Through the eyes of my community, I am gold, civilized, a good Muslim American.  According to my mother, I am kind, determined, assimilating, a progressing Muslim. When I reveal the pages of my Holy Book, and with that contemplate my every adolescent intent and action, I recognize that I am lost, a nearly faithless Muslim.

Growing up an Ethio-American Muslim in Northern Virginia has served to be, for me, a platter of privileges. Unfortunately, living here in this salad bowl of tradition and religion has blinded me from perceiving, as well as accepting, my reality.

Being a good Muslim has nothing to do with how well I coordinate my hijab with my outfits, how hip I am to today’s music or how in the dark I pretend to be about ongoing issues. Being a good Muslim is all utterly virtuous.

Patience is another quality with great meaning in Islam.. This is some hardcore, “have trust in God no matter what comes your way” kind of patience. Have a trust strong enough to await any actual, physical, or miraculous response.

The reality that I am a living stereotype, a label printed to fit me into a container that has noted enough preconceived ideas to banish me.

You look at my pair of American Eagle jeans, an overworn burgundy sweater and notice I have made it so my hijab coordinates with the whole set up. Fashionable – that to you is a good Muslim.

Relating to conversation, I have been molded into something quite neglectful of my own identity. I very rarely speak of my religion to my peers as they do to me. It is not at all because I do not want to, just that I have been hushed.

It is as if my faith is poison, and discussing it would only contaminate our already corrupted society. In the news, ISIS attacks have left me in rage, yet I cannot speak of them without getting “the look” or a feeling of discomfort/judgement. I can see fellow Muslim classmates putting their head down whenever the topic of terrorism is brought up.

I have somehow managed to keep my head held high, but not without noticing the nervous and hasty movement of my teacher’s eyes. After these rare and lucid moments of courage, I resume my duties as an assimilated Muslim and continue with my gossip. I have remained undesirably quite bubbly in every other way except faith related expression. To you, my silence makes me a civil Muslim.

Trends. In music and slang, there are trends. Miniscule trends, yes they are, but they are trends powerful enough to accept or dismiss American Muslims into our society.

I have witnessed other not as westernized Muslims receive the derogatory, yet known comical, term “fob” against them when they had not been hip to a song on Drake’s new album or with the new dab dance.

Everyone gets a good laugh, but soon that term progresses into pure prejudice. I personally have been distracted and captivated by a belief that my actual religion should catch up to these trends, hide from conversation, shadow the latest fashion.

This influence has caused me to forget what it really means to be a good Muslim, a faithful and true follower of Islam.

In Islam, kindness and respect is highly valued and expected from all Muslims. To what extent are we expected to carry these two qualities? To the extent that you are hugging and then inviting anti-Islam protesters, people who carry guns and assault your children, to your house for dinner and civil discussion.

Yes, that is done by many Muslims at almost every single rally ignited by Islamophobia. Those people are good Muslims.

In this post 9/11 era of Islamophobia, we are expected to forebear whatever hatred is thrown our way.