A hyphen between two words, an abyss between two worlds

Muslim-American. There was a time when the hyphen between those two words represented a dream accomplished—a dream held by my parents, and scores of immigrants like them, who left all they had known to venture to a strange land where values were upheld and where success seemed a few hours and some perspiration away. In the late 1970s, my parents settled into a ramshackle apartment on 113th Street and Amsterdam. It’s a place they still speak of with a gleam in their eyes and a knot in their throats because it represents the sacred ground in which they laid their roots in this country. The first business my family elders acquired was a place called William H. Taft Pharmacy. They retained the name not because they were aware of President Taft’s solid record on free immigration, but because it reminded them of the information they had memorized to pass the citizenship test on what was undoubtedly the most momentous day of their young lives. While subjecting me to unsolicited bouts of nostalgia, my parents invariably speak of their esteemed former neighbor: Columbia University. To them, the University was not only an idyllic quad to utilize for leisurely late-night strolls, but also a monument to what they hoped to achieve in this country—education and success for their children. My parents may have acquired their version of the American Dream the day I was admitted to this esteemed institution, but I am still seeking mine.

I am a Muslim-American. The hyphen between those two words has never been enough for me. I remember watching the towers fall while in my eighth-grade social studies class and being paralyzed with grief because the iconic buildings were the view from my childhood bedroom. My version of the American Dream includes the freedom to erect a mosque where it is legal to do so without fear of arson or belligerent men urinating on prayer rugs. I remember feeling an oh-so-American superiority every time I presented my blue passport in any airport in the world, Munich or Multan. My version of the American Dream includes my holy book not being torn to shreds, doused in kerosene, or set aflame for the express purpose of hurting my sentiments.

I remember canvassing on the streets of New York on behalf of immigrants, same-sex couples, puppies, and everything in between and embracing the thrill of engaging both supporters and opponents alike. My version of the American Dream includes the safety of taxi drivers who adhere to my particular brand of faith. I remember observing an American flag fluttering in the wind on the grounds of the Consulate of the United States in Lahore, Pakistan, and feeling overcome with emotion because I missed home. My version of the American Dream includes not being asked where I am “really” from. My parents worked tirelessly to achieve their dream, and they instilled a drive within me to achieve mine.

I am not a Muslim-American. I am an American who happens to be a proud Muslim. The separation implied in that hyphen has allowed a growing fringe within this country to label me as the “other.” There may be a long history of different ethnic groups being subjected to similar scorn, but I refuse to accept that it is now my turn. Let me tell you who I really am: I am your classmate, I am your RA, I am your doctor, I am your professor, I am your soldier, I am your friend, I am your neighbor, I am your lover. My American Dream is for you to realize that I am you. I am an American.

The author is a Columbia College junior majoring in neuroscience and behavior. He is a resident adviser on the seventh floor of Schapiro Hall.