first post, as i've just joined this village as of 5 minutes ago!
Here's a story I wrote for an open mic I went to. The theme was American Muslim Identity. Enjoy!

The Two Faces of Islam

If you stand in the middle of the desert at noon and stare straight ahead, all you can see is sand and sky, with a neat little line dividing them perfectly in half. That's the way I used to see the world when I was 15; right and wrong placed on either side of a thin black line. As I matured, that line grew thicker and thicker, until it became two lines, with a river rushing between them. I think I fell in around the time I started college.

I feel like I need to explain my state of mind before I tell you this story.
I've always been quick with excuses.

My sister is perfect. Or so everybody tells me. She's beautiful in that universal non-traditional sort of way, not too tall, not too short, always dependable, and in my opinion, a little bossy. I end up going out with her a lot because I'm her brother, and even though I'm younger, I need to fulfill my duty as male chaperone and all-over protector.
She wears hijab like a nametag, conspicuous in a matter-of-fact sort of way, meant to be noticed but never to show off. I always hang back a little when we're walking together in public, just enough to make it look like we're not together, but close enough to hear her speak, in case she asks something. Sometimes she notices and gives me a glare, saying, "Why are you walking so far away from me, you loser?" To which I usually roll my eyes and sigh, before speeding up to her side. I'll slow down again when she's not paying attention, something I'm beginning to regret right about now.

She's stopped in front of a store window, probably staring at some designer clothes she'd never even dream of buying. I never could understand the appeal of window-shopping. I mean, why waste your time looking at something you don't intend to buy? Apparently, because it's nice to look at.

But wait! What's this? She's not looking into the store window at all.
Oh no, it's much worse.

She's talking to some random middle-aged woman I'm sure she's never met before. And from the way she's gesturing wildly, it's obvious what she's talking about.
The woman looks about 50-ish, in an outfit that screams upper-middle class from her Coach handbag to her pearl earrings.

Maybe I should just hide 'til it's over. But the lady glances up and notices me looking in their direction and my sister turns around to see what's distracted her newest mission.

Damn, there goes my chance at escape.

I give my sister a sheepish smile and she tilts her head as if to say, 'get over here!' I step forward, nodding a 'hello' to the older woman. She smiles through her lipstick stained teeth and extends a manicured hand in my direction.
"Oh! He can't shake your hand," my sister protests grabbing my arm, which, I might add, hasn't even moved from its place. The woman seems very intrigued by this and poses some more eager questions. My sister is quick to respond, completely ignoring me but never releasing the firm hold she has on my arm.

I wanna scream at her, 'if you're not gonna let me talk, let me go!'

But I just stand there trying to decide what to do without being rude until the woman finally realizes she has a life and other things to do with it.

As soon as she's gone, I yank my arm away from my sister.
"What's your problem?" I ask. "Why'd you grab my arm?" She rolls her eyes.
"Because I didn't want you to shake her hand...duh."
"Did it look like I was going to? I didn't even move my hand."
"Hey, I can never tell with you. I've seen you do it before. You're so afraid of hurting people's feelings," she replies, mocking me.
"What's so wrong with that? It's called being nice." I protest indignantly.
"At the expense of your religion? Nobody's gonna hate you for not shaking their hand you know. You have a right to your religion. Isn't that what being American is all about?"
I let out a drawn out sigh. Blah blah blah, here we go again. She's still preaching but I've stopped paying attention.
"Look," I interrupt, "I don't get why you just assume I'm going to do something or say something that's wrong. I mean you didn't even let me say a word to that lady." She's giving me this disbelieving look.
"You wanted to talk to that woman?"
"Well yeah, why not? Somebody's gotta show her that all Muslims aren't as uptight as you are."

Damn, I can see a vein popping. She's gonna have a freaking conniption.

"Just 'cause I'm serious about religion and I actually care about what's gonna happen to me after I die, that makes me uptight?"
Now I'm the one grabbing her arm.
"Maybe we shouldn't be yelling at each other in the middle of the sidewalk. People might think you're my oppressed wife." She snatches her arm back but calms down.
"That's not funny y'know," she mutters under her breath as we look for a place to sit down. I spot a Starbucks, but she gives me another one of her glares before pulling me into a nearby diner. We sit down at a booth in the corner.
"You wanna get something to eat?" I suggest. She looks at me like I'm stupid or something. "What!? What did I say?"
"We came in here to talk, not waste money on najis food. Now stop changing the subject."

She's got that tone of voice my mom gets when she's 'reminding' me to do namaz.

"What do you want me to say? That I don't see everything in black and white like you do? I know about the Day of Judgement too y'know. But I don't think praying all day is that important. We live in the real world and I have a life to live."
"And I don't?" She retorts. "Do you see me praying all day? I have a life. I got to school. I'm in the real world."

If I knew how to scoff, I would.

"You won't take Physics lab because you're afraid of getting stuck with a male lab partner."
"At least I don't take classmates of the opposite sex 'out-to-lunch'."
I hate it when she does that quote thing with her fingers. The way she does it always gives everything she says such a negative connotation.
"It's not like they're my girlfriends or something. Geez. You know, when you start working, you're gonna have to eat lunch with your coworkers and stuff. And they won't all be of the same gender."
"Nobody's gonna force me to do that, and if they do, I'll quit."
"You'll never get anywhere."
"I'll get to heaven," she replies smugly.
"And I won't?"

She looks contrite now, like she realizes nobody can ever really tell for sure who's going where.

But, before she can reply, we're interrupted by the high-pitched voice of the thirty-something waitress.
"Excuse me, are you going to order something?" We're both a little disoriented from our intense discussion, so we're a little slow in responding. The waitress huffs impatiently. "Do you speak English? Are you going to order anything?"

My sister and I exchange looks before standing up to leave. As we pass the waitress, another couple comes by to sit at the booth. I tap the guy on the arm.
"You better not eat here, sir. The waitresses are rude and the service is terrible."

The waitress' mouth is as wide as the door I'm holding open for my sister as we leave the diner...laughing.