WITH EVERY PASSING DAY and with every passing problem I encounter with
the president and the brutality of the police, my longing to visit Somalia
grows stronger. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to move there forever. I
just feel like I need a break from America and that I need to visit my homeland.
There are no racist presidents, brutal law enforcers, or racism. We
are all one and unified in our efforts to return our country to its former
glory. I’ve experienced countless attacks due to my religion, skin color, and
culture. Growing up how I did, I could easily say all whites are racist and
back it up with my experiences, but I don’t let the poor choices of some
folks affect how I treat innocents. If I did, how would I be any different
from them?
I’ve run into my fair share of racists. Considering I balance work and
school, I meet a lot of different people every day. My worst experience was
when I was 11 years old. I was called a terrorist for wearing my khamiis in
public. As I walked past a large group of people with my khamiis on, heads
turned rapidly. The deadly glares that I received felt like they were from
the grim reaper himself. One guy shouted “TERRORIST!” at the top of his
lungs and tried to cover it up with a cough. I don’t know what type of cough
sounds like that, but he must’ve needed a specialist doctor for that. All for
a piece of clothing that symbolizes my culture and my religion.
My initial reaction was to say something back, but I thought deeply
about it. Even though he was in the wrong, I was in his country, walking
down his sidewalk, and I have the audacity to speak back to him? He
was wrong, it was obvious, but why was I unable to do anything? Why
was I standing still as I received threats from a large sum of Americans?
“Nigger!” another shouted. Why was nobody doing anything? The thought
sent a chill down my spine. I felt as though I had wronged them. What did I
do to make people I’ve never seen before hate me?
This is the sad reality that we minorities experience and will till the day
we’re six feet under. Somebody in the crowd threw a half-eaten apple at
me. I was torn between hating them and hating myself. Brainwashed. I ran
home that day and cried all night. I was looking for somebody to blame.
I blamed my parents for my skin color, I blamed god for my religion, and
worst of all I blamed myself for being a Somali American Muslim. For weeks I hated everybody and everything. I barely ate, and I spoke only when spoken
to. I was at rock bottom.
Slowly, over time, I opened up again. I met wonderful white and black
people. I realized that I shouldn’t let the poor choices of a couple people
spoil how I feel about all people. Even though I still long for my homeland,
I’ve gotten used to my new home and, with that feeling, I can finally say this is America.
Story: ABDULBARI HASSAN: professional gamer, professional student.
Photo: DOUG CHAMPEAU.
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