falana…dimkana…

Guantanamera by Julio Iglesias

 Songs like that just make me happy!

It’s a little cliché, and all but I don’t care:

I awoke to another fine 3^rd grade morning, got dressed, did the usual tooth-brushing—for life would not be complete without membership to the No Cavity Club—and then ate breakfast.  One thing, however, stood well apart from the usual routine. I covered my hair with a scarf.  Little did I know that this hot pink beaded garment would change my life forever; no longer would I enjoy the blissful anonymity along with other brown-eyed brown-haired girls; rather, I would earn an epithet that accompanies observant practice of my religion: Muslim girl with the rag. I came to school understandably nervous and slightly apprehensive as to how classmates would react.  Fortunately though, my first day wearing the scarf, or hijab, went by very encouragingly.  Of what I remember, the girls loved my extra pink accessory, while the boys guarded jealous reservations because I could wear a “hat,” and they could not.  During the next three years of elementary school, the simple state of my appearance polarized those around me.  Some loved it, while others abhorred the difference.  Those who could not bear my style of dress tore at the hijab, succeeding only once at removing it. On the other hand, friends who approved, loved it to such an extent that they wanted their own. I fondly remember that my Jewish best friend would wear the green hijab whenever she played outside; I had convinced her that the scarf possessed its own natural air conditioning system.  Things took a disastrous turn for the worse at the dawn of middle school when kids jostled the ranks for their claim of popularity.  Hanging out with “the girl with the towel on her head” certainly went against achieving this end. Except for a few Southern sweetie-pies, I can recall very few friendly contacts in sixth grade.  This is not to say that I did not get “approached”; at this time I began my reign as the Queen of Awkward Question-Answering.  Days rarely passed without queries quizzically questioning my quirky towel/rag/cloth/napkin, whatever they liked to call it.  Some addressed me politely but the question would nevertheless remain awkward: “I was just wondering what the purpose of your towel/rag/cloth/napkin is?”  The majority of them however came off more crudely: “Can you take showers?”; “Do you sleep with that?”; or “Are you bald?” One would presume that in a position like this, I would really want to take my hijab off (permissible if I so wished), but somehow I felt extremely attached.  Despite the negative ramifications which boded for American Muslims following the September 11^th attacks, my experience surprisingly lacked any excessive drama. Unlike many of my Muslim friends at public school, I barely had any trouble atCary
Academy, and many teachers assured me that I had their “protection” if anyone bothered me. The only change was the terrorist jokes.  Now at the end of high school, I’ve gotten to a point where my hijab is indispensable to my identity; it not only outwardly signifies my faith and ensures a heightened conscience of modesty, but also presents an opportunity in which I can set a different example for Islam.  Ignorance has badly informed others of my religion through the ages, and my hijab gives me the responsibility to demonstrate the truth.  Because of it, I may be called the Car-Bomber-Woman, but that is a sacrifice I am willing to make.

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