Thread by @ProudOwlCrafts

TW 9/11 and domestic terrorism: For me, today is like looking back at a forked road. One where my dad came home on a red-eye flight and we cooked the live Maine lobster he brought with him in a styrofoam box, and one where he got on that second plane that hit the towers.

He just finished an 800-mile bike ride for AIDS, and it was the longest we went without seeing him at the time. He stood at the airport payphones and called his best friend to find him a different flight to get him home sooner. My mom was grumpy driving to the airport

so late at night, but we couldn't be happier to see him. It had been so long, and Coptic New Year was the next day. We always enjoyed Coptic New Year at the church. By morning, my dad switched the TV onto the news, plane ticket in hand. "I could have been dust," he said.

He could have been dust, as many others became. It's a tragic day. It deeply impacted our lives. The same day, some men took my dad away. We didn't see him for three days. I didn't understand what was going on until he came back home, walking out of a black car.

My parents spoke in hushed whispers in the office, but my sister and I could still hear them. "They knew where we go to church, where I work, where the kids go to school. Someone from the attacks has the same last name as us." I had a pit in my stomach.

We're Egyptian. The terrorists weren't. But that didn't make a difference. We spoke the same language, had similar last names. We were all painted with the same brush. My dad tried to carry on, and so did the rest of us. But it wasn't so easy.

You see, my dad lost clients at work because they didn't want a "terrorist" taking care of their pets. He lost his job. It didn't matter that he escaped Egypt in the '80s for religious persecution, or that he'd been a citizen for nearly 20 years at that point.

It was a blow, but my dad was able to find work soon enough, and life carried on, albeit a bit heavier, more tense. One day, my dad took my sister and I to go to a family friend's Middle Eastern market nearby. "Let's go to the bank first, then we'll visit Ammou (uncle)."

So we did, we drove past Ammou's market, went to the bank, and returned 10 minutes later to police cars surrounding his parking lot. A white man went in with a rifle and shot our family friend for being a "terrorist." . It didn't matter he had three sons and a surgeon for a wife.

My father was very shaken up, as were the rest of us. But he took it a step further. "We're changing our names." I didn't have a say in it. It wasn't up for debate. My mom is white, and so, my dad thought, my sister and I could pass as white kids if we just changed our names.

We erased the Egyptian-ness out of us. Because it was safer to be white than be ourselves growing up. It took me a long time to get over the anger I had for having our names changed. When I went to change my name and gender marker a few years back, I struggled with the

whitewashed last name my dad picked for me, but still, there was that fear of hardship still lingering. Because sadly, my dad was right. I made a compromise, and changed my first name to honor my Egyptian grandfather, and kept that whitewashed last name. I am Egyptian American.

I am someone who experienced 9/11 like so many others did in this country, albeit a bit differently than some. I hope there is healing and understanding for everyone today. We shouldn't have to worry about which roads we missed, just focus on the road ahead.

I'm not looking for sympathy, or hugs, or anything of the sort. I just want people to understand the privilege some have, the experiences that still linger, and a hope for introspection from everyone.

Nobody has to, obviously, but feel free to buy your local trans Egyptian American a ko-fi here: ko-fi.com/theproudowl0684

Muting this thread because it’s A Lot. Thank you for your support, for reading, for the kofis. Ok, I’m going to go take a bath and not be perceived.