Steel Skin

When he was a child, he had the world at his fingertips and the stars in his eyes, infinite and twinkling with wonder. His mind contained the secrets of the universe, the lovely fantasies fluid, ever-changing. He was full of curiosity and fearlessly approached the world for he didn't think he had anything to fear. His world consisted of beauty and friendships and other joyful things, he so childishly believed. Happiness, that jittery, warm feeling he had when he was with his family, the taste of contentedness that left a sweet taste on his tongue. But he yearned to "grow up" and see the real world, oblivious to the storm of harsh reality awaiting outside of the comfort of his home. Still, the fantasies in his head remained preserved and untouched by the monsters in the dark corners of the world. When he was seven, his mom came home one day with tears streaming down her cheeks and her eyes full of storms of fury and the turmoil of defeat. She was afraid, and he was confused when she told his father that a man had pulled off her headscarf, demanding that she "goes back to where she came from." His father was quiet, his face smooth and pale like marble, displaying his stoniness. But he was not a stone, and his hands shook as he asked his wife to take off the scarf, it's not safe anymore. To a seven year-old boy, it made no sense to harm a woman wearing a scarf on her head. He had never seen the scarf on his mother as a separate entity, for it was a part of her. He asked his parents why someone would attempt to break off a piece of a person. There was no answer that they could give that satisfied him. The fantasies that somehow always seemed to make sense now offered no comfort to him as he watched his mother cry in sorrow. The world of make-believe was not like this in his mind. In that world, no one would pull off a woman's scarf. His parents moved to the country of opportunity, where they were promised liberty and justice for all. Here he was born, and his parents hoped he would be given a better life than the one in their previous homeland, Syria. Although his father begged his mother not to don the scarf, she remained adamant. She was a strong woman, and she wouldn't let anyone dictate her actions. As he became older, the stars that once glowed so radiantly in his eyes soon began dulling when in school he began to be the object of attention as the only one of his kind. "Muhammad, are you a terrorist?" That question was a slap in the face. How ignorant could people be? Classifying an entire populace based on the actions of a mere few. He was old enough to understand that the world is not the beautiful, joyful place he had once imagined. And that was breaking him, his paper thin skin bled the joy that his heart beat with. The fantasies that once filled him with hope and wonder were now being shattered, the sharp shards piercing his heart. He was seventeen and glaring at the world through different eyes. He did not now see through those eyes full of constellations. They were now hidden safely behind thick glass which improved his ability to see realistically and enhanced his cynicism. His hopefulness and curiosity had finally been snuffed out by the monster in the dark corners of the world. Every day he endured the bitter remarks and mindless assumptions that followed him around shoving and berating him. A large creature with hair that resembled an egg yolk blocked his path to class and opened its mouth to growl loudly in his face. The creature was warning him, it's crystal blue orbs hard and penetrating. It stared at him, and yet could not see him for what he was: a scrawny boy with unkempt brown hair and and a loud mind. He wasn't who the creature thought. But there was no use in explaining that to It. So the boy listened quietly and let himself be pushed to the ground. When he was a child, he had the world at his fingertips. The world was out of his reach, spitting on him and relentlessly attacking his spirit. After school he trudged home and painted a smile on his face for his mother. He would never speak a word of what he went through on a daily basis. His mind contained the secrets of the universe, the lovely fantasies fluid, ever-changing. His mind had been wrung of the dreams he once had. His face was sore from the plastic expression, but he continued to push up the corners of his mouth in her presence. When his father came home, he went to his room. His father knocked once and asked if he wanted to go with him to the daily prayer at the mosque. He was full of curiosity and fearlessly approached the world for he didn't think he had anything to fear. He was too afraid, too ashamed to love his faith, to practice it, to embrace it. He lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, his mind now empty and his heart on fire. The world had worn down his father, now weary and grey-haired, but his spirit was still the same, his heart warm and soft. "It's okay we can go tomorrow, inshAllah," he murmured sweetly in his rough voice, full of tender chips of hope. Before he left, he told the wooden door he loved his son. His son didn't answer and the door didn't budge, and soon after the sound of retreating footsteps was heard. With his eyes closed, he breathed out some of the fire and inhaled the smoke. He was aching on the inside, itching to speak, to talk to his parents. The noise of the ticking clock and his even breathing oddly comforted him. When the ache subsided, he rose and began his daily heap of homework, per usual, when the doorbell rang. Upon answering the door he was greeted by two men in dark blue uniforms wearing blank expressions and badges on their chests. The men grunted greetings and asked for his mother. He opened his mouth but a hand on his shoulder and his mother's voice stopped him. "What is the problem?" The men in blue exchanged looks before turning to the mother and son, and uttering the words that cut into him so deeply he couldn't breathe. His father was dead. Mosque. Man with gun. The boy stiffened as the words hit him one after another. His mother's heart was broken and bleeding. The wound inflicted on her was impossible to heal, and within a few days her heart became too weak to continue pumping, and gave up. He was alone and homeless. The place he once lived in wasn't a home anymore; it was a prison and he was trapped. "Not a hate crime," the men in blue said. "The man got away but we're doing the best we can." Not a hate crime. Were they blind? Or were so ignorant that they were unable to recognize the truth? The worst motivator was hate, and yet it was the only emotion that made a difference in the world. Love never changed the world. Happiness was too scarce to fix anything. But hatred, the vileness in all humans was enough to destroy everything. And it did. It incinerated his family, stole the only ones who loved him. He cried until his eyes were emptied of tears but the pain in his heart didn't lessen. Everything he wanted to say to his parents-every word, every thought-was now forever locked in his brain behind his mouth, leaving a sour aftertaste on his tongue. His world consisted of beauty and friendships and other joyful things, he so childishly believed. His world had torn apart. A month later he turned eighteen and was able to live on his own with the money left behind by his parents. He vowed to thicken his skin and harden his heart so no one would be able to cut him. He started to steel himself over and over until he stops bleeding, replacing his once paper thin skin. He's cynical and realistic-realizing that the world is not a just place and men aren't just creatures. Happiness, that jittery, warm feeling he had when he was with his family, the taste of contentedness that left a sweet taste on his tongue. Constantly reaffirming his imperviousness, he pushed people away before they got a chance to get close to him. His eyes no longer held twinkling stars, rather they contained black holes. The world was not within his reach. He used to be able to fly through the endless sky and travel different worlds, his imagination crossing galaxies and realms. Those parts of his brain were carved out. He was hardened cement, smoothed over the cracks in the foundation of his livelihood and unaffected by trauma and the weight of helplessness. The monsters that had slipped through the cracks were his only companions, dwelling in the dark corners of his mind. He found his faith when he finally mustered up the courage to go to the mosque again. It was then he decided to embrace his religion and his heritage, and began to discover himself. When he was twenty-two, he visited his parents for the first time in years, his heart full of words. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he started to speak, beginning with: "Assalamu Alaikum."