I was young when my father was killed, and to this day, I still can’t help but think it was my fault. We were really close, my father and I. He was a good man who made an honest living selling rice at the market with my mother.  Years post- death, my mother saves enough money to leave our home of Calcutta and move my brother and I to Harlem, New York; home of the best jazz clubs and the worst street crime.  We moved to a small two bedroom apartment on Frederick Douglass Blvd. in East Harlem. Our neighbors to the right of us were a Hispanic family.  The single mom, Rosa, was a middle aged woman who worked at the deli across the street to support her four teenage boys. Her husband was killed by a stray bullet in a drive by earlier that year. To the right of us was Mr. Barron. He was the oldest, whitest, and most racist man I had ever met. And with my family clearly from out of town, we stayed away from Mr. Barron as much as possible. My brother Aarar and I shared an 8 by 7 bedroom with two twin beds.

We started school that September. I was going into my freshman year of high school and Aarar, his junior. Aarar was smart, but I was smarter. I started freshman year in all honors classes and kept a 99 GPA throughout my entire high school career. But what Aarar did have on me, was the social aspect of high school. He took to people well and I, I just didn't.

As I sat in my first period class, I could feel that every eye in the room was on me. It was dead silent until two girl towards the back of the classroom whispered,
“What is she wearing?”

I didn’t fully realize they were referring to me until the girl whispered back,
“She does know she’s not in India, Right?”

I sat there completely mortified. Wishing I could just sink into my cream colored chair. I begged silently for the teacher to finally begin his lesson. Why had I come to school in my lehenga? How could I even imagine fitting in with a bindi on my forehead?

My thoughts were cut short by a monotone voice, asking for my name. I mumbled, “Amla”.

“I'm sorry, come again?”

Hushed laughter came from behind me.

“Amla. My name is Amla.”

The classroom went quiet as the teacher welcomed me to my new school.

Lunch couldn't come soon enough. But the cafeteria presented itself with an entirely new set of  problems. I got in line to get my food when this boy, along with his three friends, cut in front of me. The leader of this entourage turned back to me.

“I hope you don’t mind us cutting. I like your dot by the way.” He said mockingly as he smudged my bindi with his thumb. 

I backed up, terrified of what he would do next. I bumped into the person behind me in line as I searched the sea of people in hopes of finding Aarar, but he was nowhere to be found. I felt my heart speed up as I ran to the nearest bathroom.

I lock myself in a stall and quietly sobbed until I heard a knock come from my stall door. I sat there frozen. I couldn’t bring myself to unlock the stall until I heard a voice asking if I was okay from the other side of the pale metal door. Hesitantly, I turned the lock and the door slowly swung open.

“Are you alright?”

Standing in front of me was a girl, maybe a little taller then me, with short brown hair and pale pink skin. She helped me up and proceeded to clean my tear stained face with a rough brown paper towel.

“My name’s Ella. You’re new here right? Well, welcome.  Don’t pay any attention to the kids out there.

Seriously, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I think I’ll be alright. My name is Amla by the way.”

Ella invited me to sit with her at lunch that day. She didn’t comment on the clothes I was wearing or ask where I was from. All we did was talk about school and people and for the first time since I’d moved to America, I felt at ease. Little did I know that what happened next would change my life forever.

As I got up from the table to throw my trash out, I’m cut off by a tall figure in a gray tee shirt with the words “Just Do It” printed across his chest. I look up to find the boy who had cut me in line earlier. He looked down at me and I could feel myself getting smaller and smaller. He opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by a familiar voice.

“Do you have a problem?” Aarar says as he places a firm hand on my shoulder. Three more boys stand up.
“Who’s asking, Dot-head?”

I felt his hand leave my shoulder moments before his clenched fist broke the jaw of the ring leader.  My mind became a blur as the cafeteria turned violent.  Time stood still as I looked down at my brother lying on the ground in a pool of blood.  Next to him was a six inch dagger. My body went numb as I stared blankly into a red sea of nothingness that was my brother’s blood.

My mind takes me back to when I was ten years old. I had begged my father to take me with him to the market that day.   As the sun climbed towards noon, when the market is at its busiest, a muslim man with hate in his heart towards hindus, opens fire.

We heard the first gun shot.  I went under the table as my father began to run.

“Amla! Amla!” My father cried as he ran back to get me.

I got out from under the table and as I got within arms length of my father, a shot rang out.  When I opened my eyes, I was underneath my father’s lifeless body. His wrist felt warm as I tried to find a pulse.  There was nothing there.  I refused to get up in fear that the man who had shot my father would kill me as well. I lied underneath what remained of my father until I could hear nothing. I tried to stand up.  My body was numb; I couldn’t bring myself to move an inch.  

     *

“So now you understand why I get nervous when you leave the apartment or when you stay at work late and have to take the subway after dark.  I’m not trying to be controlling but everybody that I’ve ever loved has died, and I can’t bear to see the father of my newborn faced with a similar fate.”

Alex looked up and I could see he was holding back tears.

“Amla, if you had…” I cut him off.

“I know you wouldn’t have said the things you did if you had known.”

As I finish my sentence a soft cry comes from the baby monitor.

“I’ll get him,” Alex says as he kisses my forehead.