I have a confession to make: My name isn’t really Leslie Marshall.
Yes, I was named Leslie at birth, but Marshall? I’ll let you in on a little secret: It’s my father’s middle name and my great-grandmother’s last name. It’s quite common in broadcasting to change one’s name, and at 18 when I first set out in my chosen profession, I thought it was cool to have an a.k.a.
But does a name really matter?
Yes, it does.
Allow me to explain. I was born of a Jewish father and a Christian mother. I married a man, American-born, raised in a Muslim family. I took his last name, which is both Arabic and Muslim, although he is neither. This is the name my eight-year-old son and seven-year-old daughter carry. And in the present Islamophobic world, this name makes me fearful for my children.
You might suggest I'm being overly dramatic—as even some family members and friends have—but you're wrong. America is afraid. Afraid of ISIS, afraid of death, afraid of terrorism, afraid of being attacked. We are afraid of the boogeyman, that monster; and for many Americans, that monster is Muslim.
As the parent of children with an Arabic Muslim last name, I fear you, the public. I fear your mind-set, the anti-Muslim rhetoric you are supporting in this election year and the men who are spouting it. In the past year, Donald Trump has talked of warrantless searches on Muslim homes and businesses, a database of all Muslims and special Muslim ID cards.
He has expressed the desire to kill the entire families of terrorists, which made me shudder to picture the completely innocent six-month-old baby that the two terrorists in San Bernardino left behind. And, of course, we are all familiar with Trump’s plan to ban all Muslims from coming to the United States. That is an idea, which as of last month, was supported by nearly half of all Americans, not just Trump supporters or registered Republicans.
