This I Believe

As a child, I relied on other people’s opinions. I let them control what I said, what I did, what I wore and what I didn’t wear, my hijab being one of them.

It was my eighth grade year of middle school, also time for me to start wearing my hijab. All my other Sudanese-Muslim friends had starting wearing their hijab, some without a doubt, some with some hesitation. And then there was me, with fear, and reluctance, and a million other emotions my 13 year old self couldn’t conjure into one single word for.

At the start of an adolescent Muslim girl’s life, she must start wearing her headscarf and dressing modestly. One question that is always at the tip of another person's tongue when looking at my hijab is,

“Where you forced?” they would ask with arched brows.

When it was anything but the opposite. My mother and father never forced me to wear the hijab. I always knew growing up that I would wear it, eventually. When I did start wearing it was my choice, and as I explained this to confused face in front of me, they started to be more puzzled that I would put it on voluntarily. My parents, never asked me to wear it, I wore it on my own, it was the love for my religion and support from my family that drove me here. However, it took me awhile to get to this place of confidence and acceptance of my hijab.

Middle school was a tough time for a kid who struggle with an identity crisis, who was trying to make a drastic change in her life, but too afraid of the response from her peers. Islamophobic remarks was common for me during that time. Although I didn’t wear my hijab at the time, people still knew I was muslim by very obvious last name, Mohammed. Thinking back to a time when our 6th grade class was discussing Islam, and someone talked about how their family members were Muslim.

“My aunt and her three daughters are Muslim, they all wear the headscarf thingy.” The boy said, and without any consideration to my vulnerability asked,

“Israh, how come you don’t wear it?”

All of their tormenting eyes turned to me, my hands started to shake a little, so I sat on them to hid it, I wish I could hide the fearful look on my face. I looked down at my grey and dark blue plaid skirt that was part of our uniform. To keep us from making fun of each other if one person’s clothes weren’t as nice as their peers. In those moments I imagined a bold Israh who was quick with her tongue that could make 12 year old boy's silence their mouths forever, but I was a scared girl with shaking hands that she hid underneath her gray and dark blue plaid skirt, getting asked a question she had no idea how to answer.

“I’m too young to wear it.” was all I could manage.

He replied with a dazed and confused look on his face, mouth halfway open in confusion as the room seemed to be getting smaller and smaller.

“Well, my cousin is three years old, and she wears it.”

The entire class stared at me some with quizzical looks, others with a sort of ‘this isn’t my business but I’m gonna make it mine’ look and one kid in the back of the room with a pen doodling on the desk, he was my favorite classmate from then on.

I wasn’t afraid to wear hijab, just how my friends would treat me differently. My most known feature in middle school was my hair. Girls would always undo my braid and redo it for sport. Other girls would always joke as we stood in the lunch line,

“Girl, if you ever cut your hair off please give it to me!”

“Are you even black?”

“I’m sure that’s not your REAL hair.”

“Can I braid it for you?”