I am an American Muslim
I don’t wear a hijab.
But that doesn’t make me any wrong.
“Are you a Muslim?” they ask.
My heart pounds like a drum.
Knowing what this will become.
It will lead to comments that I need to overcome.
“You don’t look like a Muslim?” they ask.
I don’t understand what that proves.
I answer with a half smile not knowing what to do.
I am an American Muslim.
“ You’re from India?” they ask.
I answer yes because it’s shorter than explaining no.
I am from the land Pakistan.
Not the land of the Taliban.
“Aren’t Muslims terrorists?” they ask.
No my friend, the truth is masked.
Behind all the media and stereotypes.
I hear the snickers and jokes from 9/11.
There is some misconception.
Now I have a confession.
I don’t use any weapons.
When they ask me these questions.
I stand with fright.
Looking in their eyes.
I see confusion, distaste, and despise.
The only question I have is
Why is it that what we don’t understand
We are afraid of
And if we are afraid
Why don’t we make a change?
As I look in the mirror.
There’s disunity and disconnection.
My identity questioned.
And a question replayed in my mind.
“What are you?” they ask.
I answer with I am an American Muslim.