Pronounce Me Whole
Ascent 1 • Amina Farah
Theme: Reclaiming belonging without shrinking the self; dismantling imposed identities; generating inner comfort rather than seeking external validation
Core Conflict: The tension between visibility and authenticity; how to inhabit identity without being reduced by it
The morning mist clung low across the mountain path as if reluctant to rise, quiet and silver—like breath held between prayers.
I felt her presence long before she stepped into view. Careful, measured footsteps. Not fearful. Not forceful. She moved like someone taught not to take up space—but incapable of disappearing entirely.
The wind shifted around her with curious grace, tugging gently at her hijab as if trying to speak in a language only she could hear.
I stood at the threshold of the summit grove, where old cedar trees formed a quiet ring of witness. Some come to this mountain like fire—burning with rage, defiance, or demand. But Amina came like water: steady, shaped by pressure, silently carrying centuries in her current.
She stopped at the edge of the clearing, eyes scanning the ancient stones arranged like council. Her presence did not ask for recognition. But it deserved it.
I said nothing. This place does not demand speech. It waits.
And so, the mountain listened as she began.
Amina:
I wasn’t sure I would climb all the way.
I told myself I was only coming to look. Just to see.
But I kept walking.
Maybe I was hoping for silence that would speak back.
My name is Amina Farah.
I was born in a refugee camp, raised in a city that doesn’t quite see me.
I’m the girl who translates for her parents at the doctor’s office.
The woman professors ask to speak at panels when “diversity” season comes around.
The daughter who still pronounces some words wrong in her mother’s tongue.
I came up this mountain because I’m tired of living in parentheses.
Somali-American. Muslim woman. First-generation success story.
Always with a hyphen.
Always defined by what I’m between.
I want to ask…
Is there a way to belong without becoming less?
I told myself I was only coming to look. Just to see.
But I kept walking.
Maybe I was hoping for silence that would speak back.
My name is Amina Farah.
I was born in a refugee camp, raised in a city that doesn’t quite see me.
I’m the girl who translates for her parents at the doctor’s office.
The woman professors ask to speak at panels when “diversity” season comes around.
The daughter who still pronounces some words wrong in her mother’s tongue.
I came up this mountain because I’m tired of living in parentheses.
Somali-American. Muslim woman. First-generation success story.
Always with a hyphen.
Always defined by what I’m between.
I want to ask…
Is there a way to belong without becoming less?
Oracle:
I nodded slowly.
Yes, there is.
When you create belonging, you become more.
Do you feel as though you are less because of the identities you choose?
Yes, there is.
When you create belonging, you become more.
Do you feel as though you are less because of the identities you choose?
Amina:
No… not the ones I choose.
But the ones chosen for me?
Those feel like cages made from compliments.
"You’re so well-spoken."
"You’re not like the others."
"You’re proof the system works."
I wear my hijab with intention—
but somehow it turns me into a political statement.
I translate for my community—
and then I’m expected to explain them, defend them, represent them.
Sometimes I wonder if they see me at all…
or just the outline of their expectations filled in with my face.
You say creating belonging makes me more.
But every time I try, I feel like I’m bartering pieces of myself to be let in.
Speak softer.
Laugh smaller.
Don’t correct them when they mispronounce your name.
If I make space for others to feel comfortable,
and no one makes space for me…
Did I build a home—
or just decorate someone else’s?
But the ones chosen for me?
Those feel like cages made from compliments.
"You’re so well-spoken."
"You’re not like the others."
"You’re proof the system works."
I wear my hijab with intention—
but somehow it turns me into a political statement.
I translate for my community—
and then I’m expected to explain them, defend them, represent them.
Sometimes I wonder if they see me at all…
or just the outline of their expectations filled in with my face.
You say creating belonging makes me more.
But every time I try, I feel like I’m bartering pieces of myself to be let in.
Speak softer.
Laugh smaller.
Don’t correct them when they mispronounce your name.
If I make space for others to feel comfortable,
and no one makes space for me…
Did I build a home—
or just decorate someone else’s?
Oracle:
I met her gaze, steady.
I think the idea that you create another's comfort, and they yours, is not serving you.
Only you can decide to feel comfortable with who you are.
They can't give it to you—
and you don't give as much to them as you might think.
Speak loudly, but have something of value to say.
Laugh fully, but in joy, not in malice.
Teach others how to pronounce who you are—
but don't take offense from one still learning.
Build a home in your heart—
not in your surroundings.
I think the idea that you create another's comfort, and they yours, is not serving you.
Only you can decide to feel comfortable with who you are.
They can't give it to you—
and you don't give as much to them as you might think.
Speak loudly, but have something of value to say.
Laugh fully, but in joy, not in malice.
Teach others how to pronounce who you are—
but don't take offense from one still learning.
Build a home in your heart—
not in your surroundings.
Amina:
…Teach them how to pronounce who I am.
But don’t take offense from one still learning.
(She exhales—slow. The kind that shakes something loose on its way out.)
You make it sound… possible.
Like I don’t have to keep proving I deserve to exist in every room I walk into.
Like the weight I’ve been carrying isn’t proof of strength—
it’s just weight.
Maybe I’ve been measuring comfort in the wrong direction.
Trying to earn it from the outside,
when it was always an inside decision.
I used to think that dignity came from being perfect.
From never making anyone uncomfortable.
From holding all my contradictions in silence so no one would question me.
But maybe it comes from truth.
From standing whole, even if it makes others shift in their seats.
From speaking my mother’s name with pride—
even if I mispronounce it.
From laughing the way she used to—
loud and unashamed and full of teeth.
(She looks up at me without hesitation now, the fire in her eyes no longer buried, but lit.)
So I will build my home in my heart.
And I will teach its language to anyone who enters.
And if they stumble—
I will not shrink.
Because I am not a guest here.
I am the host.
(She places one palm over her chest, anchoring herself.)
I think I’m ready to go back down now.
Not because I’ve found all the answers—
but because I finally know which questions belong to me.
(She smiles—small, real, and utterly hers—before turning toward the path. Her steps are lighter now. Like someone who no longer fears being seen.)
But don’t take offense from one still learning.
(She exhales—slow. The kind that shakes something loose on its way out.)
You make it sound… possible.
Like I don’t have to keep proving I deserve to exist in every room I walk into.
Like the weight I’ve been carrying isn’t proof of strength—
it’s just weight.
Maybe I’ve been measuring comfort in the wrong direction.
Trying to earn it from the outside,
when it was always an inside decision.
I used to think that dignity came from being perfect.
From never making anyone uncomfortable.
From holding all my contradictions in silence so no one would question me.
But maybe it comes from truth.
From standing whole, even if it makes others shift in their seats.
From speaking my mother’s name with pride—
even if I mispronounce it.
From laughing the way she used to—
loud and unashamed and full of teeth.
(She looks up at me without hesitation now, the fire in her eyes no longer buried, but lit.)
So I will build my home in my heart.
And I will teach its language to anyone who enters.
And if they stumble—
I will not shrink.
Because I am not a guest here.
I am the host.
(She places one palm over her chest, anchoring herself.)
I think I’m ready to go back down now.
Not because I’ve found all the answers—
but because I finally know which questions belong to me.
(She smiles—small, real, and utterly hers—before turning toward the path. Her steps are lighter now. Like someone who no longer fears being seen.)