As an educator in an urban public school I talk to my students about racial profiling on a regular basis. They've experienced it, and so have I. My students know how it feels to watch people cross the street as they approach, and they know how it feels to be watched when they walk into a store. I know how it feels to bear the weight of suspicious stares the day after a terrorist attack, and I know how it feels to be subjected to extra rounds of security at the airport.
I was born in Iraq to Armenian parents and moved to the States as a child. I grew up in an Arabic- and Armenian-speaking household with both Christian and Muslim friends. I've always identified as both Armenian and Middle Eastern, so when people talk about their fear of Arabs I take note. And I talk back. That's what I did when I walked into a public bathroom recently and overheard two women say "We don't mess with Arabs because they might be terrorists." I took a good long look in the mirror and a good long look at them and replied "We're not." Simple as that. The women responded with surprise and embarrassment and quickly apologized before hurriedly fleeing the bathroom. I wasn't trying to shame them; I was simply trying to clarify what I believe to be a rather self-evident point. We, they, whomever and whichever "other" you hope to scapegoat is not unequivocally malicious and/or villainous and/or criminal because of their race, religion, ethnicity.
I walked out of the bathroom and into the parking lot where I saw two policemen engaged in a heated conversation with what appeared to be three Middle Eastern men. From what I could tell, the policemen were taking issue with something to do with their car. Whatever it was, it sounded negligible, and it sounded like harassment. I stopped to bear witness to the interaction because I wanted to be there should I need to interject myself by pulling out a cellphone camera or otherwise attempting to derail a potentially inflammatory situation. I was with two friends; one decided to stay, and one decided to go. No matter. One thing was clear: I would not be the one to walk away. I would not be the one to add my name to the number of folks who suffer from bystander effect and watch while others are mistreated. I stayed as long as I needed to stay, and that was until the situation seemed sufficiently defused. I walked in on a conversation dominated by the sound of raised voices, and I walked out of a conversation dominated by laughter. It didn't take long to recognize the humanity in the other. It rarely does.
Neither my students nor I are criminals, and we shouldn't be perceived or treated as such. Instead of choosing to see others as villains, we can choose to see each other as individuals. We can choose to be kind, to be inclusive, to be non-judgmental.
Last week, I came home to the sound of fireworks going off in and around my neighborhood and in and around my city, as residents prepared to celebrate our country's independence. I wondered to what extent we really experience the freedom we worked so hard to achieve and so hard to secure. Is each and every single one of us really free to live our lives without fear of objectification or harassment? Is each and every single one of us really free to live our lives without fear of discrimination and abuse? I suspect that we know the answers to these questions. And they're not the answers we were hoping for.
Lena Tashjian is an English teacher at Baltimore City College High School; her email is lenatashjian@gmail.com.