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“Making the cut.”
I look too white to be stopped at an airport. “Thank God you don’t look a bit Muslim.” One friend tells me. “Yeah,” I agree hesitantly, “I guess I made the cut.”
My eyes are too big for anyone to be able to tell I’m Hazara. “You don’t look Hazara, You’re too pretty. You have nice big eyes.” Tells me one woman from Kabul. “I guess my eyes made the cut.”
The police always let me go easy but not my darker friends and family members. I guess I made the cut.
My friend got called a terrorist. I got called “White Trash.” I don’t even know what the hell kind of cut I made there.
His passport and mine both state we were born in Afghanistan but his clothes, accent and beard make him a threat. He gets searched, I get “Have a nice day ma’am.” I guess I made the cut.
Young Afghan girls get forced to marry, are raped by their husbands and can never even think of getting a divorce. But I’m not just Afghan, I’m Afghan American. That shit can never happen to me. I guess I made the cut.
My pro war friends tell me how much they care deeply about and love me. But they still support the war in my country. I tell them, “Those civilians are just like me, I am just like them.” They answer, “But it’s different.” I guess when I came to America, that’s when it got different, that’s when I made the cut.
But, let me tell you something about “making the cut”. When your mom gets fired from multiple jobs for wearing hijab, when your father gets called a terrorist, when your little cousin is called a towel head by her 3rd grade classmates, when your people are persecuted, when there are bombs being dropped on innocent people who speak your language, who share your culture, who share your blood….making the cut doesn’t mean shit.I don’t even know what the hell kind of cut I made there.
