A trip to Trump country
When travelling with children, my advice is: don’t.
I love my kids, ages 11 and 9, and they’re mostly civilized and sweet.
But being cooped up with them in small hotel rooms and rental cars is a recipe for cranky sibling bickering and parent-led peace talks. For this reason, our “family vacations” don’t last longer than four or five days.
This year, I’m feeling adventurous and brave. What is the point of a sabbatical if I don’t travel during the school year? So I book a two-week vacation in the U.S for early December, a road trip through San Diego, Los Angeles, the Grand Canyon, Phoenix and Atlanta.
While I briefly contemplate leaving my kids behind, I decide to take them with me. Travel is enriching. Also, my mom refused to babysit for two weeks.
A strange thing happens when I start telling friends and family about our travel plans. Their reactions are not queries about trip details, but more raised eyebrows and questions of, “Are you out of your mind?”
I reassure them that I will find a way to broker peace between my kids, perhaps with the offering of nutrition-less foodstuffs. Except their concerns are not about my kids, but about our destination.
They worry about our safety, travelling so soon after a divisive U.S election. One of my friends, an expat Canadian living in the U.S, advises me to record any ugly confrontations and tweet them to @hatehurts, which tracks Islamophobia. My son’s teacher warns us to be careful. Even a former professor and friend calls me to suggest I remove my hijab for the duration of the trip, perhaps replacing it with a red cap.
So now I have two things to worry about: my squabbling kids ruining our family vacation, and hate crimes. I seriously consider cancelling our trip after reading stories on Facebook and Twitter about violent incidents, such as the Muslim woman at San Diego University who was targeted for wearing a hijab and robbed; the New York City Muslim transit worker thrown down the stairs in an Islamophobic attack; the Georgia high school teacher who was left a note in her classroom telling her to hang herself with her head scarf; to name a few.
But the plane tickets are nonrefundable and I said I was feeling brave. What I need is a plan.
When travelling in Trump country, I decide, walk softly and pack camouflage. Or in my case, a slouchy woollen beanie, the type worn by hipsters (and undercover hijabis) everywhere.
We board our flight to San Diego and wait. And wait. And wait some more for the plane to take off. Is this a sign?
Only a sign of mechanical failure. The flight takes off late, and we miss our connection in Chicago.
“It’s OK, these things happen,” I tell my sons. “When travelling, you have to expect the unexpected.” I assure them there is still lots of fun to be had when our trip resumes.
We make it to San Diego, and the children’s entertainment portion of our trip begins. We drive to Coronado Island, where my sons climb large rocks and skim tiny pebbles. We visit Legoland, where my kids and husband pose beside a massive Lego Death Star and Lego minia- tures of famous landmarks. We visit the famous San Diego Zoo and Balboa Park. We drive to L.A and check out Hollywood Blvd., Santa Monica Pier and tour the Warner Bros. studio.
The people we meet are friendly. We are chatted up in airport security lines, in grocery store lines, in line for tacos. I can’t remember the last time I talked to so many strangers in Toronto. My fears have come to nothing and I am so relieved.
Still, I remain hyperaware of my surroundings at all times and smile benignly at anyone who gives me a second look.
I put on the slouchy woollen beanie at Santa Monica Pier, just to see what it’s like. It doesn’t make me feel good about myself, even if I do look good in a hat. It also makes me aware of my privilege: I am a tourist doing touristy things, far removed from regular life.
While the thing I worried about most never materialized, our biggest problem turns out to be one I didn’t anticipate. Food poisoning knocks us flat in L.A.
Expect the unexpected, I remind my kids in between sprints to the bathroom. At least we’re building family memories, of one sort or another. Uzma Jalaluddin is a high school teacher in the York Region. She writes about parenting and other life adventures. Reach her at ujalaluddin@outlook.com