Many of my friends live in an America where Islam and peace are categorical opposites, a place where I once lived, but can never return after marrying Ismail, a Libyan Muslim, in 2005. Sometimes I miss the soothing homogeneity of that place, and its bright illusions of superiority.

The United States Ismail and I inhabit together is far more lively and interesting. But it's one where my husband is instantly identified as foreign by his accent, skin color, faith, even his gestures and communication style.

As a white American married to a minority Muslim, I'm caught in a strange place. I see how people misunderstand him and treat him differently. Their prejudice prevents them from seeing him clearly; he remains partially hidden from view.

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