#whenever she talks about college basketball I actually ask follow up questions and like. engage in the conversation

[chaoticeddie]

my coworker is so so bad at pretending she cares about anything I talk about

[news4dzhozhar]

I FIRST MET Dzhokhar “Jahar” Tsarnaev in seventh grade, on the basketball court at the Cambridge YMCA in Central Square, where I played on weekdays & in a Saturday league. He went to the gym to use the weight room & shoot around. I disregarded him  —  he sucked at basketball.

Basketball helped me feel like an American, instead of a Muslim whose single mother dragged him here from Morocco looking for a better life, then worried constantly that we wouldn’t find it. Before basketball, I didn’t really fit in. I wasn’t particularly smart or witty. Worse, I had started second grade in Cambridge the very same month that the Twin Towers fell. On the playground, kids would call me “sand [expletive]” “Saddam Hussein’s son,” or “Abu,” after Aladdin’s monkey. One kid nicknamed me “Unicef,” which was brilliant, in a way: It rhymed with my name & alluded to my African heritage, financial situation, & emergent unibrow. When we were a little older, kids would come up to me, place fake “bombs” on my body & then run away making ticking noises. I got into a fair amount of fights until my mother, who worked three jobs, told me I had to stop. Even if it meant saying nothing when bullies taunted me, I had to exercise self-control. It felt completely debilitating.

My mom always made me stay in the apartment until I finished my homework. But she agreed that as long as I kept my grades up, I could play basketball after school. I began spending hours on courts across Cambridge. This freedom allowed me to meet a slew of people who helped me develop as a young man & truly feel a part of the culture of Cambridge. As I improved, I gained confidence, sociability, & friends.

I met Jahar again in high school, when we enrolled in the same lifeguarding course in my sophomore year, his junior year. Lifeguards were paid well for minimal effort: You sit in a chair & watch people swim, or so we thought. We were actually terrible swimmers, but our teacher stressed that if we failed during a rescue attempt, people could die. So we learned how to breathe while swimming with our heads in the water, & swam endless laps to get in shape. We took turns “drowning” at the bottom of the pool, holding our breath & waiting to be “rescued.” Jahar & I learned to trust one another in the pool — and that trust soon extended beyond class. After we became certified, a group of us from the class applied to be lifeguards at Harvard University during the summer of 2010. To our surprise, we each landed positions.

Jahar & I became part of a small group that would gather at “808,” a tall apartment building off Memorial Drive overlooking the Charles River. After dark, we frequented a party spot nearby that we referred to as the Riv. We were all classmates, peers, co-workers, & good friends who shared common interests. We called ourselves the Sherm Squad. We didn’t know that “Sherm” referred to Nat Sherman cigarettes dipped into liquid PCP (I didn’t even know what PCP was). All we knew was the word Sherm had a negative connotation. We used it to mean someone who messed up a lot; we called it being a Sherm. I felt Jahar & the Sherm Squad accepted me unconditionally; they became my home base of friends, almost an adopted family

My real family’s life centered on Islam. I was raised to follow the teaching of the Koran & the five pillars of Islam, which boil down to self-discipline, love for yourself & toward others, & growing your relationship with God. We typically went to the mosque on Prospect Street twice a week, plus whenever my mother forced me to come to some event she’d volunteered for. I never looked forward to it. Men & women separate when they enter the mosque, which drove home my lack of a father or other male role models (I have an older brother, but we haven’t talked in years). So I would sit by myself or with someone else I knew who didn’t want to be there, engaging only when the call for prayer was sung.

One Friday near the end of sophomore year, my mother yelled at me to go to prayer.

When I walked in, I did a double take  —  Jahar was sitting there, listening intently to the imam. We had been hanging out all that year & he had never mentioned being Muslim. I picked my way through the large crowd sitting on the patterned carpet & squeezed into a spot next to him. “What are you doing here?” I whispered. “You’re not supposed to be here!

He chuckled and whispered back: “I’ll tell you after.”

After we prayed, he told me his family were also Muslim immigrants who expected him be a model Muslim. We both were trying to maintain an image as wholesome Muslim youths at home while being normal American teenagers away from it.

Balancing our family & American lives was stressful. As a junior, I played point guard on Cambridge Rindge & Latin School’s famed basketball team, and Jahar, a senior, was the wrestling team’s co-captain. During the fierce month of Ramadan or on the fast day before Eid al-Adha, the Feast of the Sacrifice, we might endure grueling sports workouts on empty stomachs & no water. At least we could complain to each other.

Maintaining separate Muslim & American lives sometimes meant keeping secrets from & even lying to those closest to us about our other life. We were shamed just for being Muslim by strangers, the media, & even some of our peers, just as our Muslim families shamed us when we were caught committing a sin. Jahar & I shared countless hours toking herb, hanging out, & hitting social events. We lived near each other, & often walked home together from parties. We’d hit Cambridge Street, dap each other up with a handclap and bro hug, then head off to our Muslim lives.

He was fun to be around  —  always cracking jokes, coming up with things to do. He was smart, warm, respectful & a good listener; and many of us admired his ability to “code switch,” moving effortlessly between social crowds & people of different races. He was also adept academically, holding his own in honors & Advanced Placement classes. He was generous, too. Whenever I ran short of funds, he’d give me money for lunch & crack “Stop being a broke boy!” in a way I found endearing.

Sometimes, when we were hanging out, he’d get calls from his older brother, Tamerlan, telling him to get home. Jahar mostly heeded these requests without question. (He admired his older brother, and I envied their seeming closeness.) At one point, Jahar told me that his family was arranging a marriage for him & he was considering it. All I could say was, “Well, it’s your life, bro.”

* *

IN SENIOR YEAR, my priorities were playing basketball, finding the right college, my fantasy basketball team, girls, watching the Celtics, partying with friends, the prom, & making sure to get my homework done. In the secular, diverse melting pot that is Cambridge, I had my American life at school & my Muslim life at home. Adhering to the tenets of Islam, especially the daily prayers, was a struggle, & it didn’t help that Jahar, one of my main confidantes, was off at college.

My mother still expected me to act like a strict Muslim, even though by now I was really only going to the mosque on the major holy days. She forbade me from attending “unwholesome” social gatherings, including school dances & any event held at the home of a female. I was not to swear, use drugs or alcohol, or flirt, among other vices. My mother knew little of what I actually did when I left the house, since I usually climbed out my bedroom window after she had gone to bed. But she often guessed at what I was up to, & frequently berated me as unworthy.

I was much more interested in my American life, where religion was immaterial. You were judged on your social standing, whether your personality added life to the party, and how you expressed yourself through fashion or music. When Jahar was back from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth on breaks, it seemed like we picked up right where we left off, cruising the city with the homies in his green Honda, looking for a party. My future felt bright. I was going to attend Bentley University, & become an entrepreneur. I had fulfilled my mother’s American-immigrant dream of getting into college & building a real life in America.

* * *

DURING MY FRESHMAN YEAR at Bentley, I realized that I wasn’t sure I wanted to be in school. I took a leave during second semester & went back to Cambridge.

I was at a friend’s house on April 15, 2013, when the bombs went off on Boylston Street. We ended up on a nearby rooftop, watching the commotion — the helicopters scouring the city & flashing police lights everywhere. I felt angry & under attack. I wanted the monsters who had committed this atrocity to get what they deserved.

On the 19th, I was at another friend’s house and still up at 3 a.m. when I got a call. “Turn on the news!” my friend said. They were broadcasting a photo of the possible suspects in the Boston Marathon bombing. “Just look at the picture, fam,” he said to me.

I looked at the blurry image on screen. “What am I supposed to be looking at, bro? I don’t know who that is.”

“Yo, doesn’t he look like Jahar!”

I thought that was outrageous. I fell asleep on the couch, & the next morning I woke up to see my friends huddled around the TV. I had never seen kids my age so absorbed in the morning news. I wondered if maybe a late spring snowstorm was approaching. They told me Cambridge residents had been asked to stay inside, and it did sort of feel like a snow day.

Suddenly, Jahar’s face appeared on the screen — there was no mistaking him this time. He was the bombing suspect still at large, the anchors said. Aside from the sound crackling on the TV, the room was dead silent. I felt like 10,000 volts of electricity were coursing through my body. It had to be a mistake. The Jahar I knew wouldn’t even do something mean, let alone commit an act of terrorism.

One of the girls’ cellphones rang; the call was from a TV newsroom where her sister’s friend was working. As our friend answered questions, her name appeared on the screen & we heard her voice come from the television. Within minutes, the doorbell rang. Our high school principal came into the house, along with two FBI agents wearing bulletproof vests. The FBI agents said they were looking for Jahar, and collected our cellphones. They had us sit in the living room & pulled us into the kitchen one by one to question us.

It didn’t take long for one of the FBI agents to step in the room and say, “To save time, which one of you knew him the best?” I raised my hand. In the kitchen, they asked what I knew about the bombing  —  nothing  —  where I thought Jahar was, whom he might try to contact. I answered their questions as best I could, and then they left.

Much later on that surreal day, a group of us were walking around Central Square, saying almost nothing. A pizza shop had its TV on & that’s where we saw a news update: A body had been found in a boat in Watertown, it said. Though we’d later learn he’d been captured alive, at that moment we believed our friend was dead. I remember a man riding toward us on his bike screaming like some sort of modern-day Paul Revere: “They caught him! They caught the bomber!”

This infuriated us, and we started screaming insults & epithets at him. I’ll never forget his shocked expression. That’s probably how most people reacted over the next few days when some of us defended Jahar, saying he was a good kid. But really, that’s the Jahar we knew.

* * *

SOON WE KNEW THE FACTS of the despicable acts Jahar committed with his brother, Tamerlan. We witnessed the heartbreak & loss suffered by those they hurt & by the families of those they killed. Jahar left behind an ocean of pain that is still washing across my city, & my country, sowing hatred & division between people who hardly know each other’s lived reality. Jahar wounded those he grew up with as well as millions who practice a religion he perverted with his crime. He made suspects of everyone who knew him.

Jahar put our safety & freedom in direct peril. Cambridge gave way to the real world, a place where I found myself feeling clueless. Like many of my friends, I did not have easy access to a lawyer. Later, I would realize I didn’t have access to what I needed even more: medical advisers, counselors, or therapists. Some of our mutual friends made bad choices & ended up in jail.

In the fall of 2013, I returned to Bentley to start my second semester, but I was still struggling to cope with the aftermath of the bombing, the FBI calls & questions. I felt guilty I even knew Jahar, after what he’d done. I was ashamed about what had happened to his victims  —  I still feel terrible for them. It feels awful that innocent people were hurt by a person I cared so deeply for.

That November after the bombing, three days before midterms, the FBI interrogated me for five hours, as far as I could tell simply because I had been friends with Jahar. I had nothing to tell them; I still felt betrayed by him, & knew he deserved the full brunt of the judicial system. After that interview, I found myself completely unable to focus on my studies. I asked my professors for extensions, but all of them made me take my midterms. I failed several of them, & soon after I took another leave.

This time I entered a downward spiral of addiction, insomnia, severe stomach pains, & depression, which fed off each other. I didn’t sleep more than a couple of hours a night for months. I felt paranoid & distrustful in every social interaction. Every aspect of my American life I had had to figure out on my own, and it seemed as though I hadn’t figured out anything at all. I felt like I had fallen behind my peers, unable to compete with their intelligence, their access, their privilege.

I was exhausted from maintaining multiple, often conflicting identities as a Muslim-American, from not being Muslim enough for my family, but too Muslim to feel secure in a hostile, post-9/11 environment. It was soul crushing; I felt I had lost touch with the person & identity I fought for years to establish. It got to the point where I could no longer follow a normal conversation. I lost around 25 pounds, and the ability to play basketball, which had been my sanctuary.

CONTINUED AT THE LINK

[lennoncarroll]

i.

it all began when his basketball coach noticed something was off about the boy with eyes that resembled caribbean waters.

it was usual for lennon carroll to indulge in talking shit on the court. in fact, he was quite fluent in it, but that day.. that day, it was a bit worst than his norm.

“carroll?”

lennon’s head turned so quickly towards his coach, you might’ve thought he had a case of whiplash afterwards. “yeah?” he says, lifting his jersey to wipe the droplets of sweat across this forehead.

the elder beckons him over with a motion of his clipboard, causing the dark haired boy to jog over. it’s a brief silence that falls over them both, the raucous noises escaping the team who are bounding up and down the court to make their plays.

lennon wonders what this is all about, considering he was never one to make trouble when it came to practice. he had prior knowledge about coach’s attitude, and how he nearly made the team five years ago do a thousand suicides if anyone of them arrived a minute late to practice. apparently, to him, basketball wasn’t just a hobby but funnily enough, life.

“what’s going on with you?” he asks, eyes flickering between his clipboard and the boy standing in front of him.

lennon furrows an eyebrow, his chest heaving up and down as he still tries to catch his breath. he had no idea where this was coming from, and his mouth opened and closed repeatedly, as if to speak but the older man threw a lifesaver out to the sea his mind was currently drowning in.

“as much as i enjoy you running your damn mouth and giving these boys a run for their money, whatever happened to teamwork? you haven’t passed the ball once, this entire practice,” coach was presently staring at the boy who had permanent confusion sketched onto his features, shaking his head slightly. “you’ve always been a team player, but now it seems like some shit’s gone to your head.”

“i’m good, coach. i figured i’d do the team a favor, y’know?”

“by ballhogging?”

“what, no.”

“that’s exactly what you’re doing, carroll.” by now, the coach was tutting and sighed in utter defeat at the decision he was making. he didn’t want it to come to this, but lennon wasn’t behaving like his usual self. it was best for the team, if he did this now than later. “maybe you should head home, clear your head, and come back tomorrow when you actually want to be on the team.”

lennon scoffed. “bullshit, i’m not going. i’m the best player on the team!”

his outburst produced his teammates to pause their actions, diverting their attention to the scene playing out in front of them. it was evident that lennon was a little dramatic, but the fact that he was declaring himself as the best player on the team was a little out there. it was half true, especially when his best friend, nixon peters, was his competition. though, with his system craving something far out of its reach, his game was slipping and presently, he wanted to prove he still possessed the fire and passion months ago. after all, this was the one of the only things that kept his sanity in check.

“i’ll make you sit out the next couple games, if you don’t take your ass to showers and head home. and that’s a promise. you’re done for the day.”

lennon’s eyes danced, his hands wounding themselves into fists as the two stared each other down for a few moments. the man wasn’t threatening him, was he? instead of entertaining the thoughts blossoming in his head, the dark haired boy threw his head back and chuckled so lowly that it almost sounded like a growl of some sorts. he stalked away, and went to the locker room to grab his duffel bag.

unbelievable. 

un-fuckin’-believable.

he tried to do everyone a favor, and it wasn’t even appreciated. 

shaking his head, he made the call to engage himself in something that could ease the tension off his shoulders immediately.

ii.

he thought about it.

he thought about murdering every soul in class, and pulling the trigger to his head without any remorse.

then, the realization dawned on him that the infamy that arrived, wasn’t what he needed at the moment.

his foot tapped the floor intensely, his patience running thin as the pre-calculus professor droned on and on about quadratic functions.

god, he just wanted to get out of there. he wanted to surrender to his desperate need, and free himself from the stress college delivered.

he didn’t think it would come to this -- the tales of horror that his eighth grade health teacher recited about drugs, and their effects. but this one made him feel different.

it made him feel invincible. it made constellations swirl in the dark caverns of his mind, reviving a fire in him that he didn’t think he lost. it made him feel the pleasures that being buried deep in a beautiful girl couldn’t bring.

despite that, he was growing irritable with most things that wouldn’t have gotten to him previously. the smallest thing ticked him off, and most noticed that today when a fellow classmate asked him for a pen... and resulted with her sobbing to death, her chest rising and falling quickly to calm down at the words he spat at her.

in his defense, everyone had bad days and this just so happened to be his. or so, he thought.

he knew his friends worried about him, even the ones who considered his little problem just like that. little.

except it wasn’t. it was growing into something he couldn’t shake off like a monkey on his back. he was finding himself on the outs, especially with his mother.

she was afraid of him, to be honest. it wasn’t a phase that her co-workers had conceived, but something more sinister. she prayed, long and hard, that the boy was experiencing the one thing his father struggled with all his life. it was a little difficult for her to tell which only made her recount the various steps she followed with the man she once loved.

he huffed, shoving all his things inside the mouth of his backpack and stood to leave the lecture hall. he couldn’t waste another a moment on something that wasn’t going to benefit him in the long run, and if it mattered that much, he’d request the help of his friend who almost always got a hard on whenever the word, ‘math’ was mentioned.

he didn’t bother to apologize to the person he bumped into on his way out, only making obscene gestures towards their small act of surprise.

white lies, white lines.

iii.

"put that thing away," meredith carroll chirped. "it's the first time in forever since you been home, and we're going to make the best of it, lennie."

eyes wandered  to where his mother waded around the abnormally small kitchen, occupying herself with creating one of his favorites. with a deep intake of air, lennon squeezed at the pen on his grasp and tried his best to keep his harsh words from parting his mouth. the elder woman was trying. she really was. he was giving that to her since it had been a little over month since christmas break he had been home, and dealt with his boisterous neighbor condemning him and the rest of the neighborhood to hell. yet, he never understood how the woman formerly known as sunshine by her hippie parents, managed to deal in such a cramped space. their house was quaint or at least, his mom's overly exaggerated taste in interior design that involved tacky pink flower wallpaper that draped the very walls that caused his eyes to strain throughout his years, was considered to be that.

"you're not even done with dinner yet."

she sighed. "i will be. besides, it's like the only thing you do whenever you're home is write in that silly—" another intake of breath from her son caused her to falter a little. "i-i meant, write in that little book of yours."

"it's not silly or little." he shut his prized possession immediately. "this is the same thing that was supposed to take me to New York, remember?"

the woman turned away from the bubbling tomato sauce, her hip leaning against the counter. she gave a comforting nod, her lips pursing a little as she searched for a reasonable answer that wouldn't earn her another rise in her son. "of course i remember that, lennon. i know for a fact that you wanted to go to that school ever since... —

the pause she offered made an electrifying crack snake its way down his spine, his hair falling into his eyes when he somewhat bowed his head. ever since... ever since his dad. the enigma conjured up the idea that their son was destined for greatness, spinning his joyful wife around when he discovered a bumbling toddler thumbing at the forgotten dictionary in the living room. it was the same man that he heard stories about from his neighbors; that sometimes whenever lennon wore those glasses of his that he hated with a burning passion, that he looked so much like his father. the stories of the night that ended his parents' relationship for good, left his mother badly scared since he tried to kill her in a drunken stupor. it was things the two didn't talk about or as she put it, 'better left unsaid.' but then again, he couldn't believe half of the things that his mother said. this was the same woman who nearly had a psychotic episode during parent-teacher night in the fourth grade when the teacher made a snide comment about her clothes.

he snapped out of it when a plate thundered against his place at the table, his eyes lifting to see the small smile she offered him. he mumbled a lifeless, "thanks." and stared at the noodles drowning in red sauce, topped with chunks of brown meat and sprinkled over with parmesan cheese. for the first time in a while, his mouth watered at the sight. he nearly devoured the entire thing before his mom had a chance to settle into her seat, and enjoy her meal herself. it made her giggle, witnessing her son eat in what felt like years.

he was always not hungry.

then again, the dark circles underneath his eyes proved that something bothering him and even if she stopped asking after noticing how annoyed he got at her questions lately, she still wondered what the case was. but she thought she would save that for another day. after all, having his presence around was the highlight of her week.

dinner went smoothly, the two make small chitchat like they used to do. it was easy for him to talk so animatedly, a trait that was becoming prominent in the recent months. to be honest, it was that very thing that led to this feeling igniting within the boy who hadn’t seen his mother smile in what seemed to be forever, especially at something he said but he wasn’t here for that. he was here for other things. bigger things.

“so, i need your help with something.” he sniffed, his hand wiping at the nonexistent drip of his nose.

she beamed, “of course, babe. what is it?”

“i need a couple bucks.”

a puzzled expression washed over her face in a rapid heartbeat, her arms coming around and hugging at her waist. “for what, lennon?”

“this book for class.” the lie rolled off his tongue easily, his body performing something so foreign to its usual state. his muscles twitched so quick, the small smile tugging at his lips.

“i thought you had already paid for your books with that voucher..” she trailed, putting her magazine away. “you mentioned that months ago?”

“it’s a new semester, ma.” he sighed.

“i’d rather you be honest about what you need it for, honey. i know you don’t need it for that.”

you’re right, i don’t. i need it for blow, and i’m short forty bucks.

by this time, lennon was growing annoyed with his mom and her further delaying the process. every other time he asked, it led to he slapping his desired amount in hand and him being on his merry way. maybe because then, he had produced a few crocodile tears, talking about how she didn’t love him and ho much he wished he didn’t exist to the point where he asked her why didn’t she swallow instead of being so selfish to give him this life. he could go for the jugular, and say that his dad did more for him than she ever did, but that was pushing the limit since he hadn’t seen him or heard from him in years. they were going back and forth, with the boy raising his voice at his mother and hoping that she’d leave the room entirely, for him to rummage through her purse like the thief he slowly transitioned into.

“what do you mean you can’t help me? i’m your son.”

“i don’t have the money right now, lennie. you know that.” this was the honest truth, considering the miscellaneous jobs she had to afford so much.

“but it’s only forty dollars! why do you have to do this to me, huh? i don’t ask for anything! why can’t you give me what i want this once?” he questioned, eyes narrowing at her figure.

“do you like having a roof over your head? do you like having something to eat whenever you come home for the weekends? i’m barely making enough as it is.”

“y’know what, fine? i didn’t want to do this, but you gave me no choice.”

it was in that moment that lennon went to the place she always kept her purse, under the decorative pillow hand-stitched by his grandmother in the love seat, he came up empty. immediately, he asked her where’d she put it but of course, she was going to be difficult and not tell him. this angered him so when he took that first step, the shade of red cloaking his vision made his mom utter the words she never wanted when it came to him.

“leave, lennon. i don’t want to see you around here until you straightened up your act!”

it was fine by him.

he’d get the money, one way or another.