No, I won’t sell you drugs. But I might fuck your girlfriend. I know it’s odd for you. I probably look like every stereotype you figured made sense. Yea, I wear a hat, and my pants fit me weird. I’m a hue of brown, and my hair is darker than the night you approached me on.
I probably scare you when I walk by too. It’s not hard to see. You can tell by the way your eyes droop everywhere except to meet mine. Even then, I don’t mind it. I’d probably be scared of me too.
What I do mind is your dumb ass assuming I have a kilogram of whatever the fuck you need to get high on right that instance because I ‘look’ the part. That my skin color robs me of all humanity and renders me into a vending machine for your habits.
I’m not even bothered that you think it’s weird I don’t sell drugs. No, not even that. It’s the look on your face when I tell you I’m in your same university that irks me. The shock in your voice when your assumptions that an Arab man can’t be educated are broken, mangled and shoved right back down your khaki shorts.
Go, make the same mistakes you condemn me for, and get away with it. I’ll be here proving you wrong, not because you were ever right, only because you never touched on the truth.