the
ground. No, I am not what my skin color says I am. But that doesn’t
change the fact that you still think it does.
I
was in the second grade when my skin color changed the way I was
viewed. It was a September day when my teacher turned on the
television. This was new; we never watched the television hanging
from the ceiling. I watched in horror as smoke and flames filled the
screen. I didn’t see the people jumping, at least not in that
moment, but saw the second plane hit.
My
oldest brother was at the door, asking for me. He had a note in his
hand that said Family
Emergency
on it. I went home that day to find that my father was safe but would
not be coming home for a while. My mother cried that night, and the
week after as we read about the retaliation against Middle Eastern
immigrants. My mother no longer allowed me to walk to school, but
instead was faithfully on time to pick us up each day. She was
worried we would soon be victims of a crime we had not committed.
Reports
were coming in day after day of hate crimes against Middle Eastern
immigrants. Incidents like that of Brian Harris of Ronkonkoma, New
York who was charged with a hate crime after he allegedly held an
Arab American at gunpoint while making anti-Arab threats on September
11, 2001. Closer to home and just a day after the attack on the Twin
Towers was Michael Herrick of Salt Lake City, Utah who was charged
with first-degree felony aggravated arson and a hate crime after
allegedly starting a fire at a Pakistani family’s restaurant.
I
was one of the lucky ones. My skin color was often mistaken for being
of Latin or Mediterranean descent. I would go along with anything if
it meant I had “friends”. My siblings were not so passive and my
little brother would be sent home with bloody lips and rage. But the
internal damage was already done.
My
skin was from then on the deciding factor between enjoying the
playground games, and wishing I could be someone else. My favorite
poet, Shane Koyzcan said this,
“But
the school halls were a battleground
Where
we found ourselves outnumbered day after wretched day
We
used to stay inside for recess
Because
outside was worse
Outside
we’d have to rehearse running away
Or
learn to stay still like statues giving no clues that we were there.”
I
longed to be accepted and belong but that would never be in my cards.
And then I grew up. It’s true when they say that time heals most
wounds. I am not looked at for my skin color but as the person who is
underneath it. My life is no longer skin deep, but there will always
be things that I wish people would have known. What isn’t printed
on my skin are the struggles and sacrifices that my family has made
for what you see.
What
you see is my brown eyes and olive complexion. What you see is a last
name that you cannot pronounce and try anyways with halfhearted
attempts. What you don’t see is that my oldest brother is going
through the Police Academy to become an officer. What you don’t see
is that my youngest brother is a currently a Cadet for the Salt Lake
Police Department. What you don’t see is the struggle we make to
support our family who will be putting their lives in danger.
What
you don’t see is that my father sacrificed 10 years’ worth of
birthday parties, anniversaries and deaths so that he could protect
your country. What you don’t see is that he came here for peace and
freedom, and instead receives fearful looks and stares. So fuck you
Rose Williams for telling the entire 6th
grade class that my dad was the culprit behind 9/11.
This
is my skin color, and this is my past. No, I don’t think that this
essay is going to change your prejudices, whatever they are in. No,
my father never lost his job but was instead a necessity to national
security. We were the lucky ones. No, I don’t believe in racial
injustice. But I’ve realized something. Not everyone is privy to
see beyond my appearance and demeanor; what is only skin deep.
