“Drip, drop, drip, drop,” the pitter patter of light rain pelts the sidewalk as I trudge along, “drip, drop, drip, drop,” the rain pelts the thick black cloth of my burqa as I try to keep pushing along the wet city streets. I step in a warm puddle as I cross the street to the next block. Now I’m just five blocks away. It would take me so much less time if I didn’t have to wear this thick piece of cloth over everything except a little slip near my eyes so that I can see. I wear my Burqa because of my religion. I am Islam. I wear it because I am serious about it. People think just because I wear the burqa around thatam happy with wearing it. They are horribly wrong. My body whole body drips with sweat, and it’s hard to breathe since the cloth covers my nose and mouth. It’s hard for me to walk since the thick cloth is always pulling against my legs. Wearing a burqa feels like I am wearing a long skirt that is too long and ten sizes to tight. Not to mention a lot hotter. I have seen the locks that people give me. I see them point, I see them whisper to each other. I hear people talking and calling me names to each other, not worrying whether I hear it or not. I have felt the sharpness of their glances. It is as if I was responsible for the September eleventh
attacks just because I am a Muslim. I have felt the pain of peoples words, and I have felt the heaviness of their glances. I sometimes question whether it is necessary for me to wear a burqua. After all this is America, and I am in what they call the city of brotherly love, but I dismiss these foolish thoughts before I have time to think about them more. And as I trudge towards the train station, staring straight ahead and thinking about the glorious moment it will be when I get home, I realize no matter what people say or do, I will always stay true to my faith and my religion.
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