America, I Am Your Mozlem

I am Instagram captions quoting Rumi,
turning his love for God into likes from people.
I am Halal Guys in New York City, edible when covered in white sauce.
I am your Uber driver, a means to an end.
I am moderate, not radical,
progressive, not traditional.
I am one of the good ones.
America, I am your Mozlem.
I am the extra space away from the edge of the subway platform.
I am a TSA pat-down,
a bruised face, a burnt mosque.
I am road rage, a parking dispute.
I defend the gun that points at me, protect the speech that poisons me,
letting blood spill into ink to make the pain palatable
and then spitting it into poems about how I’m just like you.
America, I am your Mozlem.
I am the Mozlem you made a hijabe that strips me to my most basic identity,
reminds me that I’m more than my body
but still forced to wear what this country puts on me,
wrapped in the sins of strangers,
bearing an entire religion on my shoulders,
feel you use the ends of my scarf to choke me with my choices,
then say I’m oppressed for making them.
America, I am your Mozlem.
I am the Mozlem whose hijab has become both her shield and her sword,
both my anchor and my wings,
that keeps me grounded in the depths of me
and breaking ceilings built to shackle me.
I am the jihadi this country created.
I am the struggle I never intended.
America, I am your Mozlem.
And sometimes, I don’t want to be.
Sometimes, I just want to be Muslim.
Sometimes, I want to practice
without feeling like that’s a political statement.
Sometimes, I just want to be Muslim
without feeling like that’s something brave,
because sometimes I don’t want to be brave.
Sometimes, I want to be shy without feeling like a stereotype,
want to be bold without breaking a stereotype,
want to be Muslim without being a type,
moderate, not radical,
progressive, not traditional,
Sometimes, I just want to be Muslim
without feeling like I have to prove something
because sometimes I don’t want to be on a button,
on a poster, in a pamphlet,
be eyes and ears for people who don’t bother to see or hear me.
Sometimes, I don’t want to wear an American flag
when I know a part of me bleeds with every drone strike overseas,
with every war on terror that puts me in terror.
Sometimes I just want faith to stay between me and God,
want Islam to stay in my heart, on my tongue,
where the “s” stays soft like whispered prayers into cupped palms.
Sometimes I just want to be Muslim,
’cause I wear my faith like IDs, my heart on my sleeve
and then wonder why it hurts so much when I bleed,
wonder how my religion kept me from being buried alive
only to have the world bury me for practicing it.
So, no, I will not make the Constitution my Quran,
will not make the flag my hijab,
wrap my head around oppression, make my politics my religion.
I will not defend the gun that points at me,
protect the speech that poisons me,
because America, I am not your Muslim.

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