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.