I am still
as a statue as security
personnel tells me to take off
my hat and uncover my hair,
and I want so badly
to make them understand,
to explain what this beanie means
to me—how a head covering connects
me to every Ruth and Rachel and
David and every other unnamed
person who has risked their life
just by living—but the holstered guns
remind me of where I am
and how I am seen,
so instead I apologize for the hold up,
for slowing down the line, for
the inconvenience of this
religious tradition that has kept
my people warm since the beginning
of time.