January 2011
I had finished my layup and was jogging back to the warm-up line when an odd exchange caught my attention. My coach was enraged and debating fiercely with the referee. I ignored them for a few minutes but suddenly, I heard my name.
“Maheen! Get over here!” my coach yelled across the court. I ran over and felt my stomach drop,“Look honey, I don’t understand why, but you can’t play today.”
“What?!” I exclaimed, “Why?! Did I do something wrong?” My eyes were welling up with tears and I could feel my heart throbbing into my throat.
“No, nothing like that. The referee says you can’t play because of your headscarf.” My throat tightened in disbelief. My heart started beating a mile a minute. My hands were shaking. My head was spinning. How could this possibly be happening? I didn’t do anything wrong. This was my sport, what I loved. I couldn’t follow my passion because of an extra article of clothing?
Although all of this was going through my mind, I simply said, “Okay,” and sat on the bench.
I was eleven years old. Heart-broken. Confused.
January 2017
“So, you’re not from around these parts are you?” the woman says. A sort of anger builds up in my heart after hearing her say these words. I have heard that question over and over again my entire life. My identity is constantly being questioned. It’s so unfathomable for some people to understand that someone can be Muslim and American at the same time.
“Yeah I am. I was born in the hospital that’s three minutes away from here.” I respond curtly.
“No, but where are you really from.” the woman responds.
“Where am I from….from before I was born?” I asked angrily.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t”
“You had to have come from somewhere.”
“Yeah, my mother’s uterus”
“No, before that.”
“My parents immigrated from Pakistan.” I finally said exhausted from the conversation.
“That’s what I mean, so you’re not from around here you see?” she answers. Oh yes, now it finally all makes sense. I am not from around here. I am not a girl who has been born and raised in America. I am not a girl who has worked in my community rigorously since I was 14. I am not a girl who loves and adores her hometown, her education, and this great land of freedom. Now, I understand. I’m not from around here. I am an outsider. Because of the cloth on my head. I have been stamped with a mark that can not be washed off.
May 2016
“I have no idea what even happens in that class.” I mumble to myself as I fill my water bottle. It was AP exam season and I had just gotten out of Chemistry. It was lunch time and students were grabbing food. I was minding my own business desperately trying to understand how redox reactions worked while I was filling my bottle when I heard a loud yell. I looked up alarmed and found another student looking at me and laughing with his friends. My heart immediately started throbbing in my throat as a sort of anxiety filled my mind. I had been in this situation so many times before. I act really tough. I act like I can always handle it, like it’s really easy for me to speak up. But every time, I am pretending to be brave. Every time, I am desperately trying to hide the shake in my voice, the sweat in my palms, and the voice in my head that is telling me that everyone around me is right. I am not welcome here. This is not my land. And that I can not be seen as anything except a terrorist. I am not going to be able to change people’s views of me so why try. Sometimes I am able to silence that voice and speak. Other days I can’t.
I hear him loud and clear this time, “Hey you terrorist! Why do you have a towel on your head?”
My heart is now beating out of my chest. I know if I don’t say anything I will torment myself for the next week. Re-playing the situation in my head over and over. Thinking of things I could have said. I think about how I tell my cousins my stories of discrimination. How I make their eyes widen and look at me with wonder. I remember what they said, “You’re really strong.”
I replay those words in my mind. I think about my cousins. I think about all of my brothers and sisters who have gone through this and so much more before me. “I am strong.” I tell myself. “I am strong.”
With a great leap of courage I decide to speak. “What did you just say to me?” I ask as I walk over to him and his friends. Adrenaline takes over my body. Confidence comes into my voice. I know who I am. I know what I must do. I am Muslim. I am the daughter of immigrants. I am American. Born and raised. One-hundred percent. American.
I am not writing these stories so people feel bad for me. I am in no way asking for pity. I know who I am and I have a strong sense of identity. I do not need anyone to hold my hand and tell me that everything is going to be okay or tell me that they are sorry. Rather, I am writing these stories so people know that this is a real issue. Islamophobia is rampant in our society. Discrimination is prominent in our schools and communities. We, as a society, need to change. We have to get up and stand for what is right, even if it is hard. I ended up growing from experiences of discrimination because I had a strong community to fall back on. I had a mother who instilled confidence into me everyday. But, I know people who have changed their names out of fear. I know children who have developed depression because of discrimination. Next time you see any type of discrimination, speak and demand justice. It is your duty.
