The Black and Muslim Kid
Anyway, outside of my terrible rendition of The Fresh Prince, I was an inquisitive and attentive kid (or that's what my mom would tell you). She loves to tell a story from when I was 6 months old: I was learning words and numbers, and I had about six cookies lined up in front of me. My parents wanted to see if they could trip me up, so my dad set a diversion while my mom took a cookie and realigned the rest so it looked like nothing was missing. I returned my attention to the cookies... and something was amiss.
My parents gasped as I went to count them (like, "Holy sh*t, he's counting?!") and I looked at them like, "Yo, I know you took my cookie." I guess I was aware of my surroundings very early on. I probably butchered the story (sorry, Mom), but I can see why she likes telling it.
My childhood was like any other kid's in middle-class America—except I'm Black and Muslim. In that sense, there was no Christmas; my parents were always looked at weirdly when we went out, and I caught on to microaggressions, feeling their pain as if it were my own. As an older brother, I felt a great responsibility to be a role model for my brother and my cousins. There's a good deal of nuance, but overall, I wouldn't change it for the world.