My parents, coping with their new reality and skeptical of American childhood rituals like sleepovers, were largely hands-off as long as I stayed at home. And so I was a ghost, spending most of my time alone deep in my hobbies, including watching absurd amounts of TV. And I was cornered between two cultures by an unspoken guiding principle: DonвЂ™t stand out, but donвЂ™t fit in. Like so many immigrant children, I didnвЂ™t belong - here, there or anywhere. Hometown pride is everything in a town like that, and it was made exceedingly clear that this was not my hometown. For stretches over the next few years, throughout middle school, I would sit in a classroom during lunch or in the front office during recess, for my safety. I was terrorized ruthlessly, by those looking to elevate their station or find the butt of a joke, including the occasional teacher. In that town, a tight-knit community in the Bible Belt, my Arabness and my Muslim background were glaring targets. IвЂ™ve since joked that I was the вЂњliteral poster child for bullying,вЂќ but itвЂ™s not so funny. Above my head, in marker, the words вЂњSaddam Salam.вЂќ The teacher came in, examined it, peeled it off and never said a thing. On one side was an illustration of me on the other, the rest of my classmates and teacher. During my first week of school in Kentucky, in 5th grade, at the very beginning of the first Gulf War, a boy drew a picture and hung it on the classroom wall.

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