Changing Winds

“Look at that rag on her head”.
“Diaper Head”!
Not many people have experienced being a target of outward hate, but I’m lucky enough to have experienced it. But if you had asked me a couple years before, I would have told you that I had not been granted an experience of the sort. Looking back today, maybe the racist slurs had escaped my senses. I am still an American despite what anyone says to me, because I believe that it’s their personal ignorance that keeps them from knowing people, amazing people. I know I am different, my religion, my culture, my looks, but then I question who am I different from? Who set the norm for what an American has to be? I didn’t read up on any of that, and until then, hey I am an American like everyone else, not better, not worse.
I was born in the United States. In California, Los Angeles-the highlight of American culture. I grew up in a neighborhood surrounded by “all American” families-parents, two kids, and a pet. I, like many of those families, lived in a beautiful house with my parents, my little sister, and my goldfishes. I grew up near Hollywood, the epitamy of western culture. Was I different then? I guess so. Most of our family friends were from the Indian subcontinent, we would have to wear decorative, itchy clothing to parties, my parents tried to speak to me in Urdu most of the time, I celebrated different holidays. I was different. What about religion? Religion was something my family leaned on, on matters of morality and on matters of behavior, the usual “God says…” comments.
After two moves from my childhood heaven, Michigan happened. Changes were in the air for our family. The biggest change that I still remember was the simple fact that I couldn’t wear shorts any longer. I thought about the age factor, but I know that if I had stayed in California I would have been wearing shorts for a couple years longer. But rather I went to a totally different side of a the spectrum in a matter of one year. My mom and I began wearing the headscarf and instead of talking about religion on a rare occasion, religion became a part of daily life. It was so strange in the beginning. When you’re a kid, you live for day to day pleasure and it became weird to think that, I, an eleven year old, had a bigger purpose in life. I loved the feeling of belonging to something bigger and meaningful. Despite all of this, being all American and all Muslim was strange for me, but a feeling I learned to embrace and pride myself of. Nothing is impossible I would tell myself, and I’m going to prove it. Then September 11th happened.
“Are you related to Usama-Bin-Ladin”?
“ Why do you hate us”?
“What do you think about what happened?”
“Your religion is so twisted”!
Ask a eleven year old questions like that, and see what she says. Let’s see, my responses were along the lines of, “Are you related to Hitler or Stalin? I don’t hate you. Politicians are still trying to figure out what happened, why are you asking me? My religion is not twisted”! It was hard, especially when I was outnumbered, one to about twenty-four other students at a charter school. At least I had the comfort in knowing that my endeavors of seeking religious knowledge had now left me with the confidence of saying that my religion did not endorse such actions. But the pride and the outward religious affiliation was something my father did not approve of. He believed that behavior like mine would draw unwanted attention during tumultuous times. But I thought that my dad had it all wrong. I thought to myself, oh daddy, it’s just because you are different. You didn’t grow up here. No one is going to treat me different because I was born in the United States. I am an American and no matter what I wear and what I believe in, I will be more accepted because I am American. Maybe he had encountered racism in this country, but I had not and I wanted to keep it that way. Last year though, I realized, it didn’t matter what I wanted.
High school was an experience of its own. I wanted to change all stereotypes about Muslim women, and I believed I finally had the playing field to do so. The high school was one of the largest at the school, referred to as the Park. Sports was a way to help break some stereotypes, I thought, and for that reason I played soccer for my high school team. After four years I realized that it wasn’t something that I alone was striving for, but something every Muslim girl was striving for. This became one of the many bonds that we would end up sharing. My love of sports had continued throughout high school which led to an enrollment in girls basketball the first semester of my senior year. This one class taught me more about myself and the world around me then perhaps any other class I had taken throughout my high school career. Ironic. I know.
Walking into a warm September room, I can sill remember. The coach didn’t show up till half an hour later and when he did he sized up every girl. It was the scariest experience I had had with a teacher thus far. Looking around it seemed like the five percent population of Muslim girls had landed in this one class. I thought it was really cool. Bonding with your fellow sisters. The class used to take place in a gym that comprised of about six different basketball courts. It was also the last class of the day and because of that perhaps, the coach used to be extremely tired and wouldn’t bother coming out of his office to give directions as to what we should do until about half of the class time was over. I blame the situation I was put into for all those spare minutes that the girls were left with. In those extra minutes we had people make cliques and given the size of the gym the different bodies of people were very far away from each other on the court.
I had a friend, Sundus, in the class who was perhaps my opposite in many ways. One of the most prominent differences was that she always thought that the world was out to get her. She felt racism in that class before any of us, and frankly there were times where she had it wrong, but she was quick to judge and one with a quick temper. She got in a couple of fights with a girl by the name of Brittany and they had to deal with the principal together on many occasions. As the year progressed the class became more and more tense in between, what appeared to be two different groups of people, the non Muslim girls and the Muslim girls. Nothing hit quite as home though until we first picked our teams.
************
“We have been working on skills for a while now, and now I want to put them all to use. Lets see what you guys can do in teams. I have already picked the captains. When I call their names, I want them to step on the blue line and pick your teams. Any questions? Okay Lauren and Brittany on the line.” It wasn’t that I didn’t like the girls, it was just that most fights would start because of the two of them and it seemed from that stand point that these girls were the racist girls in the class. I knew the picking of the teams was going to be painful to say the least, but hey I wasn’t that bad, so I would definitely not be picked last.
Brittany picked first and then Lauren. The first couple of rounds was a war to get the best players in the class. That was fine with everyone. They were good. Then they started picking the girls that were worse than I was, that was definitely not fair, and what made it worse was that the girls Brittany and Lauren were picking were girls that they hadn‘t said a word to all year. That was not fair. I couldn’t keep the disbelief from showing and looked at the girls next to me. Could people tell how mad I was, because I was really mad? Ironically enough all the girls that seemed to be left were girls that also wore headscarves. I could hear some of the girls saying, “Are you kidding”?! Frustration could be sensed in their voices and in their faces. What made it more annoying was that the captains were now taking longer to pick team members. The coach was standing on the line with the girls that had already been picked, his grade book and pen in hand. He seemed to be keeping record of teams. He would move from captain to captain, listening to their request and penciling it in his grade book. As he moved to Brittany’s group, I saw the girls smiling and discussing. It was obvious that they were trying to figure out who they should pick next. Brittany stood next to the coach and began to point at different girls in the line, “ What’s her name”?
“The tall one”? So I guess the coach didn’t know our name either. Perfect.
“No no the tall one. The one with the pink scarf”?
“ Oh, her name is”, he looked down at his list, “ umm Sajdah”.
“Alright that’s the one I want”. The coach put a mark on his sheet and Brittany yelled, “ Sajdah”.
**********
The rest of that day seems almost like a blur. I don’t remember who was on what team, how many girls were picked after me, and what happened in the locker room that day when I was changing. Something had broken inside me. The one thing I remember about that day is the anger and frustration that I developed, the hostile feelings I developed, if only temporary, toward the girls that made me feel inferior. What I remember about that day is feeling like an inanimate object being picked for my looks rather than who I was. If I was expected to know their names, they should know my name, because it was a mater of respect and courtesy. I had never thought that this could happen to me, and it did.
All my life, I had heard thing about the civil rights movement, and to me it seemed like it was a movement for the African Americans only. I loved history, everything except the civil rights movement. Something about it bored me. Racism was something that other races had to deal with, the ones that looked really different. I didn’t look that different and I was raised with American ideals therefore I believed in my heart that I would never be a target of such a thing. I was really wrong. I was of a different race and of a different religion, obviously I would be a target of such a thing, especially after the whole War on Terror shenanigan.
I now knew that I too would be a victim of racism because whether I liked it or not. I have to come to grips with that and something about knowing it makes me feel a sense of empowerment. I know I’m different, but I also know what it means to be an American. It definitely doesn’t mean that I have to believe in everything our lawmakers tell us or even the media. Being American is whatever I make it because this is a country of individuals. I would like to believe that I am an individual in the truest sense of the world. I don’t have to rely on the individualism that the media things I should be striving for but the individualism that comes from my intellect and religious beliefs. These two things I believe are strong molders of individualistic ideology. This experience made me come to terms with my cultural heritage as well. Sure I was born in the United States, but there was nothing wrong with keeping a part of where my parents and grandparents are from, my true roots. It stills strikes me as ironic that racism would exist in a country that is supposed to be one of the biggest “melting pot” nations in the world. Maybe I have more to thank those girls for then to be mad at, and thinking back I forgive them for their ignorance. Sometimes you don’t get to understand people until you really get to know them, and perhaps that’s exactly what happened with us.
Our high school was pretty diverse compared to most schools. We had many foreign exchange kids come to our school and students from different ethnicities which made it more surprising to sense this feeling of racism. Analyzing the situation I was put in, I would have to say that maybe those girls didn’t have racism on their mind, maybe they didn’t realize what they were doing at all. Coming to the University of Michigan seemed almost like a continuation of what I had left behind. I was already used to seeing people of different backgrounds, but having more Muslims here makes things a little different. People seem more understanding and friendly because perhaps they are more aware about my religion.
Racism is something every country has been fighting since the beginning of its time and something that has still stuck around with us. Its obviously not going to change overnight or even a period of 10 years. There will always be people that don’t like those that are different, but I will not let that keep me down. There is a whole world of people, and a whole world of experiences, I want to be a part of it all and the crude opinions of a few will not stop me.