Who am I, you ask? Well, I am some combination of Muslim, Arab and American — usually the wrong combination at the wrong airport, at the wrong time in world history. A case in point:
In Amman: When my pops complained about being held for hours for no apparent reason (“You have the passport in front of you. I’m American. Treat me as such. “), the officer said, “What a shame. If you had been Arab, we’d have treated you better.” (Can someone explain to me why Arab pride emerges at the least opportune moments? Gents, save it for the Arab League.)
In New York: One airport officer referred to me the in the third person as I stood right in front of him, within earshot: “Her name is similar.” He then went on to pull me out of line, followed by my dad, who has a slightly different last name. One of the officers, obviously mistaking me for a nutcase, then whispered to me, “You’ve been randomly selected for this search.” Nice one, sir. Y’all are real slick.
Apart from airports, however, my identity is more or less outside the line of fire, which is more than a lot of other minority peeps can say.
When I’m not busy dodging “random” airport security procedures, you can find me taking cover behind a barricade of books. Or writing sonnets. Or eating tomatoes.
