“It’s not like you’re wearing a burka...”-Personal Memoir Part 1
“It’s not like you’re wearing a burka or anything,”
That was what my former math teacher once told me in a failed attempt at humour.
I was in the twelfth grade when she said it during the last leg of high school before graduation. This also meant that scholarship season was upon us and up until that moment, I was feeling pretty good about where I stood. I had stellar grades, I had taken the AP exams, and I was the president of one of the largest school clubs. My applications were looking solid and I was excited for it all. All I needed was a teacher as one of my references.
This particular teacher taught me math in the 11th grade. She was young and relatively new. Having only been teaching for a few years, she must have still been in her twenties. At a glance you might have thought she was just one of the older students with her cardigan and glasses. For a lot of us she was the chill younger teacher that everyone got along with, including myself. I particularly liked her class because she never minded the conversations going on after the lessons while we did practice problems. She would listen and partake in them sometimes. As you can guess, I was quite confident when I selected her as my scholarship reference, and that confidence was reassured when she happily agreed. Or so I thought.
I headed to her classroom with my reference sheet in hand and I remember the hallways being quite empty. Whether it was due to it being a study period or that classic exam season fallout- I can't really remember. I do remember taking it as a good sign because I’d be able to find her alone for the discussion. The door to her classroom was open and when I peered my head in, she was working on her computer. There was no long line of students ambushing her with questions, so I was swiftly welcomed in. Her portion of the scholarship application was more like a check-list to gauge a teacher’s perspective on the student’s qualities. It was a list of questions going down the page with boxes of either yes or no on the left-side. I’d imagine that the question wouldn’t give her any problems as they were straightforward but I still had a bit of nerves when it came to asking any teacher for a reference. That was alleviated when she began reading each question aloud for me while checking each box with an audible and approving “yes!”
“Does the student arrive on time? Yes!”
“Does the student complete their work to the best of their abilities? Yes!” It wasn’t until one box asking whether or not the student dressed appropriately did she hesitate. Quickly recuperating from the pause, she ultimately checked it off with another audible “yes.” I had just assumed it was referring to the school’s dress code and was ready to shrug it off when she told me that she’d contemplated making a joke.
You see, I highly doubt I invited her in sharing that joke with me considering it clearly had to do with my appearance. I doubt most people would when someone else tries to pry at and ridicule a fundamental part of them. I stayed quiet and stared at her not knowing what to make of it as things quickly turned into one of those horribly awkward “I probably shouldn’t say it but I’m going to tell you anyway” moments. I think people do this in the hopes it makes the joke more subdued, but I can assure you, it did not have that effect. Failing to read the room and the apprehension written across my face, she went ahead and delivered it like a punchline,
“It’s not like you’re wearing a burka or anything.”
I first started wearing my hijab in the 5th grade. Well maybe that's not true. I did try wearing it in the second grade, but it didn't last long. I adorned myself with my older sister’s classic two -piece hijabs but struggled to keep them from falling off every few seconds while the class ran laps in the gym. Needless to say, I gave up after a few days of wearing it. I guess that's what comes with skipping steps in the Hijabi rite of passage, and for those who don’t know, goes a little like this:
Step one: start with the slip ons (this is where I messed up)
Step two: move up a level with the two-piece hijabs
Step three: become a fully-fledged hijabi with a wrap around and pin
My comeback didn’t come around until the first day back for fifth grade so like any good little hijabi, I spent the previous night planning my outfit and corresponding hijab. I was the new kid last year when we had just moved in across the street right at the start of fourth grade. Going into this year, nothing would be new to me, but I'd be going into it with something new. New kid incarnate if you will, for a second time in a row. I was preparing myself for the barrage of questions and taunt common form kids in that age.
“What's that!? Why are you wearing it? Why didn't you wear it before?” Those were the questions I expected to hear but I planned to avoid them when walking into the class by heading straight towards the first empty desk my eyes landed on without slowing down. Most of the kids were already in class by the time I got there, and I remember the feel of eyes settling on me as I made my way. Izzy, a fellow classmate, was sitting at her desk unpacking her supplies when her eyes landed on me. She shifted left to get a better, stopping me in my tracks as she voiced a question.
“Will you be wearing it for the rest of the year?” It was obvious to me and all the kids in the vicinity exactly who she was talking to. Her question itself was so simple and yet not what I had expected. It was the way she asked it too. Nonchalant as if she knew I might have to explain myself to all the other kids throughout the day and she didn't want to burden me.
“Yes” was all I said.
“Okay” she replied. I remember her pleased and encouraging smile and slight nod of the head. More classmates than I had realized must have been listening in because I don't remember anyone else asking me anything that day.
I was the only girl to wear a hijab that year in my class, and from what I remember there might have been only one other girl who also wore a hijab, in my three years there. The story was the same all though junior high. While being the only girl to wear a hijab in my class, I was also the only black student in all three years running. Going into high school, I was excited to see how things would be different, but essentially the same story was playing out. By the time the math teacher had made that comment I was already settled into my role as the singular Black person and hijabi, being the only one who occupied those identities in my environment was no longer surprising but rather a matter of fact.
At the very moment my math teacher delivered her joke, I didn’t even muster a one word reply. Rather, I gave her a half laugh and left the room at the first chance I got. I didn’t mention it to anyone either, something about it made me push the confusion down and out of the way as the comment left a sour taste in my mouth. I didn't know what to make of it, especially coming from my teacher, let alone the one who is filling out my scholarship reference right in front of me.
I didn't stick around long enough to see whether she picked up on what she just insinuated (purposefully or not) before pushing it away from my memory. In fact the incident had not resurfaced until I settled down to do some writing. I had mostly been the one person around sporting hijab in class all my life but it had never been an issue or point of discussion, up until that very moment, from the one person I least expected it from.
Thinking of the memory now, I marvel at all the things I could have said. That is, what the current 21 year old me would have said if given the chance. I guess that's what comes with age. Now that I have grown up and learned to recognize micro-aggressions for what they truly are, it's not all that uncommon. Sometimes it is glaring, like when a teacher once told my older brother and his friends in elementary not to sit too close together or else they’d look like an Oreo. Other times it’s them trying to suggest some bias they have about you and keep digging until they can try to prove themselves right. My younger sister’s teacher was persistent in the idea that it must have been “her struggling with the English language” getting in the way and tripping her up on math word problems. She wouldn’t stop insisting until I told her English was her first language and she has always been a top reader and writer. Other times they don't know they're doing it, like when my older sister's teacher kept referring to her friends’ group as the peanut gallery throughout the year. It wasn't until later that we’ve learnt what the peanut gallery really was and how commonplace phrases can really be rooted in discrimination.
Nowadays I do get the occasional prolonged stare on the bus or when walking down the street, but thankfully nothing has been done to me overtly. And yes, I do think that's something to be grateful for. Microaggressions are one thing that will always be there but it’s the macro forms of aggression that are worrying. When I had first started university it also meant I needed to start taking public transit over long distances. Before then, every school from elementary to high school was within walking distance or a quick 5-minute drive. My parents told me to be careful, but not in the way you tell your kid to be careful and just send them on their way. It alluded more to instructions for avoiding any possible confrontation with violence.
“Always listen to what's going on around you.”
“Don't wear headphones while walking, and if you're on the bus don't wear more than one.”
“Never stand close to the train platform. Wait inside the station or near the middle in case something happens.”
My parent knew what being Black, Muslim, and a woman could mean. God forbid I happen to cross paths one day with someone who didn't like the combination enough to do something about it.
These behaviours are so ingrained in me that I'm almost concerned for anyone who doesn't follow these same precautions. Even so, I have had the occasional thought once or twice that the chances of anything dangerous happening would be low, but as of lately I'm not too sure.
Within the last two months an abhorrent number of attacks have taken place on racialized Muslim women in Edmonton:
December 8th, 2020: Two Somali women were verbally attacked while in their car in the parking lot of a mall. The assailant managed to break open the car window before carrying out physical assault.
December 15th, 2020: Another attack happened to a young Somali girl. It was in the same location, except this time at the train station.
February 3rd , 2021: A 19 year old woman wearing the hijab became the victim of aggressive racial slurs at the University transit center.
February 3rd 2021: A woman wearing a burqa was pushed and threatened while walking on the sidewalk of a popular street in our city.
February 17th 2021: A Black Muslim women was assaulted and threatened to be killed by a man at a third transit center.
The thought of these attacks happening to women who easily could have been me, my mother or sister is unsettling. In the very same locations that I’ve spent countless hours in transit to and from university, along with countless other students, 9 to 5ers, and passer-byers. The very same tracks my parents warned me not to stand so close to. The day after the second attack in December, I opened my Instagram app and low and behold it was the mayor's video of his address on these attacks. I remember at one point he mentions that we, as Edmontonians, must condemn Islamophobia, racism, and misogyny. I couldn't help but think as I continued to scroll through
“That’s right Don, because when you are potentially a victim to all three, the lines of hatred can be blurred into one big onslaught.” Just two days ago, bigger political figures such as the leader of the NDP party, Jagmeet Singh, and Prime minister Justin Trudeau released statements condemning these hate crimes.
I know my identity carries more weight than I give myself credit for. Most days I don't feel like anything more than a 21year-old who spends 80% of her brain capacity thinking about school and the future. On the other hand, I am also Black, Muslim, and a first generation child of immigrants. The first two seem to make headlines quite frequently but never in the good way, like it had in the last few weeks for those women in my city.
It's interesting though, how much differences can drive someone to harm another considering the fact all we’ve ever done is exist, or at least try to, in spaces that makes it hard for us to do so. People are so fixated on the differences and looking at them as a means to create division rather than it being a means of getting to know each other. If we could practice this, if we could engage in our differences, we wouldn't have to be forced to operate in fear and worry. We could shed stereotypes that run rampant and create meaningful relationships, policy, and safe spaces. Only, that's hard to do when the world at times feels more divided than ever. What will happen next in our city is unknown but I'm glad to see extra precautions with security at transit centers have been put in place. Is it enough? No. Arguably it's a start.
