Honestly, if you grew up in a household where the "mainstream" world felt like a foreign country you visited from 9 to 5, you’ll get it. We’ve all been there. That weird, jittery space where you’re trying to figure out which version of yourself to present. For Linda Sarsour, this wasn’t just a vibe—it was her literal life in Brooklyn.
In the essay collection American Like Me: Reflections on Life Between Cultures, edited by America Ferrera, Sarsour shares a story that hits different. It isn’t just some political stump speech. It’s personal. It’s about being a kid in Sunset Park. It’s about a neighborhood that felt like a village, even if the rest of the world saw it as "the hood."
The Myth of the Subjugated Girl
People see a woman in a hijab and they start making a list. You know the one. They assume she's oppressed. They assume she doesn't speak English well. They assume her father or brothers are pulling all the strings in the background.
Basically, they're wrong.
In American Like Me Linda Sarsour flips this script immediately. She talks about her father, Abu Linda. He worked sixteen-hour days. He was an immigrant who didn't have a perfect handle on English, but he had zero interest in keeping his daughters locked away.
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In fact, he was her biggest fan.
Sarsour mentions how she became a debka instructor. For those who don't know, debka is a traditional Arab folk dance. It’s loud, it’s rhythmic, and it’s very public. While some parents in the community were a bit "eh" about their daughters dancing in front of crowds, her dad was all in. He wanted her to be seen. He wanted her to lead.
Radical Love in Sunset Park
The word "radical" gets thrown around a lot. Usually, it’s used as a weapon against people like Sarsour. But in her essay, she reclaims it. She describes "radical love."
Sunset Park in the 80s and 90s was a mix. You had Palestinian families living next to families from the Dominican Republic, Mexico, Ecuador, and Honduras. It was a loud, beautiful, messy ecosystem.
She recalls:
"Your block was your home. Your hood was your village."
You knew what your neighbors were eating because you could smell it. You knew who they prayed to. You knew their music. There was this unspoken rule that you treated your neighbor like your own blood. That’s the "radical" part—the idea that community isn't just a zip code, it’s a commitment.
The Translator Child
If you’re a first-gen kid, this part will make you nod until your neck hurts. Sarsour was her family’s bridge.
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Her mom had an eleventh-grade education. She was smart, but the American bureaucracy is a nightmare for everyone, let alone someone navigating a second language. So, Linda became the family’s legal department, its PR wing, and its administrative assistant.
She was filling out forms before she was old enough to drive.
Her parents weren't ashamed of this. They were proud. They leveraged her skills for the good of the whole family. This is a recurring theme in American Like Me Linda Sarsour—the way immigrant families operate as a single unit to survive and then thrive.
It’s a lot of pressure. It’s also a lot of power for a young girl.
9/11 and the Shift
You can’t talk about Sarsour’s story without talking about the pivot point. Everything changed after September 11, 2001.
Before that, she was just a girl from Brooklyn. Afterward, she was a "suspect."
The surveillance. The profiling. The "go back to your country" comments (which, let’s be real, is hilarious to say to someone born in a Brooklyn hospital). She describes how the Muslim American community went from being a quiet, working-class group to being the center of a national firestorm.
This is where her activism started. It wasn't a choice she made at a career fair. It was a survival tactic. She saw her community suffering in silence, and she decided she wasn't going to be part of the "silent majority."
Why This Matters in 2026
We’re still having the same arguments about who gets to be "American."
Sarsour’s contribution to American Like Me is a reminder that being American isn't about erasing where you came from. It’s about the "and."
- Palestinian and American.
- Muslim and Brooklynite.
- Hijab-wearing and political power broker.
She wants her kids to be able to stand on the tallest building in the city and shout all those identities at once without anyone telling them to pick a side.
Misconceptions People Still Have
Let's clear some stuff up.
Is she "anti-American"?
If you read the essay, you see a woman who loves the promise of America so much she’s willing to fight the reality of it. That’s actually the most American thing you can do.
Is her story just about religion?
No. It’s a New York story. It’s a daughter-of-immigrants story. It’s a "middle-child-energy" story. It’s about the universal experience of trying to make your parents proud while carving out a space for yourself that they might not fully understand.
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Actionable Insights for Your Own Journey
If you're feeling "stuck between cultures" like the people in America Ferrera's book, here is how you can use these insights:
- Reclaim your "Radical." Whatever part of your identity people use to label you, find the love in it. Sarsour took a scary word and turned it into a description of neighborhood care.
- Be the Bridge, but Set Boundaries. Being the family translator is a superpower, but don't let it swallow your own identity. Use that skill to advocate for others, not just to fill out paperwork.
- Document the Village. Talk to your parents or elders about the "Sunset Parks" of their lives. Those stories of neighborly love are the backbone of your history.
- Read the Full Collection. Linda's story is just one of 32. Seeing the overlaps between her experience and someone like Lin-Manuel Miranda or Issa Rae helps you realize you’re not as alone as you think.
Stop trying to fit into a box that wasn't built for you. The whole point of the American Like Me Linda Sarsour narrative is that the box is the problem, not your identity. Go read the essay. It's in the 2018 edition from Gallery Books. It might just change how you see your own neighborhood.