On 9/11, I received my first death threat.

A group of coworkers and I were glued to a TV, shocked and awed. A white colleague I’d never met emerged from the crowd, towered over me and said, “We should just nuke ‘em all.”

He didn’t know me. He didn’t know my name. He didn’t know my religion. All he knew was I looked like “them.” That’s when I realized I would never be a true American, even though I was born and raised here. I’m not a true Muslim either—haven’t practiced since childhood when I was forced to.

Am I Muslim? Am I American? Both. And neither. Not completely American, not completely Muslim. A mashed-up hybrid.

Non-Muslims need to see and hear from “normal” Muslim-Americans. So, my stories feature at least one regular American—who happens to be Muslim.