Chronicles of an oppressed terrorist
Day X. 3:04 am
"Wow you have no accent at all! How long have you been here?"
(Somehow my African features and Islamic headscarf imply that I just can't possibly be born here in Canada.)
I know I don't have an accent.
(Your delight confuses and exasperates me at the same time.)
The fact that I was born here surprises you? I'm surprised it does.
(Is it the African features or my headscarf?)
Yes, I do have hair under my headscarf, yes I'm from Africa and no, I don't speak African.
(My tone would be softer if weren't for that insulting incredulous look you have on your face)
Day Y. 8:37 am
Excuse me sir, I think you dropped something.
(Or not, thanks for spitting on my shoe.)
"Fuck you, fuck all you people!"
(Which people? Muslim people? Black people? Africans? Muslim women? Black Muslims? Black Muslim women?...Canadians?)
Day Z. 5:22 pm
No, I'm not too hot.
(Covering does not necessarily mean over-layering.)
She's a friend.
(No, we're not all related.)
Sorry I can't help you with that. I don't speak Arabic.
(Not all Muslims are Arab. If you'd look around more, you'd notice.)
Days X, Y, and Z are every day. Constantly returning with new forms, new conversations, new people. It's an incessant loop. I would say sorry for the passive aggressiveness or cynicism in my thoughts, but then again, why would I, considering the fact that to some extent, most of you will look at me and see a spitoon or a cage.