Background on the Playground

The life of a fifth-grader is for the most part, painless. Of course the pressures of looking cool, fitting in, and even—dare I say it—puberty begin to take root, but the fresh air during recess and occasional homework assignment involving coloring reinforces the simplicity of life at the age of eleven. I was once one of those carefree kids, struggling to learn long division by day and chewing Flintstones vitamins by night. The one thing worrying me at school wasn’t Mystery Meat Monday in the cafeteria, the dread of gym class, or even long division. The worst part about school was Brittany. After years of teasing me about my worn pink Skechers and my round glasses, I was used to her petty form of bullying, and usually retorted with a sassy comment to silence her malice. One day however, Brittany began to tease me about something different…something that would change my life forever.
“It’s because of people like you that those towers blew up yesterday, you dirty Arab!” she spat. I felt my face heat up as other children on the playground abandoned their games of kickball and hopscotch, enclosing to form a daunting circle around Brittany and me.
“Is your dad Osama bin Laden? Is he a terrorist too?” I had no words as I stumbled back, retreating from the situation. My eyes filling with tears, I pushed through the crowd and ran, refusing to look back at what I would later recognize as the most earth-shattering encroachment on my identity as a Muslim.
The attacks on September 11th, 2001 had a profound impact on all Americans. The collapse of the towers caused the average American to feel a range of emotions: grief, patriotism, revenge, anger, violation—but as a Muslim American of Indian heritage, I felt nothing but shame. On the surface, I ran away that day because I hated that the other kids were judging me in a moment of such weakness. In other words, I was embarrassed, just like Carlos was a couple years ago when he couldn’t hold it and had an accident during Social Studies. As a child, my feelings were juvenile and I did not realize the terrible racial implications behind Brittany’s hurtful words. However, the scene on the playground was the first of many instances where I began to feel ashamed of the color of my skin. There was a brief, horrific phase of my life when I felt trapped in my own skin, subject to the stereotypes associated with Muslims since 9/11. I endured the blame for things varied from increased airport security to the American involvement in the Iraq War.
As a young teenager, tolerating the pressures of prejudice took a tragic toll on my adolescence, but it also matured me in a way that makes me proud to call myself a Muslim American. I have grown to appreciate my culture and its teachings, despite practicing the same religion as a small minority of extremists that use violence to achieve their objectives. My heritage is my identity, and it has taught me to fear nothing—not prejudice, not racism, not even Mystery Meat Monday.