Here goes nothing.
"We're engaged in a drone war across half the Middle East and those are the countries we publicly know about. We know ISIS are cutting people's heads off. We're not going to capture them and put them on trial; we're going to bomb them. So what does it matter why they're doing what they're doing?" I shift in my seat so I can see Mr. Douglas—because thanks to Professor Quinn I actually know his name now—and Parker at the same time.
I am shocked by the transformation in him. Before where he'd been dark and brooding, he's…different now. Something energized. Something…else. The veins in his neck are standing out and the muscles are visibly pulsing. He looks worse—if that is actually possible—than he did at the bar yesterday.
And just like yesterday, I have a striking urge to ask him if he's okay.
Instead, Parker draws my attention from him. "I have to agree with Abby. I don't think it matters. But I think they're cray."
I roll my eyes but he speaks up.
"I think calling them ‘cray’"—and he practically sneers the word—"discounts what they're doing and what they're capable of."
Professor Quinn tips his chin at him, either completely unaware of the tension radiating off him or ignoring it. I'm not sure which one would actually be better. "And what are they doing, Mr. Douglas?"
"They're building a movement," Douglas says. "These people are not psychopaths. They're deeply motivated believers in what they're doing."
"Ha, so it is religious," Parker says suddenly.
Douglas frowns, as though the point were never up for debate. "I don't think there's any doubt in that."
"And we know that religious brains have less functioning in the areas that promote rational thought. They're more emotional, less reasonable. They are actually quite different from normal people," she says.
He is shaking his head again. "That's fundamentally the wrong way to look at this. Just because you can't imagine belonging to something else so strongly that you'd die for it doesn't mean that people who do are mentally ill."
Well, this just took a turn for the worse. And by worse I mean personal.
My hands are slick with sweat.
Violence and mental illness and religion are not things I want to dig up and explore in some sanitized classroom. They're not theoretical abstractions in my world.
There's silence in the classroom now and it spreads like an eighth-grade rumor.
Professor Quinn holds up his hands, silencing the debate. "This is fundamentally the problem with all extremist movements," he says. For a little man, he's got a strong voice. Reminds me of my Uncle Richie, who was the quintessential child of the ’60s, who refused to shave his white beard or his gray ponytail long after that glorious decade of debauchery was over.
The disparity between Professor Quinn's voice and his body isn't easy to overcome, but he's put his voice to good use by drawing all of our attention to him.
"Anything that can motivate individuals to sacrifice themselves for the group is toying with a dangerous ideology," Parker says. "It's brainwashing."
Everyone turns as Mr. Douglas cuts Parker off. "Show me the evidence where it’s brainwashing."
There's violence radiating off him right now. Stress is a palpable thing. I want to interject, to stop this because I can see so clearly where this whole thing is going and it's not going to be good.
Quinn has a reputation. He likes to start massive arguments in his class, then when things get out of control, he’s likely to throw your happy ass out of class with a quickness.
"I'm sorry," Parker says and her voice is dripping with condescension. "But that's exactly the problem. These groups trigger something in people that make them lose their sense of self. It's completely irrational." She shifts back toward Professor Quinn. "It's like when people were protesting us leaving Iraq. It was stupid to leave soldiers there. We had no business invading, and leaving was the most rational thing this administration could have done. No boots on the ground is smart."
Douglas leans forward, his eyes dark and flashing. Professor Quinn has shifted, folding his arms over his chest. Watching. Waiting.
"We damn sure do have boots on the ground."
Parker makes a noise. "We don't have any soldiers in Iraq anymore." There’s casual arrogance in her answer, and it grates on my nerves even though it’s directed at Douglas for once and not at me.
"Really? Check your news, there, princess. We've got almost five thousand troops on the ground and more on the way." I hope Professor Quinn can't see his fists bunched in his lap. "We continue to be and have never stopped being at war," he says quietly. "And violence is the only way to deal with some people."
"Violence is never the solution to problems," Parker says. "We need to figure out what ISIS is really after and negotiate."