By Mohamedid Sheik

They say assimilate—
as if I have not walked these streets with purpose,
as if my footsteps have not earned their echo.
They hear my accent, thick as the roots of my homeland,
and mistake it for weakness—
but I write English sharper than many who were born into it,
my sentences standing straighter
than the doubts they throw at me.

Books stack in my home like milestones,
proof that I chase knowledge farther
than the average traveler ever dares to wander.
I cheer for the Vikings like any loyal Minnesotan,
even when they break our hearts—
hope is a sport we’ve been taught to play every season.

I’m Muslim, so I go to the mosque to pray—
where my forehead meets the earth,
and my spirit finds its quiet strength.
But I walk into churches too,
not for doctrine,
but for community, friendship, and human warmth.
Because I am more than hate,
more than rhetoric,
more than the narrow walls of exclusion
that others try to build.
I am a bridge where they expect borders,
a hand extended where they expect silence.

I’ve stepped into more churches than the president himself,
and unlike him, I can quote scripture—
not as a performance,
but as truth carried in my chest.
And when others stumble over vocabulary,
turning speeches into puzzles of broken words,
I stand fluent in two languages,
speaking with clarity they cannot imitate.

I write poems in Somali and English—
two rivers from one soul,
flowing in harmony instead of fear.
I hold my culture close,
my faith steady,
my family above all.
I am proud Somali—
that is my blood, my story, my pulse.
And I am proud American—
that is my oath, my choice, my home.
Where some inherit their citizenship like an old suitcase,
I earned mine with study, sweat,
and a vow spoken with honor.
A vow I still keep.

They say assimilate—
but what does that even mean
in a country where many cannot pass the same civics test
new citizens study by heart?
Where people born under this flag
argue over rights they’ve never read,
freedoms they’ve never learned,
history they’ve never understood?

They question my belonging
while speaking in slogans instead of sentences,
yet I carry two languages with ease,
two cultures with pride,
two worlds without losing myself.

Assimilation?
Do they mean silence?
Do they mean erasing the roots
that taught me how to stand tall?
Do they mean shrinking myself
to fit their small understanding?

No.
I refuse.

I am not here to melt into anything.
I am here to belong—
on my own terms,
with my head high,
my honor intact,
and my story louder than their misunderstanding.

I am Somali by blood,
American by oath,
human by heart—
and nothing about me
needs permission to exist.