The Submission - Amy Waldman [111]
A firm named U.S.PEAK had been hired to run the public-response portion of the hearing. Alyssa, penned in the press section, perused their glossy brochure, which had been included in her media packet, and guffawed. The company described its mission as “fulfilling the Jeffersonian ideal for every American to have his or her fifteen minutes” and offering a voice to time-pressed “citizen-generalists,” who were contrasted with “specialists” like politicians and lobbyists. Their slogan was “Even Democracies Need a Little Viagra Now and Then.” If the response to Mohammad Khan’s remarks was any indication, a lack of testosterone was not the problem of this audience, the SAFI women least of all.
U.S.PEAK’s emcee was a woman named Winnie whose smile looked like it had been surgically fixed. She was explaining that she would call speakers from the list of ninety names she held in her hand. Other than to say that family members of the dead had been given precedence, Winnie gave no indication of how the list had been assembled, and Alyssa wondered who—U.S.PEAK, Paul Rubin, the governor?—had composed it and with what criteria. It irked her a little, as if the story had been edited before she got to write it.
The speakers began.
“Alan Bolton. I lost my son, Jason. I don’t find the prospect of a Muslim designing this memorial, or even that it has Islamic elements, insulting. I find it insensitive, which is different.” Alyssa looked at Rubin, wondering if he would rule references to Khan’s religion out of bounds. He didn’t. “We, who have carried the weight of loss, are now being asked to carry the weight of proving America’s tolerance, and it … well, it’s a lot to ask. Back when the Carmelite nuns wanted to put a convent at Auschwitz, the pope decided to respect the sensitivities of Jews and move it. He wasn’t saying the nuns had no right to be there; he wasn’t saying they were in any way responsible for what happened to the Jews. He was saying: rights do not make right, that feelings matter, too. I have nothing against Mr. Khan. But if even one member of his religion is out there gloating over his selection, or what this design might represent, that would be incredibly painful to me.”
As Bolton left the stage, Alyssa looked at her notes. “Insensitive,” she had written. “Families prove tolerance=unfair. Pope to nuns: move convent b/c Jews mad. Rights≠right. Feelings. Muslims gloat.” It evoked Bolton’s testimony as much as a bloodless specimen afloat in formaldehyde did a working liver. After checking that her tape recorder was on, she created a quick shorthand to track the comments: FQ meant “For Khan and Quotable,” FB “For Khan but Boring”; the same with against: AQ, AB. N for “Neutral,” R for “Random,” CR for “Comic Relief.” Now she could just listen.
“Arthur Chang.” The dean of the Yale School of Art and Architecture, and Mo’s former professor. He was Chinese American, a refined, silver-haired man in his late sixties. He praised the cleanness and elegance of the design, its tension between form and freedom, between the natural and inorganic.
“If I may speak to another matter: I have known Mr. Khan for fifteen years. His character is as strong as his talent. And he is as American as I am.”
“Debbie Dawson.” Under the glare, in full makeup, she looked like the Joker. As if aware of how she would translate on television, she asked for the lights to be turned down, then waited, nodding to familiar faces, while the technicians fiddled for her comfort.
“The Prophet Mohammad took slaves, raided caravans, and married a six-year-old, although it was not consummated until the ripe age of nine,” she began. “Is that the name we want connected to this memorial?”
Cheers and a new chant—“No Mohammad memorial!”—erupted from the audience.
Winnie tapped her microphone and said, “Please, let Ms. Dawson finish,” although Ms. Dawson seemed to be savoring the interruption.
The chants went on.