Disney World, July 2003.

“Damn Arabs,” the man scoffed to his friend. I’m sure he wanted my family to hear. And we did. I clutched my mom’s arm a little tighter. I was 9 years old.

Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport, June 2006.

My father, brother, and I were randomly selected for screening upon our arrival. It was by the same officer who randomly selected us when we boarded the flight a week prior—I recognized the tattoo on his arm.

“Us again?” I said. I wanted him to hear.

“Khalas. Maa’lish,” my dad urged me in Arabic—“Enough. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” I thought. “Enough.” I was 12 years old.

New York City Subway, April 2010.

“Everybody run! She probably has a bomb!”

This time, neither of my parents was there to protect me. His words stunned me, and I stood motionless. My heart raced as I endured the public humiliation. Tears rolled down my cheeks as bystanders comforted me.

“Don’t pay any mind to that,” they assured me. “He’s just ignorant.” It was too late though; the damage was done. I could not unlive the experience. I was 15 years old.