adding with an emphasis, “BEN?”

The crowd laughs.

I am relieved that it is over. I feel like everyone in the audience is still looking at me.

*

Despite his best efforts, the Author’s name began to slide down off the top of the book’s cover where it had been printed. The Author’s self-confidence had died long ago, but his name was determined to hang on to the spot where it belonged with all its might.

(“The Name,” by Osama Alomar, from The Teeth of the Comb and Other Stories)

*

I get a notification from Facebook.

A friend has re-shared his status from May 2011, with me tagged in it, as a memory.

Why would you re-share something so fucking old, I think to myself as I open my Facebook app, dreading to see what I was tagged in seven years ago.

“A good day for all the Osamas in the world except one” — Osama

I remember cracking this joke.

So many people asked me how I felt about the news that day that I remember feeling like I needed to draft and issue an official statement.

This is the joke that I remember telling the most often. There were probably a few others that I don’t remember anymore.

I didn’t anticipate anyone putting up what I said as their Facebook status. I think to myself now that my friend must have found what I said incredibly insightful.

*

I am tired. I have been working late at our office in Chelsea. I contemplate whether to take the L train back to Brooklyn or take an Uber. Fuck it, I’ll Uber.

My Uber driver, Ali, is four minutes away.

I wonder if I can expense this Uber ride because I was working late.

When I enter the car, I tell the driver, “Osama,” to confirm I am getting in the right Uber.

“Yes, salaam brother,” replies Ali.

“Salaam,” I reply curtly. Ali seems like an Uber driver who likes to talk. I am in zero mood for a conversation after a long day at work.

“Going to Brooklyn?” he asks.

“Ya.”

“You have a beautiful name, friend,” Ali comments. “Where are you from?”

Fuck. This is the last conversation I want to have right now.

“Pakistan,” I say.

“Can I ask you a question Osama?” Asks Ali.

The way he emphasizes my name, I know where this is going. I already know what the question will be.

I let out a sigh as I settle back into my seat and tell myself that I should have just taken the L.

I reply with a brief mmhmm.

“Do you want to listen to Drake or Atif Aslam?” asks Ali.

* * *

Editor’s note: Instead of a story fee, Longreads is making a donation to the South Asian American Digital Archive, per the author’s request.

Osama Shehzad is a writer from Karachi living in New York City.

* * *

Editor: Ben Huberman

[ecoorganic]

“Do You Get Shit for Your Name?”

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Osama Shehzad | Longreads | August 2020 | 3,543 words (14 minutes)

“Passport please,” asks the security officer, an Indian-British woman, at London’s Heathrow airport.

I hand her my green Pakistani passport, and she thumbs through it to get to the page with my visa. I am travelling to America where I’ve lived since 2009 on either student or work visas.

As she examines my passport, she frowns and then lifts her head to look at me.

“Osama?”

I reply with a nod and a small wry smile, as I always do when people ask to confirm my name.

She leans over and asks in a hushed voice, “Do you get shit for your name in America?”

*

I was born and raised in Karachi, Pakistan, where Osama was — and still remains — a popular name.

My grandfather, a poet, named me Osama because he wanted a name without a harsh stop at its end, a name that would flow smoothly off the tongue to my last name, Shehzad.

*

My elementary school Koran teacher, Qari Sahab, tells me Osama is an ancient Arabic name that translates to “lion.” It is popular throughout the Muslim world because Prophet Muhammad chose that name for his adopted grandson.

*

“What is your name beta?” asks the uncle, an old friend of my father who is over at our place with his wife for tea. The uncle emigrated to the U.S. in the ‘80s and has rarely visited Karachi since. This is my first time meeting him.

“Osama,” I reply.

“Oye, you are hiding here in Karachi and Bush is looking for you everywhere,” replies the uncle and everyone in the drawing room gives out a courteous chuckle for his attempt to lighten the mood.

“Good luck getting a visa to America,” his wife adds.

“You should change your name,” the uncle instructs me.

“Chai piyo aur niklo,” I feel like telling him, but instead reply with a polite “Okay.”

*

“Be prepared,” warns Mrs. Isani when I tell her that I have decided to attend college in Atlanta, Georgia.

Mrs. Isani is my high school counselor. She is, I guesstimate, around 85 if not older. She is a soft-spoken but straight-to-the-point Parsi lady.

“The American South is a racist place,” she tells me. “I am afraid you will be bullied because of your name.”

*

“You are applying for an American visa?” people in my high school mockingly remark when I tell them about my college aspirations.

“I thought you were planning on going to Georgia, the country in Eastern Europe,” comments one friend. I wonder if he is showing off his knowledge of world geography or highlighting his apparent lack thereof.

“You will never get a visa to America.”

*

It’s 2008 and America has just elected a new president with a name only one letter different from mine. Obama dares everyone to hope. I hope that Americans don’t judge people by their names.

*

My parents tell me that I shouldn’t feel ashamed if I want to go by another name when I’m in America.

I can tell they feel responsible for giving me a once-beautiful, now-wretched name.

They even make suggestions: maybe a condensed Sam? Or a Western-sounding Sammy? Or Two-Two, a pet name they reveal they had used for a few days in the hospital — the room in which I was born was numbered 22 — before my ultimate name was assigned to me.

*

I try to put myself in the shoes of an American college student and contemplate which name can be more easily made fun of: Osama or Two-Two?

*

“You should just go by Shehzad in America,” suggests a high school friend. “I’ve heard people in the West just go by their last names.”

“Mister Shehzad,” I say out loud to him. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

“Sounds like Mister Bond.”

“Maybe I should go by Double-O Seven?”

“Or better, you should come up with your own number. How about Zero Zero Nine Two?”

“Zero Zero Nine Two…” I repeat to check how it sounds.

“Don’t do it. They’ll think you’re a telephone from Karachi.”

*

“Visa milgaya apko?” asks the airline employee with a tinge of sarcasm as I check in to my flight at Karachi’s Jinnah International Airport.

There are no direct flights from Pakistan to America. I fly from Karachi to Dubai to London to Chicago. Phupho and Phupha, my aunt and uncle who live in Indianapolis, will pick me up from O’Hare and then drive me to my college in Atlanta.

As I wait at Heathrow to board my final flight, I practice introducing myself to others. I try to imagine every possible reaction from them — and what an appropriate polite response to it might be.

If someone were to start laughing and ask, “Are you serious?” I would pretend to laugh too and say, “Obviously not, I’m Sam.”

If they called me a terrorist or tried to punch me, I would run away. Where? I am not sure. Maybe back to my dorm?

If they walked away because they didn’t want to talk to anyone who had a name like mine, I would just put my head down in shame.

I wonder if I need to say sorry for going by my own name.

On the flight from London to Chicago, a white American woman is sitting next to me.

I am worried: will she ask what my name is? I debate if I should tell her my name is Osama. Maybe I shouldn’t because we are on a plane.

We talk briefly but she never asks.

*

There is always a pause after I tell people my name in college. I see a split-second hesitation in their eyes. I feel embarrassed for putting them in this situation. I don’t know what to do. I end up smiling a lot.

“Osama?” People repeat my name, sometimes a few times, to confirm they heard it correctly.

“Yes, Osama,” I say.

“Obama?” Some people ask me.

“No,” I correct them. “Osama.”

“Ajay?”

“Bro, how the fuck did you hear me say Ajay?” I want to ask this weirdo.

Instead I politely correct him. “No, Osama.”

*

I watch Office Space for the first time with people in my freshman dorm. They claim to have seen it multiple times.

“Michael…” a woman reads out a man’s name in one scene, before pausing with astonished eyes, “Bolton?”

“That’s me,” says Bolton, who we can tell has been in this situation too many times before.

“Wow,” exclaims the woman. “Is that your real name?”

Everyone around me laughs. I am tense. I wonder how Bolton will respond to this. I also wonder if anyone is looking at me, trying to see how I react to this scene. So I keep my eyes glued to the screen and smile.

“Yeah,” says Bolton curtly as he clears his throat.

“So are you related to that singer guy?”

“No,” clarifies Bolton, who’s trying to end the conversation. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Oh,” says the woman, seemingly disappointed, as she walks away.

When Bolton’s cubicle mate, Samir, complains that no one in America can say his last name correctly, Bolton says, “well at least your name isn’t Michael Bolton.”

“You know there is nothing wrong with that name,” Samir tells him.

“There was nothing wrong with that name,” corrects Bolton. “Until I was about 12 years old and that no-talent ass clown became famous and started winning Grammys.”

“Well why don’t you just go by Mike instead of Michael?” suggests Samir.

“No way, why should I change? He is the one who sucks.”

*

On Facebook I notice that some other Osamas — whom I knew from Pakistan and who had also come to America — have now tweaked their names. They go by Sam or Mo or Sammy. No one goes by Two-Two or Zero Zero Nine Two.

I wonder if their experience as an Osama in America is different from mine. It probably is, I tell myself.

Sometimes I wonder what other Osamas in the world, not just in America, are experiencing.

*

“Wait, wait,” says a guy at a frat party. He is trying to hush the three other people whom I have also just met for the first time, and who are standing in a circle with us.

“I have to ask you a question, Osama,” he says.

The way he emphasizes my name. I know where this is going.

“Are you related to…” He pauses for dramatic effect and then adds, “Osama bin Laden?”

He delivers his punchline and looks around the circle as he laughs. The two guys, both wearing identical Braves hats, smile.

The one other person in the circle, a girl who I think is in the same CS1371 section as me, squirms with an uncomfortable expression on her face.

“This is awkward as fuck,” I can hear her thinking in her head.

*

I contemplate changing the spelling of my name: Usama Ousama Oouussaammahh Okssamta (the k and the t would be silent)

*

I read somewhere that self-deprecating humor makes you appear more relatable and therefore more attractive.

*

A Starbucks opens in the library. It is quickly the most popular spot on campus. Lines are always long and sometimes extend out of the building during finals week.

Even though the baristas ask for my name every time and spell it correctly on the cup when they write it down, I notice that they never say it out loud.

I feel bad for putting the barista in a position where they are afraid to offend someone by calling them an Osama.

I tell this story to all my college friends. I end it with the punchline, “So I guess everyone has name troubles at Starbucks.”

People laugh in acknowledgement; even though their name is Gracie, Chris, or Zach and mine is Osama, we share the same inconveniences at Starbucks.

“See, we have so much in common,” they say.

*

It’s 2010 and a Pakistani man tries to blow up Times Square.

His last name is Shahzad.

My last name is Shehzad.

I tell myself that at least the spellings are not the same.

*

“Do you always tell people that your name is Osama,” friends ask me.

“Yes,” I usually reply with a nod. “Except when I am on a plane,” I add after a slight pause for dramatic effect.

“If I asked the guy sitting next to me on the plane what his name was and he replied ‘Osama,’” I say with a laugh, “I would freak out too.”

This is a joke I often crack about my own name. It always gets laughs.

*

“Yo, check out the time,” my friend tells me.

I check my phone. It is 9:11pm. I look back at him.

He has a proud smirk on his face.

*

My friends and I are watching Russell Peters’ stand-up show on YouTube.

“What’s your name?” Peters asks someone in the crowd.

“Anthony,” the guy replies.

“What’s your Asian name?” asks Russell back.

The person is reluctant to share his name at first but does so after Peters insists. Peters then goes on to make fun of his name and his ethnicity.

I shudder when I try to imagine what Russell Peters, or any comedian, would do with my name.

*

“Kahan say arahay hain?” asks the immigration officer in Karachi as I hand him my Pakistani passport.

“America,” I reply.

As he stamps the green pages of my green passport, he asks, “Wahan loog mazak to nahi uratay apka?”

Do you get shit for your name over there?

*

I am watching Jon Stewart clips on YouTube when I stumble across his interview with Bassem Youssef in Egypt.

Stewart narrates his encounter with an “incredibly hospitable” refugee in Jordan.

Towards the end of a heartwarming interaction, a deeply moved Stewart asks the refugee for his name. The refugee replies, “Osama.”

Stewart pauses on that punchline.

And then in Stewart-like broken sentences, collecting his thoughts on stereotypes and ignorance in general, he says, “So that was a… it was difficult… it’s a kind of thing that you need to open up your heart to.”

I wonder if it is this difficult for everyone in America when I tell them that my name is Osama.

*

I start a summer internship at a technology company in Atlanta.

A few days into the internship, Jie, an intern who is an international student from China, tells me that he will now go by the name Humphrey.

I ask him why he decided to go by a different name than Jie.

He says his manager, who is also Asian, advised him to pick an American name to go by in the office.

“It is better for my professional career,” he tells me.

*

I change my Facebook display picture to my college graduation photo. In the photo I have a mortarboard on my head, a degree in my hand, and a big smile on my face.

A friend comments on it with a pun.

Awesome-A

I smile when I read it. I never realized that Osama could sound like Awesome.

*

“I’m authentic, real name, no gimmicks”

— Drake

*

I move to New York City for my first job out of school. On my first day, a coworker asks me if I have seen Office Space.

“Yeah bro,” I tell him. “Such a classic”.

“You know the character Michael Bolton from Office Space?”

I see where he is going with this.

“Why should I change my name?” He says.

“He is the one who sucks,” I complete the sentence.

He nods at me with a big satisfied smile on his face and extends his fist.

I fist-bump him.

I feel as if I just passed Steve’s Assimilation Test.

*

“Do you get extra shit at the airport when you enter America?” A coworker asks as he pumps the dispenser to top off a half-sipped coffee mug . “Like, do they strip search you and shit?”

*

Browsing the shelves of McNally Jackson in Soho, I come across a short story collection by an author named Osama Alomar. He is a Syrian immigrant now living in Chicago.

I buy the book, The Teeth of the Comb and Other Stories, and read it in one sitting in Washington Square Park. His stories are very short, some only a few sentences long.

One of them is called “The Name.”

*

I download a dating app and set up a profile.

“Will our first date be a blast?” A brunette in the West Village messages me.

I unmatch her.

I match with a Muslim grad student at Columbia. The first message she sends me: “Please be honest, do people give you shit for your name?”

I unmatch her too.

A hot blonde in Williamsburg messages me. “Come bomb my pussy.”

I wonder if this is an invitation to sext. Maybe? But probably not. I unmatch her too.

*

I am browsing books at WORD in Greenpoint when I overhear a comedy show taking place in the building’s basement.

I stand near the entrance, trying to listen without paying for a ticket.

A stand-up comedian finishes her set and the next one introduces himself.

I hear his name: Osama. (I later learn that he spells it Usama.)

He makes fun of his own name. He cracks some jokes that are very similar to mine. He tells a story of how he freaked out when his friend shouted his name at the airport. I have a similar story that I tell to make people laugh.

I wonder if all of us Osamas (and Usamas) make the same jokes about our name.

*

Often, once I get to know someone and we are a little more comfortable around each other, they tell me, “I am sure you get this a lot, but sorry, I’ve always wanted to ask you something.”

In the middle of the first heartfelt conversation with a new friend, he will invariably say, “Bro, can I ask you something that might be a bit personal?”

Sometimes during an intimate moment, a girlfriend will say, “Can I ask you something that might be a little weird?”

I know what question they are going to ask next. But I still cross my fingers and close my eyes in anticipation of being asked something truly weird.

Despite it being different people, different moods, and different amounts of clothing we are wearing, it is always the same question.

It is the question that I knew they were going to ask.

*

I show up 20 minutes late to a comedy show in Brooklyn.

It is a packed small venue, and the only open seat is in the very front row. I am reluctant to take that seat but the usher tells me that I am blocking everyone’s view. I have to walk across the stage to take that seat.

The comedian raises her hands in faux-annoyance as I walk in front of her, “Alright dude, what is this?”

The crowd laughs.

I mouth a “sorry!” to her and shrug my shoulders.

After a few minutes of jokes, she introduces her last bit, “You guys have been great. Now for my final joke, I will ask you your name, and make fun of it.”

Fuck.

I know she will pick me. I try to look at the row behind me in an effort to nudge her to pick someone else.

She is looking directly at me. I don’t look at her to avoid eye contact.

“You, who walked in late,” she points at me and walks over. “What’s your name?”

She holds the mic in front of me.

I can feel the eyes of the crowd glaring at me in anticipation, waiting for me to say my name.

I don’t want to tell her that my name is Osama. Maybe I should tell her my name is Sam, or Sammy, or even Two-Two.

I wonder if my friends, who are sitting a row behind me, are cringing as they see this happen.

“Osama,” I reply into the mic.

There is a pause.

I look at the stand-up comedian who is still holding the mic in front of me. She is staring at me, unsure what to say.

“Okay,” she says as she moves away from me.

The crowd remains silent.

I have a wry smile on my face. I feel embarrassed for putting her in this situation. I feel embarrassed for making my friends sitting behind me witness this awkward scene.

“And what’s your name?” she asks a guy sitting a few spots from me.

“Ben,” he replies.

“Where did you get that sweater from,” she asks him, before adding with an emphasis, “BEN?”

The crowd laughs.

I am relieved that it is over. I feel like everyone in the audience is still looking at me.

*

Despite his best efforts, the Author’s name began to slide down off the top of the book’s cover where it had been printed. The Author’s self-confidence had died long ago, but his name was determined to hang on to the spot where it belonged with all its might.

(“The Name,” by Osama Alomar, from The Teeth of the Comb and Other Stories)

*

I get a notification from Facebook.

A friend has re-shared his status from May 2011, with me tagged in it, as a memory.

Why would you re-share something so fucking old, I think to myself as I open my Facebook app, dreading to see what I was tagged in seven years ago.

“A good day for all the Osamas in the world except one” — Osama

I remember cracking this joke.

So many people asked me how I felt about the news that day that I remember feeling like I needed to draft and issue an official statement.

This is the joke that I remember telling the most often. There were probably a few others that I don’t remember anymore.

I didn’t anticipate anyone putting up what I said as their Facebook status. I think to myself now that my friend must have found what I said incredibly insightful.

*

I am tired. I have been working late at our office in Chelsea. I contemplate whether to take the L train back to Brooklyn or take an Uber. Fuck it, I’ll Uber.

My Uber driver, Ali, is four minutes away.

I wonder if I can expense this Uber ride because I was working late.

When I enter the car, I tell the driver, “Osama,” to confirm I am getting in the right Uber.

“Yes, salaam brother,” replies Ali.

“Salaam,” I reply curtly. Ali seems like an Uber driver who likes to talk. I am in zero mood for a conversation after a long day at work.

“Going to Brooklyn?” he asks.

“Ya.”

“You have a beautiful name, friend,” Ali comments. “Where are you from?”

Fuck. This is the last conversation I want to have right now.

“Pakistan,” I say.

“Can I ask you a question Osama?” Asks Ali.

The way he emphasizes my name, I know where this is going. I already know what the question will be.

I let out a sigh as I settle back into my seat and tell myself that I should have just taken the L.

I reply with a brief mmhmm.

“Do you want to listen to Drake or Atif Aslam?” asks Ali.

* * *

Editor’s note: Instead of a story fee, Longreads is making a donation to the South Asian American Digital Archive, per the author’s request.

Osama Shehzad is a writer from Karachi living in New York City.

* * *

Editor: Ben Huberman

https://ift.tt/30ShoNR from Blogger https://ift.tt/3fVXg1D

[thisdaynews]

England suffer shock Cricket World Cup defeat against Sri Lanka

New Post has been published on https://thebiafrastar.com/england-suffer-shock-cricket-world-cup-defeat-against-sri-lanka/

England suffer shock Cricket World Cup defeat against Sri Lanka

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Watch England unravel as Sri Lanka gain shock win

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Highlights: England suffer shock defeat by Sri Lanka

ICC Men’s Cricket World Cup, Headingley, Leeds Sri Lanka 232-9 (50 overs):Mathews 85*, Wood 3-40, Archer 3-52 England 212 (47 overs):Stokes 82*, Root 57, Malinga 4-43 Sri Lanka won by 20 runs Scorecard; Table; Schedule

England were strangled into a shock 20-run defeat by Sri Lanka that dented their hopes of reaching the World Cup semi-finals and breathed life into the tournament.

Chasing 233 on an increasingly difficult pitch, the hosts were smothered by a brilliant Sri Lanka bowling performance in a compelling contest at Headingley.

When Ben Stokes was joined by last man Mark Wood, England still needed 47, but Stokes clubbed 23 from eight deliveries to make a deafening crowd believe.

Wood, though, edged Nuwan Pradeep behind to leave Stokes stranded on 82 not out and England 212 all out.

They had earlier restricted Sri Lanka to 232-9, with Angelo Mathews’ painstaking 85 proving to be a match-winning innings.

England stay third in the 10-team table, but their three most difficult group games – against Australia, India and New Zealand – are still to come.

Sri Lanka climb to fifth, only two points behind England, their unlikely hopes of reaching the semi-finals still alive.

World Cup group table Rank Team P W L T NR RR Pts 1 Australia 6 5 1 0 0 0.849 10 2 New Zealand 5 4 0 0 1 1.591 9 3 England 6 4 2 0 0 1.457 8 4 India 4 3 0 0 1 1.029 7 5 Sri Lanka 6 2 2 0 2 -1.119 6 6 Bangladesh 6 2 3 0 1 -0.407 5 7 West Indies 5 1 3 0 1 0.272 3 8 South Africa 6 1 4 0 1 -0.193 3 9 Pakistan 5 1 3 0 1 -1.933 3 10 Afghanistan 5 0 5 0 0 -2.089 0

Top four go through to semi-finals

How does England’s defeat affect their World Cup chances?

Roy targeting return against Australia

Headingley tension revives World Cup

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Root & Buttler fall to leave England in trouble

Before this match, there was the danger England, Australia, India and New Zealand would pull away to leave the elongated group stage nothing more than a procession towards the semi-finals.

On a sun-kissed day at Headingley, amid unbearable tension in front of a crowd fully invested in the action, Sri Lanka produced a display full of fight and spirit.

In doing so, they delighted their noisy pockets of fans that included a brass band that played non-stop, as well as injecting much-needed intrigue into the tournament.

At the same time, they have raised questions about an England side that hit a world record 25 sixes in demolishing Afghanistan at Old Trafford on Tuesday, but that failed to adapt to the difficult batting conditions in Leeds.

Some, like James Vince and Moeen Ali, fell in infuriating fashion, while Jonny Bairstow and Jos Buttler were fooled into playing across the slingy Lasith Malinga, who claimed 4-43.

Just like when their fielding cost them against Pakistan, England helped engineer their own downfall and, as it stands, will have to find at least one win from their remaining games if they are to make the last four.

Stokes left stranded

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Bairstow out lbw first ball

Although England were finding run-scoring tough against the probing Sri Lankan bowling, there was no panic while Joe Root was moving towards 57 in the company of Stokes.

When Sri Lanka called for a review that revealed Root was caught down the leg side off Malinga, England unravelled.

After Buttler was pinned, Moeen, playing his 100th ODI, brainlessly looked for his second successive six off Dhananjaya de Silva and was caught at long-off.

In his next over, the spinner had both Chris Woakes and Adil Rashid caught behind, while Jofra Archer holed out to long-off in a collapse of 4-16.

Through it all, Stokes remained, unflappable, but now having to farm the strike with only Wood for company.

He was dropped in the deep on 57, then launched back-to-back sixes to draw noise that rocked Headingley to its foundations.

However, he left Wood to face the final ball of Pradeep’s 10-over spell. The number 11’s poke nestled in the gloves of the wicketkeeper, and England were beaten.

Mathews crawls Sri Lanka to victory

While England were putting in an excellent display with the ball and in the field, Mathews crawled along, looking entirely like a batsman whose previous highest score in this tournament was just nine.

Only late on did he show any intent, but by that time he was rapidly running out of partners.

When Sri Lanka were 3-2 after winning the toss, the day could have been short, only for Avishka Fernando to sparkle for 49, including two sixes pulled off Archer.

After he uppercut Wood to third man, England spinners Moeen and Rashid bowled in tandem to suffocate Sri Lanka.

It was Rashid, looking back to near his best, who had Kusal Mendis well held by Eoin Morgan at mid-wicket and then, next ball, Jeevan Mendis caught and bowled.

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Rashid takes two wickets in two balls as Sri Lanka struggle

Wood and Archer worked through the lower order, with Wood particularly impressive – his yorker to bowl Malinga was clocked at 93mph.

All the while, Mathews plodded on. At no point was he interested in playing the modern, ultra-aggressive one-day game, but he had the application to battle with both himself and the England bowlers.

Ultimately, he ground Sri Lanka to a memorable victory.

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Watch England unravel as Sri Lanka gain shock win

‘If we had won, we would have been robbing Sri Lanka’ – what they said

England captain Eoin Morgan:“In the chase we didn’t do the basics of getting substantial partnerships going.

“We had a couple of good individual performances but Sri Lanka thoroughly deserved to win.

“We didn’t do enough to win the game and even if we had nicked it then it would have been us robbing the game with an outstanding individual performance.”

Former England assistant coach Paul Farbrace on Test Match Special:“England will know their performance today hasn’t been good enough to win the game and it is a game they should be winning.

“(Head coach) Trevor Bayliss talks lot about smart cricket and at times they did not play smart cricket.

“They don’t make excuses. Eoin Morgan will call it as he sees it. There won’t be any shouting or finger pointing but there will be some quiet conversations with some players about their modes of dismissals.”

Sri Lanka captain Dimuth Karunaratne:“It was a close one, we were under pressure but it was teamwork in the end – all the batters and bowlers did great work.

“We thought this wicket looked like a 300 pitch but it was slower than we thought. We knew we couldn’t get 300, so wanted 250-275 until we lost some wickets but Angelo Mathews batted really well.

“With a score on the board the bowlers knew what to do on this wicket.

“The Root wicket was the turning point. We were not confident but thought we would go for the review and thankfully for us that was the turning point.”

Read More

[nicemango-feed]

Forbidden Intersectionality: Liberal + (Ex) Muslim

Some of you may have seen my interview on Cracked recently. I was fortunate to have the opportunity to speak on a larger platform. Below is a blogpost thats basically an extension of my thoughts from there: ------- Being of Muslim background in the West right now...in this Trumpian, 'rising far right' era is tough enough as it is....but being a secular, non-religious person of Muslim background is a whole other level of fucked up at the moment... So many of us thought there weren't others like us, questioning Islam, questioning conservatism in our communities...because these things just aren't talked about. The risks are too great especially if you're living in a Muslim majority country like Pakistan or Saudi Arabia (the two places I've lived). And when, through the internet, we found each other....us secular/agnostic/atheist types of Muslim background were just so relieved that there were others...that there was a growing voice for us...that we banded together on something that doesn't tell you much about a person's values: rejecting/challenging religion. Now...as the political climate changes in the West, we see the cracks in the ex/reformist Muslim movement more obviously than ever. There are those of us who were coming at it from the angle of opposing conservatism, rightwingery whatever form it may take, and others who were specifically only opposing Islam. As a result the people who prioritize opposing Islam alone, are happy now to side with the Western right. Some even going as far as joining anti-Muslim movements, the alt-right, supporting Trump, etc. Back in the old country, expressing doubt about religion or challenging cultural boundaries can mean serious consequences. At the very least resulting in alienation and being ostracized, disowned, ex communicated (we are not free from this consequence in the West either) ....and at worst it means things like blasphemy accusations, death.  So I do understand where the anger and bitterness some have is coming from (I don't excuse it, but I can see what created it). This taboo and loneliness surrounding Islamic apostasy is also why finding others simply to align with you on this one thing feels so big, that almost nothing else matters.

However, as more and more of us come out and express ourselves, we begin to see the diversity among Islam's apostates too. Still we are often lumped in as one, and even at times put on an unnecessary pedestal in the western atheist scene when discussing Islam. I hate to be the one to say it, but ex-Muslims can be wrong in their assessments and opinions of Islam too, like anyone else. And if they are allying with the Dave Rubin's and Kekistanis of this world then it's increasingly important to see beyond the 'ex Muslim = they're infallible when it comes to speaking about Islam' view. Ex-Muslims too can overshoot in their criticism or overreact, tainting a movement that began with thoughtful critique.

Yes the stigma and risks that come with apostasy in Islam are high and frightening. I'm a living example of how high the stakes are, I have to work under a pseudonym to feel safe. But at the same time, it's important to keep in mind that things aren't always that intolerant and there are all types of people in countries like Pakistan and Saudi Arabia too, people who are struggling to be heard - further silencing them with generalizations is not only unjust but also counterproductive if reducing extremism is the goal. Liberal, accepting-of-apostasy Muslim families do exist there, but sadly in small numbers. It is voices from those minorities that need to be empowered...but so rarely are. Instead, the narrative that Muslims are always conservative rules the airwaves in the West, be it left or right leaning media. Yes...there are crazy mullahs saying ridiculous, vile, intolerant things (often focused on by the right) ....and yes there are hijabi women who need our solidarity (often focused on by the left), but Muslim existence isn't limited to these simple caricatures - yet most representation of them is (and no, I'm not drawing a moral equivalence between vile intolerant mullahs and peaceful conservative Muslim women who wear a headscarf). It's been incredibly hard to break that mould...and the few instances of people trying to represent the more secular, liberal types of Muslim existence are met with a huge amount of resistance from all across the political spectrum. I mean....we already have so much to deal with from within the community, that tacking on these external battles, simply for a foothold... for a place to say "I'm here, and I exist"...are disheartening and exhausting. As if dealing with angry Mullah’s against fun and freedom wasn’t hard enough! Image from https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j7IpMIhR6Yg

The left, the right, Muslims and non Muslims too, can all be hurdles for secular, liberal and progressive Muslims.

This is so incredibly untrue, as secular, liberal portrayals of Muslims are onlyjust starting to break through into the mainstream. While we have a wholehost of characters that play the token religious character, or 'the terrorist', etc. 

There's really no winning as a 'secular Muslim'.

People want to shove you into a box with extremists and nothing will stop them.

"Why don't Muslims tolerate apostasy, it's outrageous!" - well here's a Muslim woman

expressing support for people who have left the faith, and this is what she has to hear.

Why Don't Muslims fight for LGBT rights? Some do. And when it's not the western far right trying to get them to adhere to a literalist interpretation of Islam, it's a Muslim right-winger who wants to drag them back.

Muslims lie. There you have it. Because lying is totally unique to Muslims.

There really is no winning. As a liberal+Muslim, someone always turns up

to either discredit that you're truly liberal or that you're truly Muslim.

And thus, 'Forbidden intersectionality'. 

---------

As an ex-Muslim, I still very much consider myself a part of the Muslim community - like any secular Jew or Christian would consider themselves connected through culture, shared history, family, holidays, etc. Never before has my need to identify and stand in solidarity with the Muslim community felt more pronounced, than in a time Muslim registries and Muslim bans are casually being spoken of in mainstream discourse. 

This is truly terrifying for anyone of Muslim background. 

When it comes to things like the registry or being barred from entering the US, I don’t think secular, non-believer status matters. And when it comes to hate crimes, I'm pretty sure no one will bother checking how devout you are, either.

In fact, there have been many victims of anti-Muslim hate crime that just happened to have brown skin, or weren’t even remotely Muslim. 

All this certainly complicates things for those of us from within who do have legitimate critiques of the community and of Islamic fundamentalism. How do we demand progress in a political climate rife with anti-Muslim sentiment?

Battling Homophobia in a Muslim context

The orthodoxy Islam still commands worldwide in its adherents is unmatched by most other mainstream religions in the 21st century. For example the countries that still carry a potential death penalty for homosexuality are largely Muslim. 

Three years ago I wrote and illustrated an anti-homophobia children’s book set in Pakistan, called My Chacha (uncle) is Gay (you can get a copy here).

As I mentioned in my Cracked interview,

"I was delighted when it got picked up by some schools in the Toronto area and was used as a resource for The Day of Pink (which is an anti bullying initiative)."

The book was read out in classrooms and assemblies, and the response was incredibly supportive at first. Then, as parents 'discovered' that not only were their children read an LGBT-positive book *gasssp* ...but were read one set in Pakistan, the outrage began. 

Many claimed it was an assault on their religion, and a misrepresentation of it. Some said I was attacking the moral fibre of the ‘Muslim family', I received countless death and rape threats. Some referred to me as Wajb ul Qatal - 'worthy of killing’, they wished STD’s and Sharia punishments of being 'stoned to death' upon my *fictional* character Chacha.

This went on for quite some time. 

The most amusing comments called me 'Satan’s daughter' or compared my children's book's evilness -evels to that of Salman Rushdie’s notorious Satanic Verses! I am not worthy, but I’ll take the compliment with pride. In Toronto a radio show broadcasted calls from angry parents, punctuated with a few obligatory calls from people defending the book. Some parents threatened to sue the school board, and predictably the LGBT supporting liberal school board backed away from such a book. It was never used in an official capacity again. There were warnings being circulated on Islamic sites that people should protect their children from corruption, as they too could be exposed to this gay-turning, soul-sucking 15 line picture book.

As I said on Cracked, "Islamic Society of North America (ISNA) published a blog post claiming that the school board was the one bullying parents into teaching their kids about LGBT diversity. I was branded an ‘Islamophobe’ and that was it - a resource that many children/teachers enjoyed and found useful was no longer available." When Muslim communities have problems with integration or accepting values like being LGBT positive, the way to tackle that would be precisely through such resources. But often in the face of accusations of Islamophobia even books about love and tolerance are tossed out as controversial. It's the kids who lose out the most. Just recently, a conservative Islamic lecturer discovered my book and posted about it's 'evil agenda', sending a fresh new batch of threats and haters my way.

Click to enlarge

On the other side of this battle right wing non-Muslims accused me of trying to ‘sanitize homophobia’ in Islam and said that nice gay uncles like this simply didn’t exist in Pakistan, that I was painting a rosy picture of what it was like to be gay in a Muslim country, that Chacha would have been stoned to death in reality. I mean…it was a fictional children’s book, thus obviously simplified to a great degree. It's incredibly frustrating that If ever people from the Muslim world are challenging things and pushing boundaries the Western right often wants to pull them back to standards that Islamists would be proud of. 

For one side I was an Islamophobe, for the other a sanitizer of Sharia. And that pretty much encapsulates what it's like to discuss Islam as a liberal (ex) Muslim nowadays, caught between a rock and a hard place. 

It's like walking a tightrope...you point out there's homophobia in Muslim culture and you risk that being grabbed and used by people who want to ban Muslims.

What do you do, when stuck at this impossible junction... Being liberal and Muslim is unacceptable...invisible even.

Image from Cracked.com

It simply doesn't fit the narrative - but being liberal and ex muslim is also an overlap that many days, seems unmaintainable.

Often, you are not accepted by fellow liberals in the west (because Islamophobic) or you're not accepted by those who are interested in critiques of Islam because those circles are increasingly becoming anti-sjw, anti-feminist, anti-left...

Having few and mild opinions about the Western far-right is appreciated by many in the audience that will inevitably be drawn to you for your criticism of Islam. They usually tell you to stfu about Trump ...and accuse you of Taqqiya (an obscure concept in Islam which I only heard about in the West) if you don't, because they want to get to the 'good stuff'...the part where you confirm their ideas about generalizing Muslim immigrants, and act as a shield from accusations of bigotry.

My small patreon $ goes up when i criticize islam and goes down when I don't. This is an incredibly depressing view.

— Eiynah -- (@NiceMangos) September 6, 2017

We-ell thats not gonna happen with me....and I can't seem to keep quiet about Dave Rubin and Gad Saad, Peterson, Shermer...I certainly won't be going on Breitbart or Rebel Media to talk about how there's no place for Islam on the planet. So.....that leaves me walking a rather lonely path....and as you can read in my tweet above, often has me wondering what my place is in all this. If it's even worth it to try and counter the avalanche of bs, that seems to be coming from within the ex-Muslim movement...bs like, 'Islam can't be reformed', 'there's no place for it on the planet', 'Islam is worse than Nazism.' I mean, at this point the discussion really seems to have left the grown up table.

The Term Islamophobia Adds to the Confusion The waters are so muddied, that the term really does more harm than good. Allowing any criticism of Islamic fundamentalism, homophobia, etc. to be labelled as 'Islamophobia', gives right wing fundamentalist Muslims a chance to shield the religion from valid criticism. It's essentially the same thing as right wing Christians trying to shield their religion from criticism. Think of the absurdity of the 'War on Christmas' to get a feel for how 'Islamophobia' sounds to us. That's why I prefer the more precise term, 'anti-Muslim bigotry'. The problem is not theological criticisms of Islam or criticisms of literalist interpretations, it is the generalizations, hatred and fear-mongering around Muslims. Seeing the confusion surrounding this, the Western far-right swoops in to claim that "Islamophobia" isn't real even when its being used to describe blatant anti-Muslim bigotry. The cries of "Islam is not a race", while technically true...ring hollow in a climate where brown people are targeted based on their skin colour and appearance. And thus the cycle of confusion continues.

As anti-muslim sentiment skyrockets, the emboldened far-right uses this opportunity to gain more support. As the Western far right lashes out at Muslims, the Muslim far-right uses that opportunity to also gain more support. And the rest of us, are well and truly fucked by them both. The Hijab Debate

The Hijab is a hot topic, both within Muslim circles and outside. Well-meaning Western liberals tend to overcompensate in their desire to make Muslims feel accepted and can end up championing conservatism from our communities. This is particularly tricky now, because Muslim women are in actuality being attacked for their modesty garments. So in the West, it's not exactly on the same footing as opposing something like a Christian purity ball or virginity pledge - though it largely comes from the same place and regard for women. As a woman who grew up in a theocracy, Saudi Arabia, I was forced to wear modesty garments by the state and have encountered "morality police" on several occasions. I have seen them hit my mother's ankle with a cane for letting her headscarf slip. The memories are not pleasant. So...for me, it's rather distasteful to see the constant celebration of modesty garb. It leaves me feeling very isolated from my fellow liberals, who I assumed would stand with me in opposing body-shaming of women in my culture too. Simultaneously, I can understand that it has become hard to oppose a garment that is causing women to be targeted. My personal solution to this is that I stand in solidarity with hijab and niqab wearing Muslims when it comes to bigots singling them out because they are visibly Muslim. But I still vehemently oppose the concept of a requirement for women to cover up so as not to invoke lust. Both things can and should be done together. One can show solidarity with hijabis without championing the hijab as some great symbol of liberation, which it clearly isn't, as many Muslim girls and women continue to be forced into modesty against their will. The Media gives little coverage to Muslims who don't 'Look like Muslims' There is so much noise around supporting the hijab that non hijabi Muslim women are drowned out. This results in a very one dimensional coverage, that yet again perpetuates the stereotype that 'Muslim' is synonymous with 'conservative Muslim'. Even Playboy Magazine isn't immune to this and had to get in on the hijab celebration! Another example of this misguided support is the Shepard Fairey poster from the Women's March.

An admittedly powerful, iconic poster of a woman in a US flag hijab was displayed as part of a series. It was seen as a symbol of resistance, as the 'anti-Trump'. But it's hard for women like me to get behind one form of conservative symbolism to oppose another form of conservatism. So I created some artwork accompanied by a short audio message explaining that we do indeed need to show solidarity with hijabi Muslim women, but perhaps this wasn't the best method since there are many connotations to such a garment, not all positive. 

Despite my clearly liberal sentiments and disclaimers that it was not to be used by people spreading hate towards Muslims, despite my opposition to Trump expressed in the audio message the post was widely retweeted by Trump fan accounts as well.

It seems there's almost nothing we can do to prevent this.

Either you suffer in silence under the homophobic, misogynistic Islamic far-right, or you risk emboldening the anti-Muslim, anti-immigrant Western one. 

In fact both LGBT and women's rights in Islamic countries are causes appropriated by the Western far-right now. In Alt-Right/Lite circles, you'll see gay rights used as a white nationalist tactic, it's deeply concerning and sinister that an ideology so troubling can be dressed up as 'human rights'.

They use these things as a cudgel, a mere pretext to bash Muslims with.

The trick is to express a faux-concern over these things not being up to par in the Islamic world, while having little regard for the same in your own part of the world. I cannot tell you how many Western anti-feminists champion women's rights when it comes to Islam, but will callously tell Western rape victims that they are privileged because at least they don't live under Sharia. 

Difficult Dualities

Whether it's accusations of Islamophobia or fears of emboldening anti-Muslim hate, either way, we are silenced. Just like any culture we too should be able to criticize our own, without being branded sell-outs, traitors or Islamophobes.

Except there is one problem.

In this complex political climate there *is* an actual loss of credibility too, which I covered in my interview;

"As more and more Muslim Reformers/Ex Muslims either get on the Trump Train, defend the Muslim Ban or join the Alt Right."

And on the left, secular, liberal Muslims continue to not be adequately represented. This tips the scales massively towards high-visibility of right-wing critics of Islam. 

Well known Ex-Muslim Breitbart Editor, Raheem Kassam, has said things like "If Merkel took a million rapey migrants, Hillary will take 20 million"

We also have the 'red-pilled' ex-Muslim types, who believe no Muslims are peaceful.

Now I as an ex-Muslim can tell you, that this is not representative of *all* ex-Muslims obviously, and there are many compassionate, progressive people among us. But the movement has taken an undeniable rightward turn without many denouncing the bad actors that are nudging the movement further towards Pepe. 

This is definitely not what I signed up for. 

YouTube shows that regularly feature alt right/lite figures will also court ex and reformist Muslims to come and criticize Islam from their platforms. 

When you go on Breitbart, or Rebel Media to criticize Islam - how can you complain that the Left won't take your voice seriously.

Credibility is a two way street. 

I would urge my fellow liberals to not champion Islamic conservatism and I would urge my fellow ex-Muslims to not prove critics of the ex-Muslim and Islamic reform movements correct by allying with the Western right and supporting/downplaying things like the Muslim Ban. 

This rightward shift of Islam critics has even produced a Trump-supporting, anti-multiculturalism Imam, would you believe it?  

2017, what a year!

The Imam once put out an 11-step plan to crack down on Wahhabism, a literalist and harsh interpretation of Islam. It sounds reasonable in theory, but reads more like an authoritarian plan to put ordinary Muslims under strict surveillance. Australian media has dubbed him the 'Fake Sheikh' 

 ABC states,

 "...Unsurprisingly, Tawhidi's tales about Sunni Muslims' shadowy plot to instate Caliphate have been enthusiastically embraced by the far-Right, including Reclaim Australia. Perhaps less expected is the extent to which Tawhidi himself has courted such groups. In the lead-up to last year's federal election, he made offerings of roses to roadside anti-Muslim Liberty Alliance and One Nation posters, as if the face of Pauline Hanson belonged not to Australia's most recognisable anti-Islam campaigner, but a titian-haired deity."

He throws around terms like 'Fake News' and 'Lying Left' - reminiscent of Trump himself. 

It's no surprise the term 'red-pilled Muslim' is also seen in comments from his fans. I honestly never thought I'd see that combination of words, but 2017 is full of surprises. 

I hope that one day, just like Sam Bee or The Daily Show, progressive Muslims can earnestly push for change without getting lumped in with or enticed by those with an anti-Muslim agenda. 

Islam is not a monolith, neither are its adherents nor its critics. Just like Islam can be interpreted and practised in a million different ways so too can criticism of it come from different angles and politics. It's important to be aware of the general Trump-era anti-Muslim climate, but its also important not to erase the few secular, liberal and progressive Muslims that exist. 

Recognize that people in my position are fighting a battle against bigotry from all angles. 

------------ A huge thanks to all my Patrons who make this work possible! To those who's support for me doesn't depend upon how much I criticize Islam and Islam alone, those who signed up recently, and to those who have been there for a while....your support and encouragement mean so much!  If you enjoy my work please consider supporting via Patreon 

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[theleaderdotinfo-blog]

KNIGHT AND TAYLOR OR GUIDE ENGLAND TO COMFORTABLE VICTORY OVER SRI LANKA has been published at http://www.theleader.info/2017/07/02/knight-taylor-guide-england-comfortable-victory-sri-lanka/

New Post has been published on http://www.theleader.info/2017/07/02/knight-taylor-guide-england-comfortable-victory-sri-lanka/

KNIGHT AND TAYLOR OR GUIDE ENGLAND TO COMFORTABLE VICTORY OVER SRI LANKA

Heather Knight and Sarah Taylor slammed half-centuries as England made light work of chasing 205 to defeat Sri Lanka by seven wickets

 Knight scored a 76-ball 82 with 10 fours and a six, while Taylor returned unbeaten on 74 from 67 balls with 11 fours.

Heather Knight and Sarah Taylor slammed half-centuries as England made light work of chasing 205 to defeat Sri Lanka by seven wickets in a league match of the ICC Women’s World Cup 2017 in Taunton.

Sri Lanka elected to bat but spinner Laura Marsh took four for 45 to restrict the side to just 204 for eight, with Natalie Sciver also grabbing two wickets.

In reply, England wasted little time as Laura Winfield smashed 26 off 24 balls before Knight (82) and Taylor (74 not out) put on 148 to get their team to within seven runs of victory.

Taylor saw her side home and player of the match Marsh was thrilled with the win.

“It’s great to get another win on the board and I thought the girls played really well, we were good in the field with the ball and the girls knocked them off convincingly at the end,” she said.

“Every time you get a chance to play it’s pretty special, especially in a home World Cup, to get the chance to bowl and take some wickets was really special.”

After winning the toss, Sri Lanka didn’t get off the mark until the fourth over when Hasini Perera struck back-to-back boundaries.

 Hasini Perera produced the stand-out knock of the innings as she struck 46 off 62 balls. Hasini Perera produced the stand-out knock of the innings as she struck 46 off 62 balls.

The opening batter produced the stand-out knock of the innings as she struck 46 off 62 balls.

Sciver broke the deadlock and the 24-year-old followed the wicket of Nipuni Hansika with the key dismissal of Chamari Athapaththu.

The Sri Lanka number three, who had made an unbeaten 178 against Australia, was caught for just one and wickets continued to fall at regular intervals.

When a stunning diving catch from Fran Wilson dismissed Dilani Manodara, Sri Lanka was 133 for six with lower-order runs from Oshadhi Ranasinghe (26) and Ama Kanchana (34 not out) vital.

In reply, Knight followed up her century against Pakistan with a 50 brought up with a back-foot punch through the covers off just 57 balls.

Taylor followed her to 50 soon after. She reached the landmark off 58 balls when a full toss from Athapaththu was dispatched to the boundary through midwicket.

Knight was caught at midwicket by Madhavi but England was not to be stopped as Taylor saw them home.

Shashikala Siriwardena admitted Sri Lanka didn’t get enough runs.

  “It was good to win the toss and bat first because this is a good wicket to bat on but I think we were 100 runs short,” she said.

“We’re really disappointed but we’ve had a tough three matches in a row in the tournament, we’re hoping to do well in the next four matches.”

Scores in brief:

England beat Sri Lanka by seven wickets at The County Ground, Taunton

Sri Lanka 204-8, 50 overs (Hasini Perera 46, Ama Kanchana 34 not out, Shashikala Siriwardena 33, Dilani Manodara 28; Laura Marsh 4-45, Natalie Sciver 2-32)

England 206-3, 30.2 overs (Heather Knight 82, Sarah Taylor 74 not out, Laura Winfield 26, Tamsin Beaumont 12; Ama Kanchana 2-38)

Player of the match – Laura Marsh (England)

Next matches – England v South Africa, The County Ground, Bristol, 5 July; Sri Lanka v India, The County Ground, Derby, 5 July

[stokesy55]

I can't believe I'm going to say it, but...

I hope Australia win this game.

[lodelss]

“Do You Get Shit for Your Name?”

Osama Shehzad | Longreads | August 2020 | 3,543 words (14 minutes)

“Passport please,” asks the security officer, an Indian-British woman, at London’s Heathrow airport.

I hand her my green Pakistani passport, and she thumbs through it to get to the page with my visa. I am travelling to America where I’ve lived since 2009 on either student or work visas.

As she examines my passport, she frowns and then lifts her head to look at me.

“Osama?”

I reply with a nod and a small wry smile, as I always do when people ask to confirm my name.

She leans over and asks in a hushed voice, “Do you get shit for your name in America?”

*

I was born and raised in Karachi, Pakistan, where Osama was — and still remains — a popular name.

My grandfather, a poet, named me Osama because he wanted a name without a harsh stop at its end, a name that would flow smoothly off the tongue to my last name, Shehzad.

*

My elementary school Koran teacher, Qari Sahab, tells me Osama is an ancient Arabic name that translates to “lion.” It is popular throughout the Muslim world because Prophet Muhammad chose that name for his adopted grandson.

*

“What is your name beta?” asks the uncle, an old friend of my father who is over at our place with his wife for tea. The uncle emigrated to the U.S. in the ‘80s and has rarely visited Karachi since. This is my first time meeting him.

“Osama,” I reply.

“Oye, you are hiding here in Karachi and Bush is looking for you everywhere,” replies the uncle and everyone in the drawing room gives out a courteous chuckle for his attempt to lighten the mood.

“Good luck getting a visa to America,” his wife adds.

“You should change your name,” the uncle instructs me.

“Chai piyo aur niklo,” I feel like telling him, but instead reply with a polite “Okay.”

*

“Be prepared,” warns Mrs. Isani when I tell her that I have decided to attend college in Atlanta, Georgia.

Mrs. Isani is my high school counselor. She is, I guesstimate, around 85 if not older. She is a soft-spoken but straight-to-the-point Parsi lady.

“The American South is a racist place,” she tells me. “I am afraid you will be bullied because of your name.”

*

“You are applying for an American visa?” people in my high school mockingly remark when I tell them about my college aspirations.

“I thought you were planning on going to Georgia, the country in Eastern Europe,” comments one friend. I wonder if he is showing off his knowledge of world geography or highlighting his apparent lack thereof.

“You will never get a visa to America.”

*

It’s 2008 and America has just elected a new president with a name only one letter different from mine. Obama dares everyone to hope. I hope that Americans don’t judge people by their names.

*

My parents tell me that I shouldn’t feel ashamed if I want to go by another name when I’m in America.

I can tell they feel responsible for giving me a once-beautiful, now-wretched name.

They even make suggestions: maybe a condensed Sam? Or a Western-sounding Sammy? Or Two-Two, a pet name they reveal they had used for a few days in the hospital — the room in which I was born was numbered 22 — before my ultimate name was assigned to me.

*

I try to put myself in the shoes of an American college student and contemplate which name can be more easily made fun of: Osama or Two-Two?

*

“You should just go by Shehzad in America,” suggests a high school friend. “I’ve heard people in the West just go by their last names.”

“Mister Shehzad,” I say out loud to him. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

“Sounds like Mister Bond.”

“Maybe I should go by Double-O Seven?”

“Or better, you should come up with your own number. How about Zero Zero Nine Two?”

“Zero Zero Nine Two…” I repeat to check how it sounds.

“Don’t do it. They’ll think you’re a telephone from Karachi.”

*

“Visa milgaya apko?” asks the airline employee with a tinge of sarcasm as I check in to my flight at Karachi’s Jinnah International Airport.

There are no direct flights from Pakistan to America. I fly from Karachi to Dubai to London to Chicago. Phupho and Phupha, my aunt and uncle who live in Indianapolis, will pick me up from O’Hare and then drive me to my college in Atlanta.

As I wait at Heathrow to board my final flight, I practice introducing myself to others. I try to imagine every possible reaction from them — and what an appropriate polite response to it might be.

If someone were to start laughing and ask, “Are you serious?” I would pretend to laugh too and say, “Obviously not, I’m Sam.”

If they called me a terrorist or tried to punch me, I would run away. Where? I am not sure. Maybe back to my dorm?

If they walked away because they didn’t want to talk to anyone who had a name like mine, I would just put my head down in shame.

I wonder if I need to say sorry for going by my own name.

On the flight from London to Chicago, a white American woman is sitting next to me.

I am worried: will she ask what my name is? I debate if I should tell her my name is Osama. Maybe I shouldn’t because we are on a plane.

We talk briefly but she never asks.

*

There is always a pause after I tell people my name in college. I see a split-second hesitation in their eyes. I feel embarrassed for putting them in this situation. I don’t know what to do. I end up smiling a lot.

“Osama?” People repeat my name, sometimes a few times, to confirm they heard it correctly.

“Yes, Osama,” I say.

“Obama?” Some people ask me.

“No,” I correct them. “Osama.”

“Ajay?”

“Bro, how the fuck did you hear me say Ajay?” I want to ask this weirdo.

Instead I politely correct him. “No, Osama.”

*

I watch Office Space for the first time with people in my freshman dorm. They claim to have seen it multiple times.

“Michael…” a woman reads out a man’s name in one scene, before pausing with astonished eyes, “Bolton?”

“That’s me,” says Bolton, who we can tell has been in this situation too many times before.

“Wow,” exclaims the woman. “Is that your real name?”

Everyone around me laughs. I am tense. I wonder how Bolton will respond to this. I also wonder if anyone is looking at me, trying to see how I react to this scene. So I keep my eyes glued to the screen and smile.

“Yeah,” says Bolton curtly as he clears his throat.

“So are you related to that singer guy?”

“No,” clarifies Bolton, who’s trying to end the conversation. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Oh,” says the woman, seemingly disappointed, as she walks away.

When Bolton’s cubicle mate, Samir, complains that no one in America can say his last name correctly, Bolton says, “well at least your name isn’t Michael Bolton.”

“You know there is nothing wrong with that name,” Samir tells him.

“There was nothing wrong with that name,” corrects Bolton. “Until I was about 12 years old and that no-talent ass clown became famous and started winning Grammys.”

“Well why don’t you just go by Mike instead of Michael?” suggests Samir.

“No way, why should I change? He is the one who sucks.”

*

On Facebook I notice that some other Osamas — whom I knew from Pakistan and who had also come to America — have now tweaked their names. They go by Sam or Mo or Sammy. No one goes by Two-Two or Zero Zero Nine Two.

I wonder if their experience as an Osama in America is different from mine. It probably is, I tell myself.

Sometimes I wonder what other Osamas in the world, not just in America, are experiencing.

*

“Wait, wait,” says a guy at a frat party. He is trying to hush the three other people whom I have also just met for the first time, and who are standing in a circle with us.

“I have to ask you a question, Osama,” he says.

The way he emphasizes my name. I know where this is going.

“Are you related to…” He pauses for dramatic effect and then adds, “Osama bin Laden?”

He delivers his punchline and looks around the circle as he laughs. The two guys, both wearing identical Braves hats, smile.

The one other person in the circle, a girl who I think is in the same CS1371 section as me, squirms with an uncomfortable expression on her face.

“This is awkward as fuck,” I can hear her thinking in her head.

*

I contemplate changing the spelling of my name: Usama Ousama Oouussaammahh Okssamta (the k and the t would be silent)

*

I read somewhere that self-deprecating humor makes you appear more relatable and therefore more attractive.

*

A Starbucks opens in the library. It is quickly the most popular spot on campus. Lines are always long and sometimes extend out of the building during finals week.

Even though the baristas ask for my name every time and spell it correctly on the cup when they write it down, I notice that they never say it out loud.

I feel bad for putting the barista in a position where they are afraid to offend someone by calling them an Osama.

I tell this story to all my college friends. I end it with the punchline, “So I guess everyone has name troubles at Starbucks.”

People laugh in acknowledgement; even though their name is Gracie, Chris, or Zach and mine is Osama, we share the same inconveniences at Starbucks.

“See, we have so much in common,” they say.

*

It’s 2010 and a Pakistani man tries to blow up Times Square.

His last name is Shahzad.

My last name is Shehzad.

I tell myself that at least the spellings are not the same.

*

“Do you always tell people that your name is Osama,” friends ask me.

“Yes,” I usually reply with a nod. “Except when I am on a plane,” I add after a slight pause for dramatic effect.

“If I asked the guy sitting next to me on the plane what his name was and he replied ‘Osama,’” I say with a laugh, “I would freak out too.”

This is a joke I often crack about my own name. It always gets laughs.

*

“Yo, check out the time,” my friend tells me.

I check my phone. It is 9:11pm. I look back at him.

He has a proud smirk on his face.

*

My friends and I are watching Russell Peters’ stand-up show on YouTube.

“What’s your name?” Peters asks someone in the crowd.

“Anthony,” the guy replies.

“What’s your Asian name?” asks Russell back.

The person is reluctant to share his name at first but does so after Peters insists. Peters then goes on to make fun of his name and his ethnicity.

I shudder when I try to imagine what Russell Peters, or any comedian, would do with my name.

*

“Kahan say arahay hain?” asks the immigration officer in Karachi as I hand him my Pakistani passport.

“America,” I reply.

As he stamps the green pages of my green passport, he asks, “Wahan loog mazak to nahi uratay apka?”

Do you get shit for your name over there?

*

I am watching Jon Stewart clips on YouTube when I stumble across his interview with Bassem Youssef in Egypt.

Stewart narrates his encounter with an “incredibly hospitable” refugee in Jordan.

Towards the end of a heartwarming interaction, a deeply moved Stewart asks the refugee for his name. The refugee replies, “Osama.”

Stewart pauses on that punchline.

And then in Stewart-like broken sentences, collecting his thoughts on stereotypes and ignorance in general, he says, “So that was a… it was difficult… it’s a kind of thing that you need to open up your heart to.”

I wonder if it is this difficult for everyone in America when I tell them that my name is Osama.

*

I start a summer internship at a technology company in Atlanta.

A few days into the internship, Jie, an intern who is an international student from China, tells me that he will now go by the name Humphrey.

I ask him why he decided to go by a different name than Jie.

He says his manager, who is also Asian, advised him to pick an American name to go by in the office.

“It is better for my professional career,” he tells me.

*

I change my Facebook display picture to my college graduation photo. In the photo I have a mortarboard on my head, a degree in my hand, and a big smile on my face.

A friend comments on it with a pun.

Awesome-A

I smile when I read it. I never realized that Osama could sound like Awesome.

*

“I’m authentic, real name, no gimmicks”

— Drake

*

I move to New York City for my first job out of school. On my first day, a coworker asks me if I have seen Office Space.

“Yeah bro,” I tell him. “Such a classic”.

“You know the character Michael Bolton from Office Space?”

I see where he is going with this.

“Why should I change my name?” He says.

“He is the one who sucks,” I complete the sentence.

He nods at me with a big satisfied smile on his face and extends his fist.

I fist-bump him.

I feel as if I just passed Steve’s Assimilation Test.

*

“Do you get extra shit at the airport when you enter America?” A coworker asks as he pumps the dispenser to top off a half-sipped coffee mug . “Like, do they strip search you and shit?”

*

Browsing the shelves of McNally Jackson in Soho, I come across a short story collection by an author named Osama Alomar. He is a Syrian immigrant now living in Chicago.

I buy the book, The Teeth of the Comb and Other Stories, and read it in one sitting in Washington Square Park. His stories are very short, some only a few sentences long.

One of them is called “The Name.”

*

I download a dating app and set up a profile.

“Will our first date be a blast?” A brunette in the West Village messages me.

I unmatch her.

I match with a Muslim grad student at Columbia. The first message she sends me: “Please be honest, do people give you shit for your name?”

I unmatch her too.

A hot blonde in Williamsburg messages me. “Come bomb my pussy.”

I wonder if this is an invitation to sext. Maybe? But probably not. I unmatch her too.

*

I am browsing books at WORD in Greenpoint when I overhear a comedy show taking place in the building’s basement.

I stand near the entrance, trying to listen without paying for a ticket.

A stand-up comedian finishes her set and the next one introduces himself.

I hear his name: Osama. (I later learn that he spells it Usama.)

He makes fun of his own name. He cracks some jokes that are very similar to mine. He tells a story of how he freaked out when his friend shouted his name at the airport. I have a similar story that I tell to make people laugh.

I wonder if all of us Osamas (and Usamas) make the same jokes about our name.

*

Often, once I get to know someone and we are a little more comfortable around each other, they tell me, “I am sure you get this a lot, but sorry, I’ve always wanted to ask you something.”

In the middle of the first heartfelt conversation with a new friend, he will invariably say, “Bro, can I ask you something that might be a bit personal?”

Sometimes during an intimate moment, a girlfriend will say, “Can I ask you something that might be a little weird?”

I know what question they are going to ask next. But I still cross my fingers and close my eyes in anticipation of being asked something truly weird.

Despite it being different people, different moods, and different amounts of clothing we are wearing, it is always the same question.

It is the question that I knew they were going to ask.

*

I show up 20 minutes late to a comedy show in Brooklyn.

It is a packed small venue, and the only open seat is in the very front row. I am reluctant to take that seat but the usher tells me that I am blocking everyone’s view. I have to walk across the stage to take that seat.

The comedian raises her hands in faux-annoyance as I walk in front of her, “Alright dude, what is this?”

The crowd laughs.

I mouth a “sorry!” to her and shrug my shoulders.

After a few minutes of jokes, she introduces her last bit, “You guys have been great. Now for my final joke, I will ask you your name, and make fun of it.”

Fuck.

I know she will pick me. I try to look at the row behind me in an effort to nudge her to pick someone else.

She is looking directly at me. I don’t look at her to avoid eye contact.

“You, who walked in late,” she points at me and walks over. “What’s your name?”

She holds the mic in front of me.

I can feel the eyes of the crowd glaring at me in anticipation, waiting for me to say my name.

I don’t want to tell her that my name is Osama. Maybe I should tell her my name is Sam, or Sammy, or even Two-Two.

I wonder if my friends, who are sitting a row behind me, are cringing as they see this happen.

“Osama,” I reply into the mic.

There is a pause.

I look at the stand-up comedian who is still holding the mic in front of me. She is staring at me, unsure what to say.

“Okay,” she says as she moves away from me.

The crowd remains silent.

I have a wry smile on my face. I feel embarrassed for putting her in this situation. I feel embarrassed for making my friends sitting behind me witness this awkward scene.

“And what’s your name?” she asks a guy sitting a few spots from me.

“Ben,” he replies.

“Where did you get that sweater from,” she asks him, before adding with an emphasis, “BEN?”

The crowd laughs.

I am relieved that it is over. I feel like everyone in the audience is still looking at me.

*

Despite his best efforts, the Author’s name began to slide down off the top of the book’s cover where it had been printed. The Author’s self-confidence had died long ago, but his name was determined to hang on to the spot where it belonged with all its might.

(“The Name,” by Osama Alomar, from The Teeth of the Comb and Other Stories)

*

I get a notification from Facebook.

A friend has re-shared his status from May 2011, with me tagged in it, as a memory.

Why would you re-share something so fucking old, I think to myself as I open my Facebook app, dreading to see what I was tagged in seven years ago.

“A good day for all the Osamas in the world except one” — Osama

I remember cracking this joke.

So many people asked me how I felt about the news that day that I remember feeling like I needed to draft and issue an official statement.

This is the joke that I remember telling the most often. There were probably a few others that I don’t remember anymore.

I didn’t anticipate anyone putting up what I said as their Facebook status. I think to myself now that my friend must have found what I said incredibly insightful.

*

I am tired. I have been working late at our office in Chelsea. I contemplate whether to take the L train back to Brooklyn or take an Uber. Fuck it, I’ll Uber.

My Uber driver, Ali, is four minutes away.

I wonder if I can expense this Uber ride because I was working late.

When I enter the car, I tell the driver, “Osama,” to confirm I am getting in the right Uber.

“Yes, salaam brother,” replies Ali.

“Salaam,” I reply curtly. Ali seems like an Uber driver who likes to talk. I am in zero mood for a conversation after a long day at work.

“Going to Brooklyn?” he asks.

“Ya.”

“You have a beautiful name, friend,” Ali comments. “Where are you from?”

Fuck. This is the last conversation I want to have right now.

“Pakistan,” I say.

“Can I ask you a question Osama?” Asks Ali.

The way he emphasizes my name, I know where this is going. I already know what the question will be.

I let out a sigh as I settle back into my seat and tell myself that I should have just taken the L.

I reply with a brief mmhmm.

“Do you want to listen to Drake or Atif Aslam?” asks Ali.

* * *

Editor’s note: Instead of a story fee, Longreads is making a donation to the South Asian American Digital Archive, per the author’s request.

Osama Shehzad is a writer from Karachi living in New York City.

* * *

Editor: Ben Huberman

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[ecoorganic]

“Do You Get Shit for Your Name?”

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Osama Shehzad | Longreads | August 2020 | 3,543 words (14 minutes)

“Passport please,” asks the security officer, an Indian-British woman, at London’s Heathrow airport.

I hand her my green Pakistani passport, and she thumbs through it to get to the page with my visa. I am travelling to America where I’ve lived since 2009 on either student or work visas.

As she examines my passport, she frowns and then lifts her head to look at me.

“Osama?”

I reply with a nod and a small wry smile, as I always do when people ask to confirm my name.

She leans over and asks in a hushed voice, “Do you get shit for your name in America?”

*

I was born and raised in Karachi, Pakistan, where Osama was — and still remains — a popular name.

My grandfather, a poet, named me Osama because he wanted a name without a harsh stop at its end, a name that would flow smoothly off the tongue to my last name, Shehzad.

*

My elementary school Koran teacher, Qari Sahab, tells me Osama is an ancient Arabic name that translates to “lion.” It is popular throughout the Muslim world because Prophet Muhammad chose that name for his adopted grandson.

*

“What is your name beta?” asks the uncle, an old friend of my father who is over at our place with his wife for tea. The uncle emigrated to the U.S. in the ‘80s and has rarely visited Karachi since. This is my first time meeting him.

“Osama,” I reply.

“Oye, you are hiding here in Karachi and Bush is looking for you everywhere,” replies the uncle and everyone in the drawing room gives out a courteous chuckle for his attempt to lighten the mood.

“Good luck getting a visa to America,” his wife adds.

“You should change your name,” the uncle instructs me.

“Chai piyo aur niklo,” I feel like telling him, but instead reply with a polite “Okay.”

*

“Be prepared,” warns Mrs. Isani when I tell her that I have decided to attend college in Atlanta, Georgia.

Mrs. Isani is my high school counselor. She is, I guesstimate, around 85 if not older. She is a soft-spoken but straight-to-the-point Parsi lady.

“The American South is a racist place,” she tells me. “I am afraid you will be bullied because of your name.”

*

“You are applying for an American visa?” people in my high school mockingly remark when I tell them about my college aspirations.

“I thought you were planning on going to Georgia, the country in Eastern Europe,” comments one friend. I wonder if he is showing off his knowledge of world geography or highlighting his apparent lack thereof.

“You will never get a visa to America.”

*

It’s 2008 and America has just elected a new president with a name only one letter different from mine. Obama dares everyone to hope. I hope that Americans don’t judge people by their names.

*

My parents tell me that I shouldn’t feel ashamed if I want to go by another name when I’m in America.

I can tell they feel responsible for giving me a once-beautiful, now-wretched name.

They even make suggestions: maybe a condensed Sam? Or a Western-sounding Sammy? Or Two-Two, a pet name they reveal they had used for a few days in the hospital — the room in which I was born was numbered 22 — before my ultimate name was assigned to me.

*

I try to put myself in the shoes of an American college student and contemplate which name can be more easily made fun of: Osama or Two-Two?

*

“You should just go by Shehzad in America,” suggests a high school friend. “I’ve heard people in the West just go by their last names.”

“Mister Shehzad,” I say out loud to him. “It does have a nice ring to it.”

“Sounds like Mister Bond.”

“Maybe I should go by Double-O Seven?”

“Or better, you should come up with your own number. How about Zero Zero Nine Two?”

“Zero Zero Nine Two…” I repeat to check how it sounds.

“Don’t do it. They’ll think you’re a telephone from Karachi.”

*

“Visa milgaya apko?” asks the airline employee with a tinge of sarcasm as I check in to my flight at Karachi’s Jinnah International Airport.

There are no direct flights from Pakistan to America. I fly from Karachi to Dubai to London to Chicago. Phupho and Phupha, my aunt and uncle who live in Indianapolis, will pick me up from O’Hare and then drive me to my college in Atlanta.

As I wait at Heathrow to board my final flight, I practice introducing myself to others. I try to imagine every possible reaction from them — and what an appropriate polite response to it might be.

If someone were to start laughing and ask, “Are you serious?” I would pretend to laugh too and say, “Obviously not, I’m Sam.”

If they called me a terrorist or tried to punch me, I would run away. Where? I am not sure. Maybe back to my dorm?

If they walked away because they didn’t want to talk to anyone who had a name like mine, I would just put my head down in shame.

I wonder if I need to say sorry for going by my own name.

On the flight from London to Chicago, a white American woman is sitting next to me.

I am worried: will she ask what my name is? I debate if I should tell her my name is Osama. Maybe I shouldn’t because we are on a plane.

We talk briefly but she never asks.

*

There is always a pause after I tell people my name in college. I see a split-second hesitation in their eyes. I feel embarrassed for putting them in this situation. I don’t know what to do. I end up smiling a lot.

“Osama?” People repeat my name, sometimes a few times, to confirm they heard it correctly.

“Yes, Osama,” I say.

“Obama?” Some people ask me.

“No,” I correct them. “Osama.”

“Ajay?”

“Bro, how the fuck did you hear me say Ajay?” I want to ask this weirdo.

Instead I politely correct him. “No, Osama.”

*

I watch Office Space for the first time with people in my freshman dorm. They claim to have seen it multiple times.

“Michael…” a woman reads out a man’s name in one scene, before pausing with astonished eyes, “Bolton?”

“That’s me,” says Bolton, who we can tell has been in this situation too many times before.

“Wow,” exclaims the woman. “Is that your real name?”

Everyone around me laughs. I am tense. I wonder how Bolton will respond to this. I also wonder if anyone is looking at me, trying to see how I react to this scene. So I keep my eyes glued to the screen and smile.

“Yeah,” says Bolton curtly as he clears his throat.

“So are you related to that singer guy?”

“No,” clarifies Bolton, who’s trying to end the conversation. “It’s just a coincidence.”

“Oh,” says the woman, seemingly disappointed, as she walks away.

When Bolton’s cubicle mate, Samir, complains that no one in America can say his last name correctly, Bolton says, “well at least your name isn’t Michael Bolton.”

“You know there is nothing wrong with that name,” Samir tells him.

“There was nothing wrong with that name,” corrects Bolton. “Until I was about 12 years old and that no-talent ass clown became famous and started winning Grammys.”

“Well why don’t you just go by Mike instead of Michael?” suggests Samir.

“No way, why should I change? He is the one who sucks.”

*

On Facebook I notice that some other Osamas — whom I knew from Pakistan and who had also come to America — have now tweaked their names. They go by Sam or Mo or Sammy. No one goes by Two-Two or Zero Zero Nine Two.

I wonder if their experience as an Osama in America is different from mine. It probably is, I tell myself.

Sometimes I wonder what other Osamas in the world, not just in America, are experiencing.

*

“Wait, wait,” says a guy at a frat party. He is trying to hush the three other people whom I have also just met for the first time, and who are standing in a circle with us.

“I have to ask you a question, Osama,” he says.

The way he emphasizes my name. I know where this is going.

“Are you related to…” He pauses for dramatic effect and then adds, “Osama bin Laden?”

He delivers his punchline and looks around the circle as he laughs. The two guys, both wearing identical Braves hats, smile.

The one other person in the circle, a girl who I think is in the same CS1371 section as me, squirms with an uncomfortable expression on her face.

“This is awkward as fuck,” I can hear her thinking in her head.

*

I contemplate changing the spelling of my name: Usama Ousama Oouussaammahh Okssamta (the k and the t would be silent)

*

I read somewhere that self-deprecating humor makes you appear more relatable and therefore more attractive.

*

A Starbucks opens in the library. It is quickly the most popular spot on campus. Lines are always long and sometimes extend out of the building during finals week.

Even though the baristas ask for my name every time and spell it correctly on the cup when they write it down, I notice that they never say it out loud.

I feel bad for putting the barista in a position where they are afraid to offend someone by calling them an Osama.

I tell this story to all my college friends. I end it with the punchline, “So I guess everyone has name troubles at Starbucks.”

People laugh in acknowledgement; even though their name is Gracie, Chris, or Zach and mine is Osama, we share the same inconveniences at Starbucks.

“See, we have so much in common,” they say.

*

It’s 2010 and a Pakistani man tries to blow up Times Square.

His last name is Shahzad.

My last name is Shehzad.

I tell myself that at least the spellings are not the same.

*

“Do you always tell people that your name is Osama,” friends ask me.

“Yes,” I usually reply with a nod. “Except when I am on a plane,” I add after a slight pause for dramatic effect.

“If I asked the guy sitting next to me on the plane what his name was and he replied ‘Osama,’” I say with a laugh, “I would freak out too.”

This is a joke I often crack about my own name. It always gets laughs.

*

“Yo, check out the time,” my friend tells me.

I check my phone. It is 9:11pm. I look back at him.

He has a proud smirk on his face.

*

My friends and I are watching Russell Peters’ stand-up show on YouTube.

“What’s your name?” Peters asks someone in the crowd.

“Anthony,” the guy replies.

“What’s your Asian name?” asks Russell back.

The person is reluctant to share his name at first but does so after Peters insists. Peters then goes on to make fun of his name and his ethnicity.

I shudder when I try to imagine what Russell Peters, or any comedian, would do with my name.

*

“Kahan say arahay hain?” asks the immigration officer in Karachi as I hand him my Pakistani passport.

“America,” I reply.

As he stamps the green pages of my green passport, he asks, “Wahan loog mazak to nahi uratay apka?”

Do you get shit for your name over there?

*

I am watching Jon Stewart clips on YouTube when I stumble across his interview with Bassem Youssef in Egypt.

Stewart narrates his encounter with an “incredibly hospitable” refugee in Jordan.

Towards the end of a heartwarming interaction, a deeply moved Stewart asks the refugee for his name. The refugee replies, “Osama.”

Stewart pauses on that punchline.

And then in Stewart-like broken sentences, collecting his thoughts on stereotypes and ignorance in general, he says, “So that was a… it was difficult… it’s a kind of thing that you need to open up your heart to.”

I wonder if it is this difficult for everyone in America when I tell them that my name is Osama.

*

I start a summer internship at a technology company in Atlanta.

A few days into the internship, Jie, an intern who is an international student from China, tells me that he will now go by the name Humphrey.

I ask him why he decided to go by a different name than Jie.

He says his manager, who is also Asian, advised him to pick an American name to go by in the office.

“It is better for my professional career,” he tells me.

*

I change my Facebook display picture to my college graduation photo. In the photo I have a mortarboard on my head, a degree in my hand, and a big smile on my face.

A friend comments on it with a pun.

Awesome-A

I smile when I read it. I never realized that Osama could sound like Awesome.

*

“I’m authentic, real name, no gimmicks”

— Drake

*

I move to New York City for my first job out of school. On my first day, a coworker asks me if I have seen Office Space.

“Yeah bro,” I tell him. “Such a classic”.

“You know the character Michael Bolton from Office Space?”

I see where he is going with this.

“Why should I change my name?” He says.

“He is the one who sucks,” I complete the sentence.

He nods at me with a big satisfied smile on his face and extends his fist.

I fist-bump him.

I feel as if I just passed Steve’s Assimilation Test.

*

“Do you get extra shit at the airport when you enter America?” A coworker asks as he pumps the dispenser to top off a half-sipped coffee mug . “Like, do they strip search you and shit?”

*

Browsing the shelves of McNally Jackson in Soho, I come across a short story collection by an author named Osama Alomar. He is a Syrian immigrant now living in Chicago.

I buy the book, The Teeth of the Comb and Other Stories, and read it in one sitting in Washington Square Park. His stories are very short, some only a few sentences long.

One of them is called “The Name.”

*

I download a dating app and set up a profile.

“Will our first date be a blast?” A brunette in the West Village messages me.

I unmatch her.

I match with a Muslim grad student at Columbia. The first message she sends me: “Please be honest, do people give you shit for your name?”

I unmatch her too.

A hot blonde in Williamsburg messages me. “Come bomb my pussy.”

I wonder if this is an invitation to sext. Maybe? But probably not. I unmatch her too.

*

I am browsing books at WORD in Greenpoint when I overhear a comedy show taking place in the building’s basement.

I stand near the entrance, trying to listen without paying for a ticket.

A stand-up comedian finishes her set and the next one introduces himself.

I hear his name: Osama. (I later learn that he spells it Usama.)

He makes fun of his own name. He cracks some jokes that are very similar to mine. He tells a story of how he freaked out when his friend shouted his name at the airport. I have a similar story that I tell to make people laugh.

I wonder if all of us Osamas (and Usamas) make the same jokes about our name.

*

Often, once I get to know someone and we are a little more comfortable around each other, they tell me, “I am sure you get this a lot, but sorry, I’ve always wanted to ask you something.”

In the middle of the first heartfelt conversation with a new friend, he will invariably say, “Bro, can I ask you something that might be a bit personal?”

Sometimes during an intimate moment, a girlfriend will say, “Can I ask you something that might be a little weird?”

I know what question they are going to ask next. But I still cross my fingers and close my eyes in anticipation of being asked something truly weird.

Despite it being different people, different moods, and different amounts of clothing we are wearing, it is always the same question.

It is the question that I knew they were going to ask.

*

I show up 20 minutes late to a comedy show in Brooklyn.

It is a packed small venue, and the only open seat is in the very front row. I am reluctant to take that seat but the usher tells me that I am blocking everyone’s view. I have to walk across the stage to take that seat.

The comedian raises her hands in faux-annoyance as I walk in front of her, “Alright dude, what is this?”

The crowd laughs.

I mouth a “sorry!” to her and shrug my shoulders.

After a few minutes of jokes, she introduces her last bit, “You guys have been great. Now for my final joke, I will ask you your name, and make fun of it.”

Fuck.

I know she will pick me. I try to look at the row behind me in an effort to nudge her to pick someone else.

She is looking directly at me. I don’t look at her to avoid eye contact.

“You, who walked in late,” she points at me and walks over. “What’s your name?”

She holds the mic in front of me.

I can feel the eyes of the crowd glaring at me in anticipation, waiting for me to say my name.

I don’t want to tell her that my name is Osama. Maybe I should tell her my name is Sam, or Sammy, or even Two-Two.

I wonder if my friends, who are sitting a row behind me, are cringing as they see this happen.

“Osama,” I reply into the mic.

There is a pause.

I look at the stand-up comedian who is still holding the mic in front of me. She is staring at me, unsure what to say.

“Okay,” she says as she moves away from me.

The crowd remains silent.

I have a wry smile on my face. I feel embarrassed for putting her in this situation. I feel embarrassed for making my friends sitting behind me witness this awkward scene.

“And what’s your name?” she asks a guy sitting a few spots from me.

“Ben,” he replies.

“Where did you get that sweater from,” she asks him, before adding with an emphasis, “BEN?”

The crowd laughs.

I am relieved that it is over. I feel like everyone in the audience is still looking at me.

*

Despite his best efforts, the Author’s name began to slide down off the top of the book’s cover where it had been printed. The Author’s self-confidence had died long ago, but his name was determined to hang on to the spot where it belonged with all its might.

(“The Name,” by Osama Alomar, from The Teeth of the Comb and Other Stories)

*

I get a notification from Facebook.

A friend has re-shared his status from May 2011, with me tagged in it, as a memory.

Why would you re-share something so fucking old, I think to myself as I open my Facebook app, dreading to see what I was tagged in seven years ago.

“A good day for all the Osamas in the world except one” — Osama

I remember cracking this joke.

So many people asked me how I felt about the news that day that I remember feeling like I needed to draft and issue an official statement.

This is the joke that I remember telling the most often. There were probably a few others that I don’t remember anymore.

I didn’t anticipate anyone putting up what I said as their Facebook status. I think to myself now that my friend must have found what I said incredibly insightful.

*

I am tired. I have been working late at our office in Chelsea. I contemplate whether to take the L train back to Brooklyn or take an Uber. Fuck it, I’ll Uber.

My Uber driver, Ali, is four minutes away.

I wonder if I can expense this Uber ride because I was working late.

When I enter the car, I tell the driver, “Osama,” to confirm I am getting in the right Uber.

“Yes, salaam brother,” replies Ali.

“Salaam,” I reply curtly. Ali seems like an Uber driver who likes to talk. I am in zero mood for a conversation after a long day at work.

“Going to Brooklyn?” he asks.

“Ya.”

“You have a beautiful name, friend,” Ali comments. “Where are you from?”

Fuck. This is the last conversation I want to have right now.

“Pakistan,” I say.

“Can I ask you a question Osama?” Asks Ali.

The way he emphasizes my name, I know where this is going. I already know what the question will be.

I let out a sigh as I settle back into my seat and tell myself that I should have just taken the L.

I reply with a brief mmhmm.

“Do you want to listen to Drake or Atif Aslam?” asks Ali.

* * *

Editor’s note: Instead of a story fee, Longreads is making a donation to the South Asian American Digital Archive, per the author’s request.

Osama Shehzad is a writer from Karachi living in New York City.

* * *

Editor: Ben Huberman

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