There is a bookstore in the middle of New York City that
was built in 1919, thriving over
centennial evolution since, storing
history and scoring
history in itself. As I venture through, I find the books about Islam behind
books on Western civilization, Marx, and explanations of economic systems.
I find the books about Islam behind
explanations, under
explanations, depleting
expectations, almost
a self-fulfilling prophecy.
No apology.
No room for progeny.
From the lowest of the bottom-most shelves, at the back of the bottom floor, my blood leaks --
it seeps through the wooden creaks. And I wonder.
How do my people remain relegated, ruminating,
in the country that we built?
Muslims at the back of the bookstore, though a cornerstone of the country.
As if Muslim presence on this land doesn’t outdate the country built upon it.
As I explore the bookstore in the middle of New York, I envision a mosaic of newness
urban sprawl that doesn’t pick and choose what to preserve. Whose stories to tell.
I confer with my history textbooks and find radio silence.
Over centennial evolution, I find five hundred years of --
rusted, dusted spines.
Deya Nurani is a high school student based in the US.
