I remember my father gathering the papers on a Saturday morning to go to a bank in Cleveland.
“PLEASE don’t go,” I tried not to sound like a 5-year-old. I was 25, visiting my parents in Akron after a successful career in Washington, DC and getting ready for graduate school in Chicago.
Banks don’t usually cause so much anxiety, but it was September 15, 2001, and a mosque in Cleveland had been firebombed the night before. “It’s not safe,” I said in the most reasoned tone I could muster.
“I shall make a tee shirt,” my father joked, “saying ‘I am a HINDU. We hate Muslims, too!’”