Two months before Ramadan, I went to the school’s overall club supervisor. A veteran, a teacher, and now a member of higher administration, he was a pillar in the school’s activities. His white face was always painted with a smile constantly wandering the hallways. I brought him a proposal I had mentioned at the end of last year and then again at the beginning of this year; our MSA’s very own Eid Party. The plan was lavish: food catered from local restaurants, invitations sent out to faculty and students, decorations filling the cafeteria with color and sparkle, mehndi for the girls, and games for the guys. I was met with a warm face and enticing regards, “Remind me two weeks to a month before Eid, and we’ll plan it out then!” I walked home with confidence; for the first time in our school’s history we would be hosting a huge MSA event.

A little over a month before Eid, I went to him, this time with a preliminary plan of arrangements, and was met with cold rejection.

“It’s too late now, we can’t host the event. You didn’t fill out the building use form last year and reminded me too late.”

“But I did fill it out, here I have a picture.”

“Sorry, it can’t be done.”

My head lowered in shame, I walked out of the office and for the first time, the hallways of my school narrowed in on me. Students would complain about the heat, the low ceilings, and the crowded hallways, but to me these issues were negligible, my school was safe, it was like home. But as I walked out of the office, I had an overwhelming fear of suffocating—suffocating in the same hallways I thought was home—I no longer belonged.