I have scars on my arm from a door I got caught in when I was young in the refugee camp. It’s’ the one thing I remember from our time there. But I have an even more painful scar on my memory from a day a couple of years ago here in America. My cousin and I were standing at the bus stop, just waiting, when an older woman came up to me and started screaming! She called me a terrorist; she blamed me for the World Trade Center falling and for 9-11. As with any new wound, it stunned me and I stood there shocked, not know what to do. Then I looked at the lady and said, “Please don’t judge me for what is on my head, but for what is inside it.” (For my knowledge and who I am.) I watched her, wanting to react, but she didn’t know what to say. Eventually, she just walked away.