My Hair Is My Disguise

Today, one of my friends said something to me that left me confused and upset.

As we walked outside enjoying the beautiful weather, she said, "Did I ever tell you I think it's awesome that you don't cover your hair?"

I was so shocked, I couldn't respond.

A moment later I asked, "What? Um, why?"

She was taken aback, likely expecting an "OMG THANKS!"

She answered my question with something along the lines of, "Er, because I think it's cool when people do what they are not 'supposed' to do."

While I appreciate her sentiment, I cannot bring myself to be anything short of disgusted by her assumptions -- that I am "feminism: (white feminism) personified because I have "freed" myself from the societal expectations that she assumed I grew up with, and have arrived at a place where I can more easily blend in with what she believes is "freedom."

Let's back up a bit -- I am a half Egyptian, half white-American Muslim woman who was raised in a standard, middle-class suburb in The Middle Of Nowhere, USA. My mother and older sister wear headscarfs for various deeply personal reasons, and I do not. My mother, who never wanted to force religion onto me, never told me I should wear a scarf but was careful to explain the reasons she chooses to.

In truth, I don't wear a headscarf for one reason: I am too self-conscious. Every day, I am in awe of hijabis who somehow have found ways to deal with the stares, the comments and the inability to fly below the radar -- not even on days after sleepless nights, not even during mornings before coffee, and not even when the flu hits and you have no choice but to sport a bright red nose.

I often wonder if I would find peace or strength or even God in hijab, but I will not let myself try.

"I don't wear a headscarf for one reason: I am too self-conscious ... I am lacking but still searching for the strength my friend thinks I have to break free of her expectations.

I don't wear a headscarf because at my comfortable, posh liberal arts school, that is what I am supposed to do. By not wearing a scarf, I am actively controlling the racist, sexist and Islamophobic thoughts of those around me, all because I am not strong enough to confront them.

Unlike someone with black or brown skin, I have the choice to avoid the discrimination we like to pretend doesn't exist in our new-age, elite community. I am lacking but still searching for the strength my friend thinks I have to break free of her expectations.

***

This conversation with my friend transpired about eight months ago, just as I was finishing my sophomore year of college. I wrote the above paragraphs that evening, as a way of sorting through the anger she triggered. It is the same anger that inevitably resides in the all of the American Muslims who were six years old in 2001.

Since this encounter, and with the help of the Republican presidential candidates, I have thought a lot about my place in this country as a Muslim who doesn't necessarily look the part. I am able to process this more calmly, and I have come to understand why my friend assumed what she did.

However, listening to viable presidential candidates insist over and over again that Muslims are our problem -- America's problems are after all my problems, too -- some of that anger comes boiling back up to the surface. In it, my heart goes out to hijabis.

When Trump announces that he wants to create a database of all Muslims in the country, he is talking about me, but his words are meant for the people he can identify. When hijabis are attacked in grocery stores or removed from planes, their attackers are reacting to my existence. But I know my seat is safe.

Once again, my anger has resulted in awe.

Best of luck to you all.