The Relief of Ignorance and Intolerance by Innocence -- Creative Nonfiction

In November of 1979 Iranian students stormed the American Embassy in Tehran. Fifty-two Americans were held hostage for 444 days. That was almost twenty-two years before 9/11. Before Homeland Security. Before the TSA. Before we had to take our laptops out of their bags at the airport. In fact, before laptops. Before cell phones.

I was divorced living with my young son in Guthrie, Oklahoma. I had quit my job with the state welfare department because, in that small town, it was too easy for people to find out who and where my son was. And sometimes my workmates and I had to do things that made people angry. Angry enough to threaten us.

My new job was Night Manager at a Taco Bell, in Stillwater, home of Oklahoma State University, some 35 miles away. The pay was only a little less than I made as a Casework Supervisor and I wasn’t involved in taking anything away from anyone. Not their food stamps. Not their income. Not their children. And no one went to bed hungry because the paperwork didn’t get done right or there was a computer glitch at the head office.

Back then, in Oklahoma, we didn’t pay much attention to the problems in the outside world. Vietnam was over. The Oil Crisis following the Iranian Revolution raised the price of oil and Oklahoma’s economy boomed. Ireland and the Middle East, with their seemingly unsolvable conflicts, were little more than unpleasant background noise. And they were far away.

Tuesdays were slow days at the Stillwater Taco Bell. It was located at the end of The Strip, a local term for a stretch of street running south from the University to State Highway 51. Its most plentiful businesses were bars. And their primary custom came from college students. By the time the students made it down to our place, they were in a good mood and hungry. Of course the TV ads for Taco Bell right after the 10:00 o’clock news would bring out those who’d been at home studying or something. More than a few with the munchies.

We knew little and cared less about what was going on in Iran. The Shah was in exile and sick. He was admitted to the United States for medical treatment. Barely a blip in the news.

Americans were not particularly anti-Muslim. Few Americans knew much about them. Other than they hated Jews. And the Israelis hated them back. White Americans despised Black Muslims, people born and raised in this country. Probably more because they were Black than because they were Muslim.

I love college towns. They bring in people from all over the world. And at one time or another, most of those people would end up in our store.

The hostage situation in Tehran changed Americans’ laissez faire attitude toward people they identified as Arabs. Never mind that Iranians are not Arabs.

That Tuesday night a group of six students – two women and four men – made their way into the store at about 11. There were baseball caps and cowboy hats. The men were clean shaven. The women wore the acceptable amount of makeup. They were fresh-faced, all-American kids in a partying mood. A little bit rowdy, but cheerful.

Right after they got their food, two young men came in and ordered food. They had dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair. They were quiet, well-mannered, and showed no signs of drinking.

The mood of the room changed. The group of six watched the newcomers silently. The two who were “not from around here” found seats as far away from the locals as they could. In a store that size, those seats were not far enough away. Not far enough that they couldn’t hear the low-level comments.

“Rag-heads.”

The two dark young men stopped talking to each other and studied their food.

“Why don’t they go home?”

We closed at midnight and had only two people working – myself and a 19-year-old. A college student like the group of six. But Lisa spent her evenings working rather than bar-hopping or going to Taco Bell for a quick food fix.

 “Sand n****rs,” someone said too loud.

Lisa stopped stirring the refried beans and watched me. I watched the customers and wondered if I should call the police.

Another customer came in – a tall young white man, a little unsteady on his feet. He took off his cowboy hat and approached the counter.

The room went quiet. All the customers watched the new guy. Unaware of them, he ordered food, “Three tacos and a Pepsi.”

He smiled at Lisa as she filled taco shells with ground beef and the prescribed amount of grated cheese, then carefully wrapped them in paper.

The six stood up. Their sudden movement startled the young man and he turned to look at them. We all looked at them. Unsure of what they were going to do. Unsure of what we would do.

“God bless America,” they sang. They sang that reverential anthem at the top of their lungs with anger and malice and stormed out of the store.

Completely amazed, the tall young man exclaimed, “Damn. They’re drunker than I am.”