I stand in the line with my parents and sister, a line that stretches farther than my eye can see. Literally. I can barely make out the security desks at the front of the lines, but they are processing people like some sort of printer. The people are blank sheets, then the man behind the machine stamps their customs forms, and they come out with fresh ink on their worn and weary faces.

I also cannot see because of my height. I am eight years old and barely tall enough to get my own mugs out of the cabinet. I crane my neck, but finally give up, and amuse myself by looking at the different people around us. The line moves slowly, but surely, and we eventually reach the desk.

“Passports please,” says the man behind the counter. He has a kindly face, I note, of a different nationality than American.

My dad hands over the passports and custom form. The kindly man opens my passport at random and asks, looking at me, “You must be Isabelle, correct?”

“Yes,” I say. My yes comes out sounding more like a “yeah” which probably makes him think I am just another dumb girl who can’t even enunciate correctly. The man types something in on his computer, frowns a little, but opens my sister’s passport next. Again, he asks her if she is Natalia, which she replies “yes” too (I may add, properly enunciated) then he asks my parents the same question. He looks over the passports again, then checks the customs form. Again, there’s that slight crease between his eyebrows.

“I’m going to need to ask you a few more questions,” he says to my parents. “If you just go down this hallway straight to your left, you’ll see a room marked ‘Secondary’. My colleague will talk to you there.” He makes a quick marking on our form, hands it and the passports to my dad, and points down our left. We start walking.

“Dad, what’s this mean?” I ask, confused.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he replies. “Sometimes they just pull people out like that. We’ll have to see what they want.”

When we arrive in the room, it’s a boring room. There are a few seats covered in leather I believe, but, except for a painting and a wooden counter, the room is pretty much bare. We take a seat on some of the chairs. There is nothing to do. I tug on my father’s sleeve until he leans down.

“Dad, can I have your iPhone?” I ask, pouting.

“All right,” he says, and I happily begin to play.

It is time to go up to the security desks now, as they call us up. There are two men, one African-American, and the other white. The African American looks at me for a second, draws his eyebrows together, and makes a quick call after apologizing to my parents.

“Boss,” he says into the phone. “Why did you send me a little girl? Does she look like a terrorist?”

I can’t hear the reply, but soon enough the phone is hung up and the man apologizes profusely to my parents for the inconvenience. My dad waves it off nonchalantly but I can see he is a little annoyed. I ask him what this was all about.

“It’s just that sometimes, people’s names get tied into a watch list, and then they have to make sure you aren’t trying to bring anything bad into the country.”

So ends my tale, or so it would seem. But let me tell you something: the exact same thing happened, four years later, when I was 12 years old. It is not easy being pinned as someone different wherever you go, just because your skin is dark and you look Middle Eastern, and now I know as soon as I begin wearing a hjab (a headscarf) it will be even more difficult.

Tell me, what kind of a world is this in which an 8-year-old is pinned as a terrorist just because she looks a certain way?