apologizing just for being Alia.
Instead of going after my mother, I throw my half-empty coffee cup away and head for home.
Our corner apartment is in an old prewar building, full of high ceilings and pretty decorative molding, and stacked with colorful paintings. It’s smaller than where we lived in LA, but I love being able to go up to the roof. Sometimes my father will come up when he gets home from work, and we’ll stand in the soft silence, taking in all those buildings. My father would breathe “Allahu Akbar” as the moon slipped into view, and I would slide my hand into his.
In my room, I gather my clothes and tennis shoes, already dreading the conversation with my new gym teacher about why I can’t wear the issued shorts and T-shirt. Wearing the hijab full time means that I will also be wearing clothes that cover up my chest, arms, and legs, at least while I’m in public. I sigh as I look at my closet full of cute short-sleeved tops.
The end of my scarf catches on the corner of the desk, pulling it across my face. I blow out in exasperation, thesilky material puffing away from my mouth, and try to fix it. I wish Nenek were here to help me with it.
I wonder what my grandmother would think of me today. I miss her warm hugs, sweetly pragmatic wisdom, and bakso soup, full of golf-ball-sized meatballs and garnished with fresh shallots and boiled egg. Most of all, I miss her love, which is big enough to embrace me and all my mistakes. It’s not that I think my parents don’t love me, no matter how many mistakes I make, but it’s their job to teach, to judge, to correct. I know this because they’ve told me enough times.
My grandmother’s job is just to love.
I go into the kitchen and pick up the phone, dialing the familiar number.
“Nenek?”
“Lala!” my grandmother says, and I feel her love for me flooding through the telephone line. I realize belatedly that it must be super early in California, but she sounds wide awake.
“I decided to wear the scarf today, Nenek.”
I imagine her sitting in her cozy kitchen, her round, wrinkly face framed by a scarf the color of sea foam. I used to be so embarrassed walking with her when I was a kid. Not that anyone seemed to pay any attention to her scarf, but I didn’t understand why she wanted to look different from everyone else, why she wanted to stand out.
Now I understood. Because I am different, but the same, and it’s all mixed up in my head.
“I am proud of you,” Nenek says. “I know it can be a very hard decision.”
“Were you mad when Mama decided not to wear it?” I ask, settling my butt against the edge of the counter and twirling the phone cord through my fingers.
“Mad?” she asks and laughs, melodic and tinny with distance. “Why would I be angry about a choice that was your mother’s alone?” She is silent for a moment. “I suppose,” she says, “in some ways it felt as if she was letting her culture slip away like sand through her fingers. But I understood. And she is a good Muslim, and that is what matters.”
I know that there are some women who believe that wearing the scarf is their duty, that God asks it of them. There are also Muslim women like my mother who think that wearing the hijab is a personal choice, and that the tradition of covering a woman’s hair is a cultural interpretation of the Quran. It’s all pretty confused in my head, and I really don’t know what to believe. But I think wearing it will make me a better person, and that’s what I want desperately right now.
“Everybody is so mad at me,” I say softly as I wind the cord so tight around my hand that the tips of my fingers turn white.
“And why is that?”
I tell her what happened with Carla yesterday, and she lets me talk, lets me tell my side of the story, and when I am done she doesn’t start talking right away. I’m thinking about how my grandfather used to carve masks out of wood. When I was younger I would try on the different
Instead of going after my mother, I throw my half-empty coffee cup away and head for home.
Our corner apartment is in an old prewar building, full of high ceilings and pretty decorative molding, and stacked with colorful paintings. It’s smaller than where we lived in LA, but I love being able to go up to the roof. Sometimes my father will come up when he gets home from work, and we’ll stand in the soft silence, taking in all those buildings. My father would breathe “Allahu Akbar” as the moon slipped into view, and I would slide my hand into his.
In my room, I gather my clothes and tennis shoes, already dreading the conversation with my new gym teacher about why I can’t wear the issued shorts and T-shirt. Wearing the hijab full time means that I will also be wearing clothes that cover up my chest, arms, and legs, at least while I’m in public. I sigh as I look at my closet full of cute short-sleeved tops.
The end of my scarf catches on the corner of the desk, pulling it across my face. I blow out in exasperation, thesilky material puffing away from my mouth, and try to fix it. I wish Nenek were here to help me with it.
I wonder what my grandmother would think of me today. I miss her warm hugs, sweetly pragmatic wisdom, and bakso soup, full of golf-ball-sized meatballs and garnished with fresh shallots and boiled egg. Most of all, I miss her love, which is big enough to embrace me and all my mistakes. It’s not that I think my parents don’t love me, no matter how many mistakes I make, but it’s their job to teach, to judge, to correct. I know this because they’ve told me enough times.
My grandmother’s job is just to love.
I go into the kitchen and pick up the phone, dialing the familiar number.
“Nenek?”
“Lala!” my grandmother says, and I feel her love for me flooding through the telephone line. I realize belatedly that it must be super early in California, but she sounds wide awake.
“I decided to wear the scarf today, Nenek.”
I imagine her sitting in her cozy kitchen, her round, wrinkly face framed by a scarf the color of sea foam. I used to be so embarrassed walking with her when I was a kid. Not that anyone seemed to pay any attention to her scarf, but I didn’t understand why she wanted to look different from everyone else, why she wanted to stand out.
Now I understood. Because I am different, but the same, and it’s all mixed up in my head.
“I am proud of you,” Nenek says. “I know it can be a very hard decision.”
“Were you mad when Mama decided not to wear it?” I ask, settling my butt against the edge of the counter and twirling the phone cord through my fingers.
“Mad?” she asks and laughs, melodic and tinny with distance. “Why would I be angry about a choice that was your mother’s alone?” She is silent for a moment. “I suppose,” she says, “in some ways it felt as if she was letting her culture slip away like sand through her fingers. But I understood. And she is a good Muslim, and that is what matters.”
I know that there are some women who believe that wearing the scarf is their duty, that God asks it of them. There are also Muslim women like my mother who think that wearing the hijab is a personal choice, and that the tradition of covering a woman’s hair is a cultural interpretation of the Quran. It’s all pretty confused in my head, and I really don’t know what to believe. But I think wearing it will make me a better person, and that’s what I want desperately right now.
“Everybody is so mad at me,” I say softly as I wind the cord so tight around my hand that the tips of my fingers turn white.
“And why is that?”
I tell her what happened with Carla yesterday, and she lets me talk, lets me tell my side of the story, and when I am done she doesn’t start talking right away. I’m thinking about how my grandfather used to carve masks out of wood. When I was younger I would try on the different
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