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We have been able to deal with all the racism in school and government, but dealing with our brothers and sisters in imaan treating us like suspects is something we’ve yet to learn to handle effectively.My parents both worked when we came to this country, and they worked throughout my childhood.They would try to “educate me” on just about anything, as if I needed my hand held through life.

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There were brothers who would insinuate that my husband married me because “foreign women are quiet and aren’t loud like the black sisters.” One African-American brother said, They would stare in disbelief when my husband would say, “She’s a woman, just like all women.

She has emotions, and a ‘mouth’ that you say only American sisters have.

I don’t doubt that it would have gone differently if my husband was in the car, because it has.

When we got pulled over with him driving, he was always asked to get out of the car. I can talk about the way he is followed in stores while old white ladies steal right under store employees’ noses.

I can talk about the blatant racism he endured from the nurse in the maternity ward after I had our oldest child. I can read and sign for her.” I can talk about the many instances I witnessed my husband endure racism, even getting arrested on a false charge he was later cleared of, all because he has the wrong complexion for America’s racist system.

She called him my “baby’s daddy” and asked him to leave when he tried to sign forms that I was too drugged up to sign after having a C-section, saying, “only mom and legal family can sign the forms,” and she had the nerve to be surprised when he lost his cool, and snapped back, “She’s my wife and I am the baby’s FATHER! May Allah reward my husband for his patience, ameen.The same woman who thought I couldn’t do my child’s hair made my daughter feel uneasy about her curly locks.We experienced ignorant bigotry from other Muslims outside of our families.My fathers’ siblings taunted my dad saying my kids These were interesting claims coming from people who dropped the “H” in our last name claiming it was Italian, and called themselves by Anglo names instead of their Albanian and Muslim names my grandparents gave them.On the other side, we dealt with my husband’s brother and mother making ignorant comments about my kids being “so white” and hoping “they’ll get darker when they get older.” Then there were the comments from family members who thought I “couldn’t do the baby’s hair,” or that I could “never teach them about black history.” Some were comments that came from people who refused to go without relaxers, or who would make fun of other African Americans’ skin color and features.When our imaan is questioned, and we are accused of major sins because we aren’t the nationality or colors they’d expect to see wearing niqab and thobes, our hearts are crushed.

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