The Me that I Choose to Be
As soon as I stepped into the security line at Orlando airport, ready to catch my flight back home to California, I noticed three pairs of eyes staring right at me, and I suddenly became very conscious of myself: a brown Muslim man, with a bulging backpack, and a beard that hadn't been trimmed in weeks. I wished in that moment that I had trimmed my beard, checked my backpack in at the ticket counter instead of carrying it, or that I could somehow appear less Muslim because I knew exactly what was going on. My body was being scrutinized and misinterpreted like a secret code being read by one who had the wrong legend.
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