How I became a hijabi…
“Are you going to wear the hijab when you are older?”
My grandmother asked, looking at me cooly. Thinking of my mother’s beautiful scarves, I wanted to say yes, but after a glance at my grandmother’s concerned face, I turned back to my mashed potatoes, opting to stay silent. Almost a decade before, my mother donned the Hijab, her luscious curls replaced with tight-fitted fabric. However, with parents incredibly secular, they were scared of my mother’s spiritual transition, and prohibited her from entering their home as long as the scarf remained.
Growing up, before Islamic school every Thursday evening, my dancing fingers, would gracefully twirl a chiffon scarf around my head. As I walked to the car- hoping my mess of bobby pins and knots would keep the Hijab in place – I was already excited about reciting the Quran during prayers. But once back in the car, I’d immediately remove the scarf, too scared, too young, to wear it any longer. Throughout middle school, I’d dream of wearing it everywhere, from math class to lunch periods. But as class president, I was worried that this decision would affect my relationships with my predominantly western classmates and teachers in a British school.
At the start of freshman year, I decided that the first day back from winter break, I’d enter school with a hijab. Although initially confidentent, I started worrying that the hijab might jeopardize my position as the school’s netball captain, and even impede my chances of joining the business club. When the day came and I began to wrap the scarf around my head, my fingers snagged on loose ends as my hands caught in the fabric. As I looked into my bathroom mirror, the mess of bobby pins jutted out awkwardly, each reminding me of my incomplete identity.
That next year, I yet again attempted to don the hijab. But as my classmates’ learned I came from a religious family, they started calling me “too halal”, some even sarcastically asking if my mother wore her hijab while showering. So, as freshman year turned into sophomore year, my new deadline to don the scarf came and passed. As my shame that I couldn’t commit continued to build, I started doing things within my power, from taking Thursday religious studies more seriously to memorizing Quranic verses before bed. Only a few months later, I had memorized sixty pages of the Quran, committed myself to praying extra prayers, and even created a social media page discussing my religious journey.
So, unlike most sixteen-year-old girls who’d dream of getting a boyfriend, my goal for the summer had a different type of meaning: to assemble the last piece of my identity. After I picked out a bold blue scarf, my mother gently wrapped it around my head, my own hands joining in for the final turns, years of Quran recitations, and Thursday Islamic classes giving strength to my fingertips.
At school, I held my head up high, delighted by the unexpected admiration from classmates and teachers. The occasional jab at my appearance barely phased me, my confidence and commitment guiding me to become the Student Body President. Even when my disappointed (and initially livid) grandparents stopped talking to me, I called them every week, approaching the difficult conversations with both love and resilience. Although they may never fully understand, the mutual respect I helped build not only restored my relationship with them, but helped them fully come to terms with my mother’s religiosity as well.
More than hundreds of wrappings later, my room is littered with a litany of headscarves and bobby pins. Most importantly, I am no longer afraid to speak the answer to my grandmother’s question. My love for the hijab is unintimated by the world, a testament to my resilience and independence that makes me confident in proudly wearing my culture, religion, and identity in my years to come.