Hollow Fires: Part IV

Journalism, as my dad loved to say, was going to be a sticky wicket. I did not think Ms. Cary was going to give me any leeway.

The store wouldn’t be open for another hour, so I meandered back to the pickle shelves and started sorting.

Chicago winters could be bleak, gray skies for miles, but on the days when the sun did shine, it felt like a small gift.

This teen takes a jet pack to school, and his English teacher rightly calls the police because, did you see that thing? What with the dials and the needle gauge.

That kid is probably hiding out somewhere in some fancy hotel room paid for by some sheik or emir or what have you.

I twisted my lips and looked away, waiting for Asma to get incensed.

“Are we using reciprocation as a euphemism now? If so, don’t worry. I’ve never reciprocated. Reciprocation is not something I’m casual about. My ability to say no is strong. Even in the face of dimples and hotness, I can make reasoned decisions about, uh, reciprocating.”

People did see me as indifferent sometimes, or tough, but I had to be.

You’re aware, Ms. Mirza, that I can call the admissions office at Northwestern and relate to them your various escapades since your acceptance?

You wouldn’t be the first person to have a college offer rescinded.

And you were insubordinate, posting that column without permission. You are on a very tight leash from now on. Nothing, and I mean nothing, from you is going to be up on the Spectator site without preapproval.

“The past is prologue” was one of his favorite cryptic aphorisms, which he doled out like candy on Halloween.

Of course, it has also been decades since I listened to direct fiat of this or any other school administration.

So...this incendiary post was merely nine lines long, and yet I find that we could talk about it for the entire week—unpacking its claims and debunking the myths therein.

For now, I’m particularly interested in this phrase: ‘This school is where free speech goes to die.’ Yes, it’s hackneyed, and yet it is also this Ghost Skin’s, um, dare we call it a thesis?

What are your thoughts as to the veracity of this statement?

Not all hate speech is protected, even in public spaces. Speech that incites violence, like from, say, neo-Nazis or even presidents, shouldn’t be.

“You sound like a fascist crybaby,” she said to Nate. “You’re the one who’s un-American. Racist!”

“God is dead,” he said to no one, to everyone, to me, an enigmatic smile crossing his face as he exchanged glances with Joel.

He doesn’t only have the alderman dad going for him; his family is Harvard legacy—multiple generations.

But let me guess: They’re vehemently against affirmative action—

DO YOU KNOW WHO'S RADICALIZING YOUR SON ONLINE?

The January 2021 siege at the Capitol was one example. Experts warn that the Capitol was merely an opening salvo to potentially larger acts of revolt.

“These groups have savvy social media platforms, and with little online regulation for hate speech, they’ve been able to run rampant while hiding behind the anonymity of the internet,” said Nasiha Hussain, director of the American Anti-hate Network, an organization whose efforts include uncovering and labeling hate groups.

That anger, Ms. Small explained, is “a toxic seed” that leads them to lash out at girls, at people of color, at those in authority—that is, “snowflakes” who they believe are trying to censor them, impinge on their rights.

Speaking from his jail cell, against advice of counsel, Kyle, who once aspired to be a police officer, was not repentant.

At a Protect Our Cultural Heritage event to protest a city council ordinance to replace a statue of a Confederate general with a monument honoring a Black poet, Kyle spoke to local news outlets.

Unfortunately, his arrest led to him being lionized by the very right-wing media that helped recruit and radicalize him online.

It was the first morning of my forced volunteer work, and I wanted to keep my head down, even if I was the only one at the checkout desk while the librarian was in the back room sorting through new acquisitions.

She was too pragmatic to believe in supernatural things.

I opened my eyes wide at my mother, imploring her for more details.

“Now, why are you in a snit?”
“A snit?”
“Yeah, why were you staring at your phone like you were trying to make laser beams shoot out of your eyeballs?”

My parents would absolutely be unhinged and terrified if it were me, but at least they wouldn’t have to worry about losing their jobs, too, if they took time off.

“We were talking about how the Spectator desperately needs a full-page spread on the captain of the swim team,” Asma deadpanned.

Did I mention that sarcasm was my fallback mode whenever I felt awkward? A disdainful worldview often made excellent armor.

The yearbook kids organized the senior awards ballots and named the winners of the goofy categories in a two-page spread with caricatures.

It’s like he wants to live vicariously through me.

My Winter Ball date, who was very good at flirty banter and smiling and making me feel like some animated version of myself, a girl in a musical wearing a twirly skirt and singing alongside chirpy woodland creatures.

I had no idea how his hands could be so warm when he never wore gloves. It was nice, though, the perfect complement to my constantly cold hands.

There might have been heart palpitations.