"Why do you think you could be one of our interior designers?" scrutinized the lady behind the desk, eyeing me wearily. Her pen tapped the notepad impatiently, making me sit straighter.

I ignored the sweat beads under my hijab. "Well," I started, "I have been studying design and art since high school. I decided to major in it as well and have been credited for my work around the area-"

She held a hand out to stop me. "I need examples not your life story," she interrupted.

Her dyed red hair laid flatly on her scalp, a couple of split ends that reached all the way to the roots. With lips that pressed in a thin line, and eyes that were as dull as the grayest clouds on a stormy day, she was terrifying. As she spoke, her canines looked sharp enough to slice through my being with only a couple of words, something she was successfully accomplishing.

Reaching into my bag, I pulled the countless number of photographs I had taken of all my works, from makeup to the fresh design of our family business. Ibrahim had taken the liberty of rearranging everything and choosing which photos would look best in my portfolio.

The lady, Mrs. Grimm, snatched the file and scanned through every photo lazily in a manner that seemed as if she could care less about my works. Her bored expression had me shaking my legs up and down in anxiety. I refrained from biting my nails.

I cleared my throat, bringing her attention back to me. "So, as you can see, I've had experiences on a broad number of artistic works," I smiled.

She slammed the file down on the desk, standing over me. I flinched at the harsh sound the paper made when it came in contact with the heavy wood. Her gray eyes narrowed, her lips twisting in disgust. Suddenly, disappointment filled me.

I knew this was too good to be true.

I had tried, even before my marriage, to find a job. I didn't want to rely on Ibrahim my entire life. I was a woman of my own words. I did not need a man to sustain me, and I most certainly did not need to lean on a man all the time. I was capable of my own future, my own aspirations, my own life.

People assumed that due to my kind nature, I was too dependent on those who chose to care for me, but the reality was that I never was dependent on anyone. Kindness did not falter my assertive nature. Kindness did not erase the years of independence that I was taught.

Kindness was the fruit on a tree that grew taller and taller each day. The tree stood tall and proud, offering its fruits to the vast majority in an attempt to make peace with the inhabitants. My kindness allowed people to feel welcomed in my presence not shunned. It gave strength to those who believed they had none.

Kindness melted the cold hearts, feeding them with a new light that was both succulent and vigorous in nature. It overtook them by a force that shielded people from the evils that lurked within the borders of our country.

However, with the way she was looking at me, I wasn't sure if my kindness would affect her.

"Ma'am?" I croaked.

She threw her head back and laughed bitterly. I raised a brow at her, confused by the sudden change in her stoned expression, but then again, she was still mocking me. An unfamiliar pang of pain hit my chest from knowing that I was about to be rejected again, that my work would be denied it's spotlight.

"Is something wrong, miss?"

"Something dreadfully wrong indeed," she mused, circling around me like a predator stalking its prey. "I remember where I know you from."

I furrowed my eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

"You're that new Muslim CEO's wife."

I slowly nodded, not adding it all up. What did Ibrahim have to do with anything?

"You must think me a fool if you think I'm giving you a job."

I stood up. "What? My husband has nothing to do with my ability to work."

"Oh?" she mocked, leaning against her desk. "A Muslim businessman who is slowly making his way to the top and forcing all the others to bow down to him and his company of steel. It seems a little odd doesn't it?"

"What are suggesting?" I asked in a cynical tone.

"I'm suggesting that maybe there was some foul play there and I most certainly do not want his wife to work for me."

"My husband is not a man of deceit. You have no right to make false assumptions based on his success," I hissed like a snake ready to bite the woman's head off for her disrespect.

She humorlessly chuckled. "Why is it that no one knows anything about his background? Why is it that an immigrant has managed to beat all competition in a matter of years? Who's helping you Muslims succeed?" she seethed.

"Why do you care?" I exclaimed. "Immigrants have as much right to prosper in this country as you do. America was built at the hands of immigrants. One of our most prominent Founding Fathers was an immigrant!"

"Immigrants that steal jobs!"

"My husband is creating more jobs as his business expands. You racist bigots have no respect for hardworking people that sacrifice so much for their family. All you care about is preserving your pure blood, which never was pure to begin with. You have immigrant blood in you as much as I do," I argued, furious at her tone and refusal to acknowledge my work because she was jealous of Ibrahim's success.

Her nostrils flared, and her gray eyes bore into mine in a wild irritability. She stalked closer to me, her shadow intimidating my own, but I did not lose my stance. "You have no idea what you're talking about," she growled, lowly.

My teeth were grinding against each other in silent resentment. "I pity people like you," I whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"People like you find excuses for their own faults, blaming others for your problems, for your failures. You fail to realize that every stone you throw, every ominous word you speak, every loathing look you give, will all mean nothing. One day, justice will be served, and when that day comes, you'll be sorry you ever doubted the minds of immigrants."

"Get out, you filthy Muslim."

Gathering my portfolio, I walked towards the door and ignored all the temptations that made me want to slap the woman for her hostility. I inhaled a deep breath, reminding myself that my infuriation could not dictate my actions.

I had to remain calm just like the Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), who didn't raise his voice even when a man came to him asking for permission to commit adultery.

Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) had struggled with bigotry and indecency during his entire prophethood, where people would tell him that his efforts were useless. The people of Mecca used to throw stones and tomatoes at my beloved Prophet because they refused to see the light in spirituality; they refused to believe in Allah.

They undermined him, they hated him, they hunted him, yet the Prophet never reacted in anger. And it was time that I learned to do the same.

Looking over my shoulder, I simply said, "I'm not the filthy one here, ma'am. I'm afraid to say that it's you and your hatred." Then, I left without hearing her response.

As soon as the door shut, I ran to the nearest bathroom, forgetting the world around me as I tried to keep myself together, to keep my composure. Everyone around me was a blur, a mixed color of people, a dulled conversation floating close to my ear. None of that mattered as my mind replayed my previous encounter with another vile human being.

Pushing the bathroom doors open, I raced to the sink. I clutched onto the marble counter, feeling the soothing cool surface press against my palms, the black and brown shades clashing against each other in a never-ending war for dominance. My breaths came out uneven, my voice lost in the chaos of emotions that flooded my mind.

"Your husband's a fraud."

"No one knows anything about him, he's totally a scam!"

"Muslims don't belong here. They have no place in business."

I clutched my head in my hands, willing the voices to go away. Every place was the same, every boss acted the same, every cruel speech they spoke came out in the same hurling symphony, neither sweet nor soothing. People were wary of Ibrahim, and they didn't hide their insults to prove it.

I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. What had the world come to?

If only they'd known what Ibrahim had gone through. If only they'd known about the scars he'd endured for Bashir. If only they'd known about the nightmares that haunted his soul in the darkest of nights, then they would understand.

They would all understand the struggles he had in order to climb to the top, the difficulties he face as one of the few Muslim businessmen that were climbing to the top of the social ladder, the obstacles he face as he kept his passive upfront in a world of lies and slander.

Relax, Tasneem. Make your wudu (ablution) and go pray. I could call Ibrahim afterwards, I reminded myself.

Nodding at my inner thoughts, I turned the faucet on and made my niyyah (intention) to perform salah (prayer). In times of difficulties, sometimes the only cure was conversing with my Lord.