One of the most heartbreaking illustrations of what repeated racism does to the psychology of the Black Muslim is the story of my friend’s eight-year-old daughter. At the time, the girl was enrolled in a Muslim school that was predominately Arab, and she was showing signs of plummeting self-esteem and increased depression. The students repeatedly called her racist names, mocked her skin color, and told her she was ugly. To add insult to injury, the teachers themselves did not intervene, and they routinely favored the Arab children over her.

One day the eight-year-old girl came up to my friend and said, “Mommy, I hope we all die together.” Surprised by the words of her daughter, my friend said, “Why?” Then the girl said, in all sincerity and earnestness, “Because if you and Daddy die before me, there will be no one else in the world to tell me I’m beautiful.”

Immediately upon hearing this, my heart dropped and tears filled my eyes. Not only because I hurt for the girl, but because I hurt for myself. And I hurt for all the other Black children—and adults—who daily suffered a similar pain, but didn’t quite have the words to tell the world how they felt. And even if they did find the words—as I often did as a writer—it was very rare that anyone cared or was listening...