Daughter, Son, Assassin by Steven Salaita

Author:Steven Salaita
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Common Notions
Published: 2024-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

Nancy

HOW DO YOU kill somebody? I never thought I’d seriously consider the question. It wasn’t a moral quandary. I was trying to work out how to actually complete the deed without getting caught. Hollywood makes it look easy. In mob films, people get shot on the street in full daylight. The killer walks away or steps into a waiting car. I wasn’t going to ask Elena to be my getaway driver and it didn’t seem wise to plug a famous diplomat and then take a stroll.

I spent the rest of my sophomore year in deep contemplation about the criminal justice system. College was supposed to prepare me to successfully take on challenges in the world. The university would disapprove of my methods, but I was certainly fulfilling the spirit of its mission. In itself, killing is an easy project. There are hundreds of ways to produce a dead human being. Getting away with it is the sticky part. I could shoot the motherfucker: quick, to the point, reliable. Not difficult to get a gun, legally or black market. I could run him over with a car, stab him in the rib cage, club the back of his skull, push him off a bridge into the Potomac River. Each option was attractive. I merely needed to figure out which one was viable.

While I was immersed in the nuances of murder, Elena became omnipresent on campus. She was involved with the African Student Association, Black Lives Matter, the Anti-Fascist League, the Campaign for a Living Wage, Students for the Prevention of Sexual Violence, and other groups seeking to make UVA more tolerable. She had a biweekly column in The Cavalier Daily and served on the committee that selected musical acts and speakers. After a while, she quit nagging me to join her, but her enthusiasm was replaced by tension.

“I’m worried about you, Nan,” she told me.

“I’m fine.”

“But you’re not doing anything.”

“Ugh, Elena, stop it. I’m doing plenty. Just because it’s not what you’re doing doesn’t make it useless.”

“Well, I was hoping you’d be more sensitive to the kind of realities I face on this racist-ass campus.”

“I am.”

“But not enough to put in any labor.”

We had many such conversations. I always lost the argument because I couldn’t explain to Elena that I was very much laboring on behalf of a better world. That labor took form in the appearance of depression. Over and over, she told me I needed to be a better ally, but I didn’t think I’d be any good tagging along for shows of moral support. I had decided on my own brand of activism that I needed to protect her from. That was the worst thing about my decision—it made me secretive around my closest friend, who in turn thought I was a dormant hunk of apathy. Otherwise I liked planning destruction at my own pace. Furtiveness offered tons of opportunity. I didn’t have to deal with dissenting views or conflicting sensibilities. I just needed to act.

It’s not that simple, of course.

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