The Olive Tree and the American Dream
By Noor Khalil
Jennifer, Jack, Lexi, Noor, and John. Have you guessed who the odd one out is? I’ll give you a hint: her last name is also Khalil. Growing up as a girl named Noor Khalil in my community, it became easy for my peers to notice that maybe the girl with darker features, olive skin, and hijab wasn’t your average “American Girl doll.” As time passed, I began to realize that it wasn't just my appearance that didn't match up with the rest of my class, but also my beliefs.
In a sea of fair-haired, blue-eyed classmates, my distinct appearance often set me apart. My hijab, a symbol of my faith and identity, drew curious stares and sometimes uncomfortable questions. "Why do you wear that?" "Aren't you hot in that scarf?" These questions, while often innocent, reminded me daily of my differences. But it was not just the hijab; it was everything that it represented—my commitment to Islam, my cultural heritage, and the values that my family instilled in me. I remember school events and holidays where the gap between my world and theirs seemed to widen. While my friends eagerly looked forward to Halloween and Christmas, I celebrated Eid and Ramadan. My holidays were marked by fasting, prayer, and reflection, not by costumes or Christmas trees. Explaining why I couldn't eat lunch during Ramadan or why I wore new clothes and visited the mosque for Eid was a constant part of my school life. I often felt like I was straddling two worlds, trying to fit into both but fully belonging to neither.
As I grew older, the differences in beliefs and values became more pronounced. Discussions in class about topics like politics, social issues, and world events often highlighted how my perspectives diverged from those of my peers. In history class, we would discuss events in the Middle East, and I would feel a knot in my stomach, knowing that my classmates' understanding was often shaped by biased media portrayals. I wanted to speak up, to share the stories my parents had told me, to explain the complexities that the textbooks glossed over. But speaking up was not always easy. It meant exposing myself to potential backlash, to being labeled as "different" once again.
My beliefs often clashed with the values of my peers. While they discussed weekend plans involving parties and sleepovers, my weekends were filled with family gatherings, community events at the mosque, and volunteering. The concept of individual freedom that my classmates cherished sometimes felt at odds with the collective responsibility that was central to my upbringing. However, these differences also became a source of strength and resilience. I learned to navigate and bridge cultural divides, to articulate my beliefs and values with confidence and clarity. My unique perspective became an asset in discussions, offering alternative viewpoints and fostering deeper understanding among my peers. The challenges I faced in reconciling my identity with the broader American culture taught me the importance of empathy, open-mindedness, and respect for diversity. Being the "odd one out" wasn't always easy, but it shaped me into a more thoughtful, compassionate, and resilient person. It taught me to appreciate the beauty of diversity and the strength that comes from embracing one's identity fully. My journey of navigating these differences has not only defined who I am but has also fueled my passion for creating spaces where everyone, regardless of their background, can feel seen, heard, and valued.
Today, as I reflect on my experiences, I am grateful for the unique perspective that being "different" has given me. It has empowered me to challenge stereotypes, to advocate for inclusivity, and to work towards a world where diversity is celebrated, not just tolerated. Through my writing, my advocacy, and my future aspirations, I hope to continue bridging gaps, fostering understanding, and making a positive impact on the world around me.