I was snuggled in my favorite corner seat on the B train, enjoying a quiet night on my way home. My stop coming up ahead, I reached for my trusty little purse and rooted for my keys, fruitlessly. A little more frantically, I reached into my jacket pockets, pants, and turned my purse upside down for a thorough check. Still, nothing.
Speak Arabic, they cajoled. Speak your mother tongue: Once it flows, it will flow like the sweetest honey.
The fragrant smell and steam of basmati rice and stew waft and mingle in the air, warming the house. Yet, my 16 year old hands grip the wood banister, fingertips turning white hot with rage. I look down at my exasperated mother who paces in the living room below.
When you're white, the world is made for you. Is it just me? I glance and try not to stare, wondering what it's like not be an Other. I look away bitterly whist fully yet I know I want to be myself. Do I? Want that? To be Me? For when you're white, the world is … Continue reading Who is the world made for?
A lone Arab cop leans against the curlicued black railing, eyes darting back and forth. A faded sign that says "Ahlan Wa sahlan" (except the "ah" is technically missing) and the translated "welcome" is propped up on the Yemin storefront cafe.