One of Them

The nursing home I work in has mandatory meetings for all the staff – nursing, administration, dietary, and yes, laundry – once a month. Seeing as the home is owned by several churches in the city, every meeting begins with a sometimes-lengthy prayer. After the most recent meeting, I was sitting outside the building, waiting for my ride to take me home. One of the nurses’ aides, who was also waiting for a ride, jokingly made the comment that it must be uncomfortable for me when everyone bows their heads in prayer.

Truthfully, such a thing doesn’t necessarily bother me. Yes, it is a little awkward; I would be lying if I said otherwise. But I just lower my head in respect and listen quietly. Most of the time, the awkwardness comes into play whenever the residents begin asking questions or making comments.

Such an event took place just a week ago.

It was my weekend to work the evening shift. Saturday was like any other day, but Sunday was a bit different. Of course this was because of the date: 9/11. I will admit I’m maybe a bit too self-conscious and paranoid when it comes to my faith, but in my defense, when I first converted all I came across was negativism – and from my own family at that. So going to work at a Christian nursing home filled with the elderly, who are sometimes stuck in their ways and beliefs, on 9/11 had me a bit nervous.

Administration suggested staff wear red, white, and blue in honor of the 10^th anniversary of 9/11. The closest I could get was the white scarf and long-sleeved undershirt I wear with my scrubs. I just don’t have any red or blue scrubs to wear. So, dressed in my green scrubs, I felt a little self-conscious walking up to the door. I had to walk through the sitting room and dining room, both of which were full of residents and aides waiting for supper to be served. The sitting room TV was set on the news, and not surprisingly, the topic at hand was 9/11.

But I didn’t pay much attention to the TV or the residents gathered ‘round the dining room. I know they’re used to seeing me after working every day for a month. I clocked in before heading down to the basement where laundry is. Getting right to work, I started my first loads and then began my rounds to collect soiled laundry.

Walking through the hallways, pushing the laundry cart along, the discomfort was impossible to avoid. Most resident rooms are equipped with a TV and cable. And most of those TV’s are on every hour the residents are awake. Of course, every TV seemed to be set to a channel showing a documentary about 9/11 or a news caster talking about the anniversary and anniversary events.

Talk about awkward. Especially since everyone knows I’m Muslim. However, the nurses, aides, and other staff members also know I’m friendly and far from violent. So the night was far from extraordinary. I wasn’t expecting something to happen, but I figured if something was going to happen, it was going to happen that day.

And I was right. As I was walking down one wing, one of the residents called to me to collect some personal clothes from her room. Now, this resident was one of the few I felt comfortable dealing with. I had been charged with delivering the personal laundry of the residents on her wing. She was one who rarely left her room, so every day I shared a few words with her whenever I had laundry for her. She isn’t what most people would call friendly and inviting; like most people on that particular wing of the home, she tends to be demanding and picky. But, while she wasn’t the most pleasant of people, at least she was nice about it and didn’t tell me not to take her plastic hangers in a mean way like others did.

I walked into her room to take what she wanted me to take. Her TV was on, playing some sort of documentary on 9/11. At the moment, I was tired of hearing the words ‘terrorist,’ ‘terrorism,’ and ‘Muslim’ thrown around that day, and thus I ignored what was being said.

However, I couldn’t ignore it when the resident looked at the TV and then looked at me. She asked, “Are you one of them?”

I sighed inside. Great. Am I one of them? I didn’t have to inquire to know what she was referring to. “No,” I replied rather forcefully. “I’m a Muslim, not a terrorist. There’s a big difference. No Muslim can do what those terrorists did.”

She didn’t say much, just nodded and uttered an unimpressed “Oh.”

I would have loved to remain and talk with her, maybe clear up any confusion she might have about Islam and Muslims. But I was already behind for the evening and one of the aides needed to give her a bath before bed. So I had no choice but to leave. Insha’Allah maybe one day I’ll get the chance to talk to her about it.

This situation highlights one of the major problems Muslims face in America: accusations or suspicions of being terrorists, or being associated with people like them. Thankfully, I’ve avoided a lot of such problems simply because of my name and the way I look. Most people don’t think I’m a Muslim; I have to tell the majority of people what my faith is otherwise they assume wrong.

But for those who have a Muslim name and/or who fit the stereotypical Muslim image sometimes have to deal with accusations and suspicions regularly. Yes, a great number of Americans thankfully don’t have a problem with Muslims, but there are those out there who have no problem calling a random Muslim walking through the mall a terrorist or an office worker nonchalantly asking a Muslim coworker if there’s an al-Qaeda meeting tomorrow.

Those people and the leaders who are equally anti-Muslim are the reason a lot of Muslim must defend themselves. They must field accusations regularly, simultaneously trying to rid the average misconceptions Americans have about Islam and Muslims. There are plenty of Americans who see a Muslim and automatically think ‘terrorist.’ But we aren’t one of them.