Wrap Your Head Around it

By Iya Abdulkarim

I have made it through high school without a single bad hair day.

*hijab flip*

For the skeptics out there, I have proof. I once took a Buzzfeed quiz titled “pick six pizzas and we’ll give you a compliment” and my result was “your hair is absolutely AMAZING.”

This outcome is proof that a) there is an FBI agent behind my computer screen and b) my hair is pretty great. I know what you’re wondering. How does she do it? What’s her secret?

Well, let me tell you.

When you wake up every morning, wrap yourself with confidence. Walk into every room and announce that you refuse to be objectified.

Regardless of who you’re with, respect them and expect that respect to be reciprocated.

Now, having hair as good as mine comes at a cost. Airport security officers always pull me aside and have to search my head. I mean, I can’t blame them. They’re probably just looking for extensions.

Having my hair tucked under my hijab doesn’t mean that I’m oppressed; it’s liberating because it forces people to see me as more than just a body. I chose to wear the hijab years ago, and I make that choice again every single day.

Having my hair tucked under my hijab and living in America means that I am constantly trying to to defy expectations, to disrupt misconceived notions, and to break stereotypes.

It means being told to go back to where I came from, even though I was born and raised in Minnesota.

It means knowing that, my hijab notwithstanding , I’m so American that I’ve “hopped off the plane at LAX, with a dream and my cardigan” (but, unlike the pop song might suggest, I was there for the international science fair, which you might call a very big science party in the USA).

It means I want my daily life to show that I am like you: I feel emotions and I care for others and I eat ice cream, and I want to get my words into the heads of the incorrigible.

It means people don’t think I speak English.

It means that when I do speak, I exaggerate my American accent lest they think they need to dumb down their vocabulary.

I’m spelling it out for you, so you can get it into your head, through your ears, which by the way yes, I can hear you just fine.

It means I am always considering how people perceive my cultures and actions. In preparing these words, I considered how I wanted to present myself as different than what you might expect—instead of being quiet, serious, and oppressed, I put myself forth as I truly am: a girl that is loud, humorous, and free.

It means smiling despite sorrow and patience despite anger.

It means wearing a headband under my hijab in case someone tries to pull it off.

It means trying to keep my balance when sitting in the car as my father switches lanes and accelerates to get past drivers that have flicked us off for no reason besides our appearance.

It means planning an outfit for the airport comprised of layers not only to stay warm on the plane, but also in case TSA is insistent that I undress.

It means listening to safety demonstrations on flights, but not too attentive in case people think I know something bad is going to happen.

It means making sure that my hands are not in my pockets when I walk into Target so people don’t think I’m carrying a weapon.

It means when I look down, I see the same hands that airport security officers have swabbed on several occasions for traces of explosives in a room with flickering lights as part of a “random security check.”

It means being greeted by Homeland Security officers as we board who don’t even have to ask our names to know that they have been assigned to us. It means having to be cooperative and going down a sketchy staircase landing because they said so. It means watching as they search all nine of our bags then count all our money and only when they realize that we’re innocent do they allow us to board our plane with a consequent half-hour delay. It means kicking myself for letting tears slip down my cheek as I find my seat because I feel guilty.

It means feeling guilty about things I didn’t do.

It means being apprehensive every time the day after September 10th comes around, being extra aware if anyone tries hurting me. It means rounding up or down when someone asks me the time and the clock reads a minute after ten after nine, and my circumlocution is intentional; I seek absolution from the numbers representing the horrific events of that day.

It means experiencing astonishment when someone asks a teacher about the war going on in Syria and out of shock of their ignorance I’m ready to explode but I cannot explode. Muslims cannot explode and I rarely use the term out of fear. I got up and left the room out of fear that I would lose control. Looking back at it now, I should’ve stayed and helped answer the question.

Ignorance is the problem and spreading knowledge is the solution. At the same time, can you really expect one person to have all the answers and to provide them without error?

It means working hard to prove myself a valuable member of society.

It means only feeling worthy when I receive recognition because I need the same society that has convinced me that I am not good enough to tell me I actually am.

However.

It also means developing a sense of self-confidence instead of selfconsciousness.

When I play basketball in my hijab, I do not spend every second fretting that I look different.

When I take pictures in my hijab, I do not try to cover it up with a cap or a beanie or a hoodie.

When I explore journalism because I’m unsatisfied with the way Muslims are portrayed in the media, I pour my heart and soul into it.

It means I carry the weight of representing my cultures and religion well. Everything I do has to be appropriate in my religion, in American culture, and in Arab culture, and I choose to adhere to these things.

It means being polite, respectful, and kind out in the world because I may be the only Muslim someone sees, meets, or befriends.

It means that since I have put on my hijab, I have been able to recognize so much more beauty in others.

Wearing my hijab does not mean that I see myself as superior to others who do not. It means learning how to be confident but not conceited, proud but not arrogant, and living outside my comfort zone.

It means I face the challenge of seeking a sense of belonging in a society where it seems as though cultures are mutually exclusive, and the overlap between culture and religion is sticky.

Parts of my identity might make people think I must be America’s worst nightmare, but I’m really a part of the American dream.

My parents have lived in this country for 20 years and are proud citizens, who went from living in a small apartment with a cardboard box as their dinner table, to the incredible and loving parents of three children.

Mama brought up children in a nation she didn’t know, and took the bus in the snow to go to an English class to learn a language she didn’t speak. She shelved her medical degree to raise those kids because she was in a land with no family to help her.

Baba rented a room with six other guys before he married Mama, and amongst themselves they would compete to see who had the least weekly expenditures because they were all going through the costly process of higher education. He used to work bagging groceries.

This is everything I know about my parents before things started looking up for them.

So tell me again that we don’t belong here. I dare you to once more interrogate my parents for hours on end in the airport, only to allow them to emerge with looks of exhaustion on their faces because they happen to be in the overlap of the venn diagram of Muslim and Middle-Eastern.

However, I will continue to live my life because I know what my religion and cultures actually stand for.

All of this, of course, comes from a place of great privilege:

I am an American citizen.

I am on my way to pursue higher education.

I am able-bodied and my family is in good health.

I can travel.

I am grateful, so I say alhamdulillah an Arabic word meaning “all praise is to God.” I say alhamdulillah because I have been presented with opportunities and hardships, big and small.

My hijab is the reason I have become and will continue to be a leader. I am confident with my ideas and will share them, which in turn gives me the confidence to develop and share even more. It is a wonderful cycle.

My mind is brimming with ideas and perhaps my hijab is what is holding it all together.

This is my hijab, and I wrap it around my head. It’s about time you wrap your head around it.