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“By the time Charlie was three,” Hassan said, “Mom was running me through intensive drills with clay and paper targets. She told Baba that she was taking me to Saturday martial arts class. I was old enough to understand that we were lying to my father, and to feel guilty about it. Baba would say, “How was class? What did you work on?” And I'd say, “I learned a new punch defense…” – or whatever. And I'd feel ashamed. But I didn't know what to do.
“I began to see my father as weak. He was being lied to and didn't know it. He had bullet scars up and down his legs and couldn't walk without a cane. He was a pacifist. I began to see him as someone who let others trample him without consequence.”
Hassan buried his fingers in his hair and shook his head.
“There was so much I didn't know,” Hassan continued. “For one, my father was not a fool. I heard him arguing with my mother after I'd gone to bed one night. He said he was tired of having the same argument again and again, and that she had to get rid of the guns and stop training me.
“But Mom would not stop, and two weeks later Baba moved out. I was nine years old. Baba rented an apartment nearby, and Charlie and I would spend Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays with him.
“My friend Hassan was killed around that time. He was crossing Firestone Boulevard to go to 7-11 and was run over by a drunk driver. That only added to my general feeling of dislocation and confusion.
“I want to tell you about Charlie. I know I've been reluctant to talk about him, but I can't tell this story without him.
“Charlie.. well, he used to make me laugh. He'd get in trouble at school for the most ridiculous things: arranging his raisins in the shape of a woman's breasts, or doing a handstand on his desk. He was just a munchkin – very small, blonde and dimpled like an elf. No one ever believed we were brothers, since I was tall for my age and broad shouldered, plus I inherited my father's darker color. But like me, Charlie started martial arts young and was quite talented. He had asthma and he carried an inhaler, but the asthma didn't bother him unless the smog or the pollen count were especially bad. And sometimes in martial arts class, if we were working hard, he'd start to gasp for air. I'd fetch his inhaler from his bag, and I'd rub his chest with my hand, making circles, and I'd say, 'You're alright. You're okay. Take a breath…' It always worked. Charlie used to say that he wanted to become a scientist when he grew up so he could find a cure for asthma.
“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were just becoming popular and Charlie was nuts for them, especially the one with the orange mask and the nunchuks.”
“Michaelangelo,” Muḥammad interjected. “Cowabunga!”
“Yeah, yeah!” Hassan's enthusiasm was so uncharacteristic that it made Jamilah smile. “Cowabunga. Charlie used to say that,” Hassan continued. “I'd want to sleep in on Sundays and he'd wake me by jumping on me and screaming, 'cowabunga!' We had a pair of nunchuks at the dojo and Charlie hit himself in the forehead trying to swing them like Michelangelo. Left a little scar like a crescent moon. In fact he made us call him Michelangelo for a while, and he'd call me Leonardo – the older brother Ninja Turtle.
“He used to do an imitation of Baba where he'd put on Baba's glasses and shoes, lean on his cane, and say in an Arabic accent, “All zee beoble must love each ozer. Zees is very imbortant.” It would crack my father up, to where he was holding on to his sides in pain.
“Charlie always wanted to follow me and play with me. It drove me crazy, but it was flattering at the same time. I used to tease him – I'd call him Munchkin – but if anyone ever picked on him I'd take them apart. I got sent home from school for beating up an older boy that was picking on Charlie. I put the bully face down on the ground with everyone watching and made him say, “I eat dirt for breakfast.” No one bothered Charlie after that. I remember being very surprised that Baba didn't punish me.
“Charlie loved Baba so much. Of course he loved Mom too, but you see, he wasn't conflicted like I was. I was torn between the polar opposites of my mother and father's ideologies. But Charlie didn't go through that. His love for Baba was pure and strong as a geyser. He wasn't ashamed to sit on his lap, or stroke his cheek – he'd stroke it back and forth, saying, 'Rough way, smooth way.' He'd fetch Baba's cane, make his tea, sharpen his pencils… He was such a good hearted kid.”
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