Dina Abuali

Professor Brener

English Composition

Opinions Shouldn’t Matter Right?

My 18 years of existence as a young black muslim girl has been nothing but wild, spontaneous odd and quite a journey. From bike crashes, to almost falling off of the Brooklyn Bridge to meeting my hopeless romantics or even almost burning my house down while attempting to cook. None have made me feel so alone or horrible as the time I was racially bullied for my religious beliefs. Being made fun of about my race, religion or who I am as a person was always a way to bring me down. It was always a way to traumatize me by making me feel as if I didn’t feel belong or a way to make me wonder about the discomfort I brought amongst others.

My middle school year 6th grade,I was surrounded by nothing but loud, rude and obnoxious free spirited kids. Although we were all the same age it seemed as if there was a big difference ,an enormous one. Getting work done always seemed like an endless task when there was nothing but screaming, curse words flying out, teachers not being able to hold down the class while making the redundant threat to call in the principle which never really seemed to work. Flying paper planes was a fun activity to indulge in, it always seems to be the boys that participated in this act. One boy threw it towards me with such terrible aim. Although his intentions were to aim it at a friend of his who happened to be sitting by it, it hit my head. That’s where the conflict rises. I was hit,I didn’t appreciate the fact the boy who threw this didn’t feel the need to apologize. After responding, the response I received is what struck me in my stomach. I was told I was “Osama Bin laden’s daughter”. At first I wasn’t quite sure of who that was, but it didn’t seem like a good thing after hearing the classroom’s reaction, a bunch of “ohhhhhhhs” and “ouuuuuuus” echoing. This hit me harder than the paper plane did. However my confusion is what caused me to move past it.

On my way back home, I couldn’t help but wonder who Osama Bin Laden was. I was quite embarrassed and was not quite sure of what to say or do, the only thing I could do was overthink. My main priority was getting home and immediately doing research. After finding out who he was and the backstory I was fueled with anger and confusion all over again. “How could someone say this?”,”How could I be viewed this way? “Can the cover on my head influence them to think I’m a danger or threat?” The simple fact that I may be a reminder of this tragic event made me feel horrible. If anything as a muslim I felt unsafe. Teachers were not a great source of help. Telling my parents would have created the biggest conflict, my main focus was for this to end for me to forget while pretending this didn’t happen. I had no one to speak to. I realized how alone one can feel when going through tragedy. It was the most horrid feeling ever, getting homework or focusing on school almost seemed impossible now that my anxiety and emotions overtook my body. The only thing my hands were capable of doing was shaking my pencil in my hand repeatedly. I began writing bit by bit, word by word expressing my emotion. Using the words helped me to elaborate on the reality I was facing. The more I wrote the more I expressed. Writing soon evolved into a form of therapy, it felt new, healthy and necessary.

Writing began to feel like a form of intimacy to me. It was a way to break loose from the tied knots of this world. It helped me to overcome the situation and know my worth. Even  a piece of paper or single wooden utensil can brighten one’s soul. My journey of clarity has started and with the way it was going I hoped it would never end and even till this day my love for writing thrives once again as I look back on this core memory of mine. Having the privilege to embrace what I feel when clouds are blocking my ray of sunshine is more than and will always be enough.