My life as a Pakistani American. You might think “it’s not so bad being fully (or if not fully, then half) Pakistani~!” “Being Pakistani sounds nice”. It is true. But that’s not what it was like for me before this sudden mindset came to be.
How My mother met My father, she was American and in a college (whom I cannot remember the name of unfortunately...) and My father was in the same classes as her. I would say an ‘Art College’ since both of them were artists. TIME-SKIPPED to where they’ve gotten married, my father leaving my mother over another woman. And here My mother was..basically alone, with a baby being carried in her stomach.
Growing up, From age of 4 all the way to my age (which is 16), My mother always told me I had beautiful skin. Beautiful eyes, beautiful hair, Beautiful everything really. And I did believed her, because I felt special and didn’t see anything wrong over being myself. But that didn’t last long. I don’t remember much about HOW my self worth and love became to be so low. But going back to where I was in 3rd grade to 5th grade, I was always asked by kids around my age. And I think one (If not, a couple) of the questions got to me.
“Why is your Mom so white?”
“Where’s your Dad?”
“What are you?”
At that time, I was so confident to talk about myself and to what I was, knowing my nationality and “religion” from the back of my hand. “I’m Pakistani and Black!”. I will never forget that smile and cheerful voice I once gave to them, and the reactions I got.
“EW, SHE’S A TERRORIST” One kid yelled. I didn’t know why they yelled it out like that. But I do remember vividly of their horrified faces when they’ve heard about my nationality. From that day, kids would either avoid me and pretend that I wasn’t here and just continued on with there business, or that they would tag me and run away from me and would yell “RUN, QUICK, SHE HAS A BOMB!”.
I didn’t know why, I didn’t know what was really wrong with me. This treatment continued all the way to 8th grade, and it gotten to the point where I disliked my nationality, my skin, my eyes, my hair, my everything. What had changed me was one time I had one hell of a mental breakdown and couldn’t stop crying in my room, alone. I didn’t realized how loud my sobs were, but not to long ago, I heard my mother open a door. My door. She asked me ‘what was wrong’ And if school was okay?. I told her about my struggles with the kids in my school, the torment, the words and rumors they spread, everything. All because I was Half-Pakistani.
My mother sighed. She looked at me dead in the eyes. At first, I thought she was gonna yell at me. But I thought so wrong.
“Your not a terrorist, there’s nothing wrong with you. From what I told you and to THIS day. Your still beautiful to my eyes. And I’m not just speaking out of my ass about it”. All of this from 8th grade. Looking back, I’m glad I’m the person I am today. -Maryam