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george was an arab.
a pretty big kid
even in third grade.
his family owned a gas station
in the neighbourhood
and he had my features extenuated:
olive skin, large nose, thick eyebrows,
hairy arms, deep brown eyes.
to everyone else, we were probably
similar- the same really:
iran. iraq.
arabia. middle east.
foreign. different.
but i was already taught
through two thousand years of history
that we were not arab,
we were persian- cyrus and darius
persepolis and farsi and all that jazz.
it’s crazy how important
being and not being are to people.

he invited me to his house once.
we ate with our hands
and played his atari 5200.

one day on the field at school
after everyone had gone home
and the sun was about to set
in that hour when kids get on bikes
and beat the dark home for dinner,
a gang of us were loitering about,
when suddenly a few kids
had him pinned to the ground and were
pedling a bike with their hands
and pressing the back tire to his ass
yelling insults and laughing.

i was frozen with fear.
remembering the sweet generosity
at his house, his mother insisting
i eat more, her kinds eyes
and broken english
“we are same you and us.
both from middle east.”

i didn’t know how to help george
so, i watched for a while and the quietly
straddled my bike and made it home on time.

we were probably the same.   
being and not being
are important to people.
needless to say george
never invited me to his house again.