Extra guards were called in. In no time, security surrounded us, my husband and me. “I am an American; Fadi is my husband,” I explained over and over again. But Fadi’s optimism faded. We’re going back, he thought. Or, at least, I am.
People in line behind us clicked their tongues and rolled their eyes.They whispered, “ISIS,” and nodded at my husband. For a few minutes, we stood at the threshold between nowhere and home, and for the first time, I got a glimpse of what Fadi’s life must have been like. “He’s my husband,” I said firmly, “and he’s a refugee,” I said loud enough for the people behind us to hear. A few sharp questions later, Fadi’s non-passport was approved, and we moved through JFK out into the taxi-honking, people-whistling, finger-throwing freedom of the US. I was home.
“It’s not like in the movies,” I said for at least the ten millionth time while we waited for a ride into the city. As yellow taxis lined up on the curb, airport employees blew whistles. “Hey buddy, you’re up,” they screamed between blasts. Cabbies opened and slammed trunks, and riders barked out destinations. In the mayhem, I ticked off the agenda for the next few days.
“We’ll pick Collin up at the train station tomorrow, check out the Statue of Liberty. . . .”
“Statue of Liberty?”
“. . . and a play on Broadway. Maybe two.”
We were tired; Fadi was overwhelmed. It was late—very late. Traffic was light, and the city was sleepier than I had ever seen it. As we neared Manhattan, I pointed out the iconic monuments lit against the dark New York sky at the time when night had all but passed, but morning had not yet begun.
Once downtown, we checked into the hotel and opened the door—our door—to an Asian man wrapped in a towel from the waist down.
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