I fled my home after Palestinians were shot. No one is immune to the rise of white nationalism.

My head has always been on a swivel. As an Arab American legislator in the predominantly white state of Vermont, I’ve always been hyperaware of just how I’m received.

Despite the recent shooting of three Palestinian American students, Vermont has proved to be a welcoming place, which is why I’ve chosen to live here for the past eight years.

But no state is immune to the growing rise of white nationalism, violence and discrimination that our country is grappling with. It’s here in Vermont. More hidden perhaps than in other parts of our country, but it’s here nonetheless.

Numerous people of color, including those in government like former state Rep. Kiah Morris, have been bullied, harassed and targeted to the point of having to step down from their positions and even vacate the state.

I’ve always known that having a last name and identity that didn’t flow easily over an American tongue, particularly in the wake of 9/11, put me at risk to be in the middle of stories of distrust, racism and hatred. Born and raised in rural Alabama, as the daughter of an Egyptian immigrant and a native Alabamian mother, I am very proud of my culture, particularly the one that my dad shared with me despite being far from the land he once called home. But that identity puts me at risk in my state.

I remember receiving my first death threat only about a month after being sworn into office and after voicing support for access to affordable child care. I was accused of being a groomer, told to stay away from children and told that I would be better off dead.

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First death threat came a month after I took office

I remember going to other lawmakers of color when that happened. They were supportive of me but also acknowledged that this wasn’t abnormal. I remember thinking, “If this is some sort of club, I don’t want to be a part of it. I don’t even want the club to exist.”So when the news broke that three Palestinian college students were shot four blocks from my home in Burlington, Vermont, I was not surprised.

Hurt? Yes. Disappointed? Extremely. Surprised? Not quite.

When I heard the news break, I scrambled to get home and frantically packed my bags while I formulated a safety plan with close colleagues, my family and the Vermont Capitol Police. I left my house immediately and became nomadic with an unclear end date to ensure some sense of safety.

I later sat with the parents of one of the victims and when they asked if I was surprised at this level of hatred in my community, I couldn’t lie.

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I told them that I was deeply saddened but also very aware that Vermont is not some snow globe of exceptionalism, despite what we might want to think.What keeps me here, then, you may ask? Why not leave the state like others have?

Child hid her hijab beneath a hood

As I drove back to my Burlington home, after fleeing for my safety roughly a week after the shootings, I saw two little girls walking to school together in my district. They were laughing and playing on the sidewalk. One had her hair down, flowing in the mild morning air, and the other wore a hood. As I pulled up to the stop sign at the top of the hill by my house, they turned to look at me and I noticed that under the hood, there was a hijab and eyes that mirrored my own.

Tears flowed for me. Because I knew I needed to stay in the state for them. I couldn’t leave. It felt very much like a sign. So I am choosing to stay in Vermont to tell their story and be a story for them.

It’s why I ran for office, after all. As a front-line health care worker, I have heard and been a part of stories of heartache, grief and despair. There have also been stories of hope, resiliency and community. I see humanity at its most vulnerable and meet people when they are in the midst of their rawest human experiences.

I ran for office to elevate those stories and the people who are a part of them – including those girls wearing the hijab in Vermont.

As naive as it sounds, I didn’t think about how my own story would come to light when I decided to run for a seat in the Vermont Legislature. And honestly, I’ve not been keen to share it until now – about how my culture, the one that runs through my veins, has caused me to come into this world with my head on a swivel.

But it’s time for me to start telling my own story more openly.

Seeing those little girls gave me courage and made me see the potential of a Vermont future. A future in which they can walk to school – and I can walk to work – with no need to hide their identity. A future in which they don’t have to fear – nor do I have to fear – that someone will inflict harm on them because of their very existence. A future in which they can grow up and have the opportunity to serve this state like I am.

That’s the Vermont I want to represent.

Mary-Katherine Stone is a state legislator in Vermont.