It might have been weeks. It might have been months already. However long it had been, though, we had just moved to the country – everything was still strange to me. But I didn’t mind. I walked next door, just like I had so many times before, to play with my new friends in my strange new home. But the look on their faces as I tottered over stopped me just before the splintering wood fence. “You can’t play with us anymore,” said the oldest of the three. I remember scrunching my nose up and nearly laughing, thinking that they must be joking. With a furrowing brow, she explained, “Because you look different. You’re darker.” And just like that, they walked away. Not thinking much of it, I tottered back home, just a little confused. I was 6 years old.

Life went on. Twelve years later, and just the other day, I sat in front of my computer with an abnormally large cup of tea, two spoons of honey, in my hands in the late morning as per usual.I found my attention drawn to something different and definitely not the usual. It was the picture of a young boy, eyes full of fear and frustration, hands cuffed behind his back. Scanning the preview and preparing to scroll past, I read his name: Ahmed Mohamed. And then, afraid of what I would find, I did what millions of others had done already; I clicked.

For those of you who have escaped the sticky hold of social media or national breaking news, this is what I found: Ahmed Mohammed is a 14-year-old student who was arrested at his school in Texas for exercising his inspiring intelligence. Ahmed brought with him to school a clock of his own making, hoping to impress his teachers. As a university student, and adult, I can’t even make toast without setting something on fire or breaking an appliance or two. Needless to say, by this point in the articles and video clips, I was pretty impressed with Ahmed. Reading on, I found much to my surprise that Ahmed’s teachers did not share in my amazement. Rather than praise or support, Ahmed and his brilliance were rewarded with an arrest. Apparently, his creation was deemed a threat; the clock was mistaken for a bomb.

I suspect, and I am not the first to speculate, that it was not just the clock these teachers were looking at, but the string of letters that make up his name and the darker color in his skin that did not appear in their own. The question that must be raised, then, is, was it the tick of a clock they heard or the intimation of race and religion they saw that led to the contemptible events of that day?

After the first few articles and videos, one leading to the next, and on to the next from there, I sat with a now-cold cup of tea and the fury of a thousand fire ants crawling around inside of me. And then, with freshly tear-blurred vision, I looked down at my own skin, turning my hands back and forth, watching them change color. I thought of my grandmother, her warm embrace and her gentle smile; I thought of my mother, my means of existence – my skin just an echo of their own. And for the first time in years, I remembered those three little girls. “Because you look different.”

I can’t begin to imagine what it was like for Ahmed, cuffed and questioned. I won’t pretend to know how Ahmed felt. But I can tell you, in light of what (so unfortunately) happened to him, how I feel. Perhaps as a young individual hoping for acceptance in a sometimes-cruel world, with a fair bit of racial and religious ambiguity, I can offer a different perspective.

America is Wonderland. Translation: The United States is where people come for opportunities beyond their wildest dreams. At least, that’s what we’re all told. These 50 states, all snuggled together into one big hug of a landmass, are supposed to be home to the greatest variety of creatures, all shapes and colors – just like my Facebook feed. So why is it that despite this circulated definition of our clearly not-so-accepting country, one or two types of these beautiful human beings are deemed different (or more frightening) than the rest?

Maybe it’s for the same reason I refused to speak publicly in a room full of strangers – I’m not referring to our desire to avoid nausea. We are afraid of what, or who, we don’t know. No matter how comfortable you are in yourself, how you look, what you’ve known and seen your whole life, something completely different can jump in and change everything. And change ain’t easy. That adjustment to incorporate different people and different, influential views can be an uncomfortable or stressful one.

Maybe it’s for the same reason quadratic equations made me run screaming before I knew how to approach them. We are afraid of what, or who we don’t understand – this means the way they look, where they come from, what they believe, and how they act on all these things. Common practice when it comes to things beyond our understanding is the drawing of our own conclusions. And these conclusions are sometimes twisted and dangerous, only based on that consequential fear. Falling not far from the tree of misunderstanding are the rotting apples, hatred and cruelty.

There may not be a quick fix or simple solution to these two monsters that live inside us all. But in my experience as a multi-racial woman with a religiously diverse background, and, up until just recently, as an alien in my country of lawful residence (that’s 12 whole years of alien residence), that there are ways to battle the beast.

If you do not know me, or understand me, ask me who I am and what I do – and if you must, ask me why. If you do not wish to know or understand, and I can’t demand that you do, I will urge you to treat me like a human who only tries her best to do good, and not a stranger who means you harm. Do not pass judgment based solely on my appearance, or I may do the same in return. I cannot command your tolerance or respect, but I can politely ask for the same you expect in return.

So, for those teachers who called for the arrest of an innocent boy, for those little girls that decided my appearance determined my worth, and all the rest who harbor ill will because of fear and misunderstanding, it is not we – my grandmother, my mother, Ahmed, you and I – who are dangerous. It is your fear.

And that is why I am calling for something greater. Forget the color. Our skins are all the same. Because they stretch and scar; they wrinkle and burn. They wrap around our heads and hearts and protect us from the continually changing world. Forget the color. Because your skin and mine, they both age in time with the ticking of the clock.